Anonymous wrote:
I don't usually write these kinds of blog posts, I'll have to admit, however I wanted to share something that has stuck with me for quite some time. Maybe one day someone will see it and learn as well.
I will begin at the fact I was working in a hospital, standard place, usually bustling and noisy.
One particular night it was quiet for its usual, which is a wonderful thing all around because it meant I could catch up on consults and paperwork when one case came in.
For sake of privacy I won't tell you names and such so let's call him Duckie. Duckie was an attempt of his own life that damn near succeeded, if it hadn't have been for his brother he would probably be partying with the worms down below.
He was lifeless when he came in, no outside injuries but he had more alcohol in his system than blood. It was quite the task to get him fixed up in which he spent a lot of that time sleeping. At first when I saw his name I groaned, not because I'd seen him before or because I knew him. Because I knew of him.
See he was infamous around where I live because his family owned the entire estate. A spoilt rich kid. Still a job is a job and I'd be damned if I was letting status stop me from doing a damn thing to keep the guy alive.
At first glance, Duckie was rough, you could see it. The entire time he was there and awake, however, he'd reassure the person beside him with a "it's alright" or, "I'm fine" and a tired smile. Fighting to survive not only the gruelling punishment he gave his body, but the punishment his head was giving him. There was even a moment that someone had come in to verbally abuse (what I at first assumed to be his sister but ended up being) his mother. He slowly sat up against all his pain and quite literally used his head to deal with the man.
There were few times when no one was by his side, when that was the case he'd often stare longingly out the window for what I assumed would be an end, he wouldn't smile, on a few occasions he'd be noticed wiping the pain from his eyes, believing that nobody saw him which obviously wasn't the case since I'm writing about it.
After a while, upon recovering enough, he requested further treatment, which I can only think is a plea not to let his mind get him. Of course with mental health like that I can only comply. One day, when his visitors had gone and my shift had ended I used my doctor privilege and sat with him. The man was easy on the eyes and most of the time pleasant to talk too, he tore his attention from the window to look at me like he would always do before telling me "doc, hasn't your shift ended? Get out of here and enjoy freedom!"
I didn't.
Instead I sat with him and smiled to him. Actually talking to him and such was oddly comforting. Like I had been missing out on something, everything up until that very point.
"So," I began after a little while having understood his humour and his boundaries, "a rich kid that has everything, and is willing to throw it all way?"
He seemed to think of his words before talking. "A man who has money, has no true friends, a man who has a loving family and yet sometimes feels smothered, a man that has a home with rooms and heat yet no one to share it with. A man who has a pretty face and a smile that he has been told lights the room, and yet he has been used for it.
"A man who has everything. But is a man who has nothing at all." He smiled through his words but his eyes told pain and anguish, his mask slipped momentarily, before he hummed at me "though I have a family that I love and cherish, with more money than I know what I could possibly do with, I have no one to share it with. No one I can hold at night, nothing I can do when I wake from nightmares of past trauma that I can't tell mum about. I may have everything at first glance. But I have nothing at all under the surface."
I suppose he was right. His brother would visit with a small beaming child and a man that he would openly announce was his boyfriend whenever he introduced him. His mother would come in with home cooked meals because mother knew best and yet the man of twenty three had no friends visit him, no lovers step forward and no co-workers or parcels wishing him a happy recovery.
He had everything. And he felt more alone than anyone.
So I decided one day I'd ask his mother if he had a favourite flower and chocolate before having the delivery boy get it to him. Of course I was sat in when it happened, "Mr.Duckie," the boy confirmed before handing them over.
At first he was confused, believing there must have been a mistake. Then upon finally accepting them I saw a genuine smile. Someone cared about him with a card that couldn't have been written by his mother.
The eyes sparkled and threatened to water as he requested a jug. Sure his mum got him flowers but this was someone else. Someone who wasn't supposed to love him unconditionally.
He wasn't alone.
Every now and then, (when my pay-check allowed it) I would send him flowers and salted caramel chocolates.
Then that evening I would sit with him and he would insist we share them, after all I was working so hard, he'd say.
It wasn't long before he was well enough to leave, so I let him go. He gathered his things before seeking me out and tapping my shoulder, in which I was happy to talk. He expressed more gratitude for the time I gave to him than I'd ever received even on a minimum wage patient.
Then as he left he thanked me for the flowers. The chocolate. And the evenings I would sit with him and eat shitty hospital food with him. Time is valuable, he'd say, I would ignore.
Later into that shift I found a note in my pocket.
"If you're ever lonely, please feel free to call" it read followed by a number and his name.
Fast forward a few days I text the number, "is this Duckie?"
"It is."
"It's your doctor."
"It's nice to hear from you, glad you found my number."
And we talked. About everything. And nothing at all. So much so that morning came and I hadn't even noticed.
Working that shift was so hard but it was so worth it. Having someone to talk too that seemed so easy to converse with was so freeing. And yet I have friends so why was it as comforting as it was? Hell if I knew, I was just happy.
My free time would come and I found myself with him, whether it was a long walk or mundane chores, he'd be happy to accompany me.
I was grateful, it made shopping interesting, or heading to the gym funny. Taking long walks where we could rant to each other. It was oddly freeing.
Then I started to notice things. Like his hair and the way it framed his face. The way his laugh would start with tiny giggles. The way his hands held his coffee with his pinky under the bottom of it so he knew it wouldn't slide out of his hand. The way his fingers would dance along the table when we found ourselves in prolonged silence. The way his eyes would light up once he finally saw me waiting for him, or the general sparkle that they shown when he found something funny, or the glint he had when he was utterly pissed.
He was a funny man, with a talent that not everyone can get with, his personality and mine clicked so easily. I liked him.
I loved him.
But I couldn't tell him.
Between shifts I'd always make time for him, aching to see him though, wanting to see the smile that curved his face or the sparkle his eye gained once he wasn't alone.
If I wasn't spending time with him physically, I was texting him. My patient became my love and I didn't want to seem creepy...
The more we hung out, the more my heart would ache, yearning to be with him.
Then by some miracle.
"Hey you don't have to say yes, but will you go on a date with me? You can split the bill if that makes you comfortable."
By some stroke of unfathomable luck I got everything I'd been longing for.
A date.
We went to the park, it sounds lame but we got some fast food and sat on some picnic benches, it was by far the best date I'd ever been on, even if it didn't cost much it didn't have too. Just being there meant everything to me, and he agreed, it was amazing.
Walking back we decided to take the long way home, the sun was setting, it was cold and he adjusted his scarf to give me half. As well as taking my hand. This man was like an oven. Always hot.
He was the man he heart had settled on. The man who has everything and now more.