I know not, of you
walking into a bar
As a college student
With a limp,

But I know of those stares
Quiet, and long -
Us, mere curiosities.

I know not, of you
straining to hear, engage
With colleagues in a restaurant,
Over the drone of your hearing aids,

But I know of those talking heads,
Turned away, and distant -
Us, too much work, beyond curiosity or pity.

I know not, of you
being told, that
It’s all in your head,
You’re too difficult,

But I know of those judgements,
“Try harder”, “spit it out”.
Us, forced to conform for their comfort.

I certainly know not of all the ways
Our bodies and our minds
Quiver and falter,
With a thousand hopes.

But what I do know, most of all
Is your quiet surprise,
When I enter the clinic room, to introduce myself,
and stutter on “Ddd..octor”, and more often, on my own name,
Lips pursed, tongue taut, without sound,
It is your encouraging nod,
When I block on that drug name that starts with an ‘F’ – “Ffffingolimod…”
For four eternal seconds,
It is your unwavering trust,
That settles as eventual ease,
That I understand this is about
Something more.

Something more - of
Quiet understanding, of
Shared vulnerability, and respect,
Unspoken yet spoken,
Beyond jargon and prescription.

It is when patients see themselves
In doctors. And doctors in patients.
The breaking down
of the ancient walls of Foucault’s Clinic –
Hierarchies, Norms, and the Medical Gaze.
Us, equal accomplices,
Contriving to dream.