Dear patient,

For just a second there, but a second that seemed to last a day, I thought you were already dead. The fixed stare, the not breathing... But your color was good and you had a good pulse. And so the moment passed. Maybe a seizure? Maybe a stroke? I mean, seriously, you're a hot mess medically, having come to us straight from the ICU. Later, in the emergency room, you told the doctor you were fully conscious the whole time we were running the code and that you were just hoping we'd leave you alone a let you die. So you held your breath. And stopped answering to your name. Well, I'm sorry I fucked that up for you. But it's kind of the opposite of what I do. I hope you can forgive all of us who've been keeping you alive these past few weeks since your suicide attempt. And I hope that soon I'll be able to forget the crushing dread of of that long moment of thinking I was already too late.

love,

constance

Revision

The more I think about this post, the less I think it's what I want to say. I mean, what a freakin platitude. "Just keep living! Just don't kill yourself!" With the implied "and everything will be ok." Everything's not going to be ok. I know that. He knows that. Of course he wants to kill himself. Who the fuck wouldn't. And how can I even begin to offer him solace at a time when, like I said, there's just so much wrong. With everything about the situation. With his life right now. Sad and broken and dope sick and lost and hopeless and angry and guilty and ashamed and lonely and scared...

So I'd like to revise what I said before.

Dear patient,

I can tell that you're hurting. I can only imagine how hard things must be for you right now. I'm so sorry. And I just want you to know that I'm here.

love,

Constance

Dear detox patients,

What's with all the Newports? Seriously, I've never seen a higher concentration of menthol smokers in any population. The old "if I smoke gross menthols no one will bum from me" theory? Won't work if you all smoke them. So what is it?

curiously,
contance

Dear Patient,

I am so, so sorry for your loss. To have lost a child, and to have missed the news, the wake, the funeral because you were on the streets using... I can only imagine. There is so much badness in all of that. I hope someday you come to forgive yourself. Please remember every day that not dying is the first and most important step.

love,
Constance

Dear patient,

No, I don't think you're stupid.  But I do think that, yeah, you don't know what's going on here.  I mean, I can see why what you seem to think might make a kind of internal sense.  Yep, I'm pricking your finger and getting access to your blood.  And yes, the test strip sucks up that blood so the glucometer can analyze it.  And sure, the a glucometer is computer, of a sort.  But it's only just the one drop of blood.  I'm not taking it all.  Though I really can see how it might look like that for just the one moment when there's a continuity of blood from your finger to the test strip to the glucometer. 

But here's what's going on here.  I am just trying to test your blood sugar.  The glucometer's not stealing all your blood to send it to the CIA.  Or the pope.

So yeah.  I don't think you're stupid but I do think you're wrong about what's going on here.  And hey - you got one thing right.  I am a crazy white bitch.

Dear patients,

I remember you.  I remember your names and I remember your stories.  Even though, I admit, I try to forget them.  When I write your story down and set fire to the paper, I think "There goes Amanda's story - up into the air."  When the masseuse works out a knot in my shoulder I think "There goes Billy."  When I cry in the car I think "I'm letting go of Pedro."  But it's not true.  You come into my life for a short time and I learn and hold your story.  Probably more than I should.  And then you're gone but I can't quite shake you myself.  I imagine someday your stories will wear off or your names will be written over so many times I won't be able to read any single one anymore.  But not yet.  Amanda, Billy, Pedro, Sara, Andre, Wendy, Janis.  Those aren't even your real names.  I can't say them here.  But I remember your names and I remember your stories.  They're written not on my heart but on my skin.

From today's PostSecret

Yes. Exactly.