![]() ![]() No: that sleep had been too dark for dreams. Insultingly casual though I found their manner, I was reassured by the very vapidity of these doctors or joggers or weightlifters – something to do with their unsmiling pursuit of the good life. The doctors around my bed were in leisurewear, a frieze of freckles and shorts, tan, arm hair. But why the pride in these doctor children (why not shame, why not dread?): intimates of trauma and mortification, of bacilli and trichinae, the routine excruciations of time, with their disgusting furniture and their disgusting vocabulary (the bloodstained rubber bib, hanging on its hook) – life’s gatekeepers. ![]() Consider the Jewish joke, with the old lady running distractedly along the sea shore: Help! My son the doctor is drowning! Amusing, I suppose. And the thought came to me, fully formed, fully settled: how I hate doctors. ![]() Availing themselves of my immobility, the doctors were, I sensed, discussing matters having to do with their copious free time. ![]() Although my paralysis was pretty well total, I did find I could move my eyes. American doctors: I sensed their vigour, barely held in check, like the force of the growth of their hair and the heavy touch of their heavy hands. I came rushing upward out of the blackest sleep to find myself surrounded by doctors. ![]()
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