I saw it. This was the last thing one could be envious.
But then she was 56 years old and I was barely 30.
She walked normally and there was unmissable glow on her face. But something was definitely wrong with her unless she wouldn’t be carrying this folder full of receipts and medical transcripts from all the known hospitals in the city. She looked exhausted: she was visited all the hospitals yet her ailments eluded her.
Maybe she didn’t have any ailment that these hospitals specialized in. Or maybe she was hypochondriac with plenty of money and free time. Or maybe she had plenty of guilt that guided her suppressed fears to take the shape of an illness, which didn’t exist in medical lexicon. Or maybe I was wrong: she was sick; no one can figured it out.
But under no circumstances, I am not going to own it. I’m not going to visualize her problems as a novice psychiatrist who had this tendency to make other’s problem his own.
