Today, I was looking at the scars on my ankles.
I was looking because I was thinking about doctors. There are several types of doctors and I've seen just about every kind, probably. But in all those years of different doctors, only one of them ever showed me any sort of empathy.
She held my ankles in her hands and turned them over to inspect the infection while my mom explained to her my skin condition. Then she sat down, shook her head, looked me right in the face and said, "You poor thing."
She was the only doctor I ever saw who ever expressed any regret that, although she could heal this infection, she couldn't prevent the next one from happening. She couldn't fix my skin. It was the first time I felt that I wasn't alone. Someone else understood.
Some days, when I start to feel my heart growing heavy, I think of that doctor.
My skin has been going crazy lately. I started thinking that I might need to go to the hospital. I've been trying to prepare myself emotionally for that. So, I've been trying to draw strength from the memory of that one doctor.