Cynthia Carmichael

THE GESTURE At some point it was clear that he was not going to have his cancer treated. First, he said he would, but he missed appointments over and over again. The wife had not told me before, maybe because she thought I’d be angry, but they had decided to put the matter into God’s hands. In their home, the curtains were drawn and a few of his kid’s toys were clustered in a corner. He lay in the bedroom, too weak to walk into the living area. I drew back the covers to examine his legs. The wife and I talked softly where we stood at the foot of the bed. As we spoke she reached out to stroke his naked toes. An un-self-conscious gesture, as if she ran her fingers through her own hair, rubbed her thumb against a scar on her arm. A gesture taking for granted his presence, without regard at this moment, for his imminent absence.           USE OF FORCE William Carlos Williams visited that girl with diphtheria (something you have never seen),  and you had to admire her defiance, her refusal to open her small mouth and you had to understand his rage, his righteous male doctor rage you’d call it. And then you just had to share his righteous male doctor triumph at overcoming her resistance, at restraining her with the use of force, prying open her small mouth, and saving her life. Though you are not told if her life was saved or whether she forgave his assault. Once I was with a too-young girl in labor who refused to open her legs though the baby was crowning. Her fists pulled clumps of hair out of her own scalp like in some Three Stooges episode I once saw.  In my rage I ordered a nurse to each knee to pry open her thighs.  In my triumph I caught the baby, slick with goo, in the nick of time then held that perfect boy for just a moment before turning him over to his crazed child-mother, who by then had calmed.  Whether she forgave my assault, I never knew.           PASSING ON NARRATIVE #4 A woman lived in the old part of Coral Gables, off Red Road. There was a park nearby where banyan trees, their roots dangling, grew alongside coral rock outcroppings. She was my father’s patient and one evening he made a house call. My mother and brothers waited in the car. I was about 15, maybe older. I think we must have been going out to eat. The woman was old, her skin deeply creased and age spots spattered her cheek and brow. The door was unlocked and my father and I entered without knocking. Inside, the house was dark with wood floors. She lay in the bedroom and was glad, in a tired kind of way, to see my father. She had an accent and spoke softly. I don’t remember what was said between them. When we left the bedroom, we saw that taped awkwardly to the wall by the door was a box. The words, “My Death Dress” were scrawled upon it. It was a bit of a shock, seeing the box, reading the words. I wondered who would find it after she died and who would dress her. I wondered what the dress was like. I don’t remember if I thought she was brave. Now I do (think she was brave).       - - - - - -

Cynthia Carmichael was born and raised in Miami. She is a family doctor and a writer who cares for patients and teaches young physicians in North Richmond, California. Her poetry has appeared in or is forthcoming in The Healing Muse, The Chaffin Journal, Poet Lore and Southern California Review.