Another in a series of odd jobs
Standardized Patient
I'm given a name, a history,
a complaint—even a family
dead and alive, generations before and after:
grist for med students' practice
This case is new, in more ways than one:
father, widower, called in to a hospital late at night
my son, Chuck, 17, in a car wreck,
head injury, unconscious, non-responsive
his passenger, Eric, an exchange student we're hosting
mangled legs, punctured lung, lacerations
They were coming home from
a school dance, the SUV swerved, rolled
Eric's bloodwork showed alcohol
but Chuck was driving
they'd asked my permission to operate on Chuck's head
all these facts I'm given, and more
This scenario is to train pediatrician residents
to give bad news:
Chuck did not survive.
They have fifteen minutes.
They "must use the words 'dead' or 'died.'"
The teaching doc starts the camera. Ready? Go.
One after another, all women, the doctors
come into the room where I pace anxiously—
first day, a small conference room, littered with chairs;
next, an intensive care room, eerie,
giant ceiling-mounted armatures like robotic fiddler crabs
dispensing gases, suction, monitors, all dark, one hissing softly in its mechanical sleep
"Chuck died." "Chuck has died." "Chuck is dead."
I do my best to be shocked, disbelieving, confused;
I try to reach through to something inside them
something that is not a test, humanity beyond the exercise—
I am an actor, after all; this is training both ways
"What? He—he what?"
One doctor's voice is so tiny, I'm sure the camera won't pick it up.
Another, direct, businesslike, "I have bad news."
A hint—a degree of remove, an awareness—in the face of another
"I know this is a test," her eyes say.
"My boy! He's my boy!" I wail, making tears
playing a dark game, trying on the worst of fatherhood
from the safety of pretend.
