Thank you, everyone. Thank you for your emails, your comments, your gentle reminders. There was more than I put down. There was how he talked about his erections in the room with a patient, volunteered that he, too, had had a vasectomy. There was how he mixed up "coat" with "clothes" when telling me he liked me better without either. There was how, in order to illustrate that he's not a complete jack ass, he reminded me that, though he wanted to say to the patient with jock itch "aren't you glad you get to have a hot chick check out your stuff!", he hadn't said it to the patient. Because that's what you call restraint.
I feel edgy, defensive. I spoke up for all the reasons, any of the reasons. I spoke up for me, I spoke up because I couldn't not speak. I spoke up because, given the privilege, the privacy, the intimacy, the vulnerability and the delicacy of helping people in their own body habitus, in their own fleshy lives, we cannot loose sight of the extraordinary power that affords us, and that we must be careful custodians of the position we keep. We see people naked. We poke and prod and slice them open. We ask them to undress, unarm themselves, speak truthfully, admit their weaknesses, admit their failings. We solemnly vow to do no harm.
Regardless, I feel guilty. He probably lost his job. In a community of limited career opportunity.
And yet, rounding the corner to get coffee this morning, coming from the other side of the hospital, my heart quickened as I drew closer to that part of the hospital, scanning the people, ready to duck or hide at the first sight of him. I did not set out to ruin his life. I have no vicious, righteous anger. I wish I did. What I have instead is a dense and messy complicated guilt.
