The Hospital's Littlest Pharmacist

One of the stories from my time in the little town of M:

The doctor picked up his file and looked at his name on the screen. The diagnosis sitting under his name stated that he was "anxious, agitated, thinking bad thoughts."

He was the doctor's first patient that night, and as he walked into the room, he saw the patient sitting on the bed, holding his head in his hands, leaning against the metal plating that reached halfway up the wall.

He was dressed in a dirty white singlet, looking all of his twenty nine years, with a baseball cap covering his cropped hair. He looked like he hadn't showered in days, but the doctor decided that he had seen (and smelt) worse.

The doctor asks the perfunctory questions, whether he was on any medications or had any medical problems. What do you do? the doctor asks by way of making conversation.

Oh, I am involved in you know, my own business, he replies.

Oh good, so you've got your own business eh? the doctor echoes.

What kind of business?

The patient hesitates. Let's just say it's my own business, and I do my best.

So, what's been going on, the doctor asks, sensing that the patient wanted to avoid the subject of work. He starts to talk, and he tells about the stresses going on in his life. About how he's feeling like smashing stuff up, you know, because he's sick of it all. The cops are on my case, you know, when all I am trying to do is make a living.

The doctor's face betrays his curiosity - what kind of job would cause the police to be involved. And suddenly like clockwork everything clicks into place.

The eyes.

The earrings.

The tattoo on his right arm where the doctor had stabbed a Valium needle to calm the patient down.

The metal plate which the patient was leaning against. He was the reason that the metal plate was there. The last time the patient was restrained in this very room he had kicked a hole in the wall.

This was the town's local drug dealer.

The doctor asks him what has brought him here tonight. The guy starts speaking, and as he speaks his face flushes red and his arms gestured strongly. His speech is controlled, with threatening undertones, as he tells his story about how he had an argument with his mother earlier in the day, and overturned the table outside her house. He was sorry, you know, but he can't undo what he's done.

The doctor stands at the table near the exit, listening and gently probing, as a flurry of stories continue. He talks about his past, and how he is now living in his car, and about how he wants to go away somewhere and just be away from people. Maybe lead a quiet farm life. Get away from his family and friends who are troubling him.

And then he talks about the troubled thoughts that have been plaguing him - he gets really upset when he hears from his friends about children getting beaten up or sexually abused, and a few graphically violent crimes happening in town.

He uses his drugs to escape, you know. To pass the hours while waiting for the world to change.

He talks about his ex-partner, and how he drove about an hour away to see her and his newborn child. And how she wouldn't let him in. And so he punched a hole in the door. And then the police came because he had violated his restriction order. He was sorry, you know. He is silent as his eyes well up with tears at the thought of the child he will not see grow up, apart from glimpses from afar.

The doctor ponders the drug dealer from the safe distance of his table. Why should he believe him? He knew what this guy was like the last time he came in. And when the doctor spoke to the psychiatric team, they recognised his name immediately and their response was one of resignation and blaseness.

And yet, in his heart, the doctor felt that here was someone, who was not that different from him.

Who wants to love, and be loved, and live in a world free of trouble and stories that raise questions about our humanity. But someone who didn't have the emotional maturity or resources to deal with it in an adult way.

And so the doctor, not knowing what else to do for him, does the only thing he knows how, and he offers to pray for the patient. The patient is taken aback, but accepts his offer.

The doctor knows that nothing else can save all the years of poor choice that this person has made, nor can he provide the constant support that this person will need, and in his helplessness, he can only offer the help of a higher authority who is all-knowing, all-loving and all-powerful.

I wish I could tell you there was a ray of light that night, a bedside conversion, a miracle. All I can say is, the patient walked out better than when he first came in, and maybe we must claim these small victories in life, and learn to fight another day.