OPERATION DESERT STORM
an essay by DAG
The doctor showed the distressed mother out of his office, then turned back to attend to the young patient. Two moist eyes looked up at him from the table.
"Is it serious, doctor?"
"Terminal, I'm afraid" the gaunt surgeon said quietly. "There are no survivors from your condition. It's the health system, you see. You and I have no say about it. Laws change. Government and the courts decide what medical treatments deserve funding. In today's harsh climate, we have to provide resources for the most demanding conditions. These are hard times. Your situation is beyond help now, even if priorities were to change overnight."
"I so much want to live" quivered the small voice. "I have my whole life ahead of me. It's as if I've barely seen the sunlight, as if I've been living in a cave unable to stretch out and run, with my senses stifled. Now, when I thought I was finally out in the open, you tell me it's over. It takes my breath away... and just when I felt like I could really breathe easy for the first time." There was a pause.
"Is it cancer ?"
"No," said the doctor, and moved uneasily to open the curtains to the frigid, stormy morning.
"Heart trouble?" moaned the patient.
"Your heart is in fine shape, compared with most", came his reply after a moment.
"But what then, doctor? Surely there's a treatment. Surely there's some way of hanging on, if only to see some parts of the world, some experiences of living, that I've never known. What's the problem, anyway? Can't you help at all?"
"I can only do my duty", said the doctor slowly, washing his hands. "I follow medical guidelines, laws that politicians, judges, and society establish. There's really nothing more I can do."
"But I've done nothing wrong! I don't deserve to die! I never drank or smoked. I never hurt anyone!" cried the small voice with fervour, filled with tears.
The doctor reached uncomfortably for another disposable wipe, then picked up the wet pile of crumpled, discarded tissues from the table. "I'm afraid... there's not much time left..." he muttered, lifting the patient down.
Feeble hands and feet trembled with the parting cry: "But... but doctor please! What can I do? Is there no way of saving my life? What do I suffer from? Why am I dying?"
The doctor opened a door to usher the child through, and paused at the handle, trying to answer. His brow furrowed, his countenance fell. He glanced at his diplomas and hypocratic oath on the wall, and turned his gaze towards the gathering storm clouds. Thunder echoed deeply in his ears.
"Why am I dying, doctor? From what do I suffer?"
"Abortion", the doctor answered quietly as he shut the door of the surgical refuse bin, and shuffled stiffly to the window.
Beyond the blackened clouds now pregnant with rage, a hint of clear bright horizon promised a near day's relief from the frozen winter wasteland.
The doctor showed the distressed mother out of his office, then turned back to attend to the young patient. Two moist eyes looked up at him from the table.
"Is it serious, doctor?"
"Terminal, I'm afraid" the gaunt surgeon said quietly. "There are no survivors from your condition. It's the health system, you see. You and I have no say about it. Laws change. Government and the courts decide what medical treatments deserve funding. In today's harsh climate, we have to provide resources for the most demanding conditions. These are hard times. Your situation is beyond help now, even if priorities were to change overnight."
"I so much want to live" quivered the small voice. "I have my whole life ahead of me. It's as if I've barely seen the sunlight, as if I've been living in a cave unable to stretch out and run, with my senses stifled. Now, when I thought I was finally out in the open, you tell me it's over. It takes my breath away... and just when I felt like I could really breathe easy for the first time." There was a pause.
"Is it cancer ?"
"No," said the doctor, and moved uneasily to open the curtains to the frigid, stormy morning.
"Heart trouble?" moaned the patient.
"Your heart is in fine shape, compared with most", came his reply after a moment.
"But what then, doctor? Surely there's a treatment. Surely there's some way of hanging on, if only to see some parts of the world, some experiences of living, that I've never known. What's the problem, anyway? Can't you help at all?"
"I can only do my duty", said the doctor slowly, washing his hands. "I follow medical guidelines, laws that politicians, judges, and society establish. There's really nothing more I can do."
"But I've done nothing wrong! I don't deserve to die! I never drank or smoked. I never hurt anyone!" cried the small voice with fervour, filled with tears.
The doctor reached uncomfortably for another disposable wipe, then picked up the wet pile of crumpled, discarded tissues from the table. "I'm afraid... there's not much time left..." he muttered, lifting the patient down.
Feeble hands and feet trembled with the parting cry: "But... but doctor please! What can I do? Is there no way of saving my life? What do I suffer from? Why am I dying?"
The doctor opened a door to usher the child through, and paused at the handle, trying to answer. His brow furrowed, his countenance fell. He glanced at his diplomas and hypocratic oath on the wall, and turned his gaze towards the gathering storm clouds. Thunder echoed deeply in his ears.
"Why am I dying, doctor? From what do I suffer?"
"Abortion", the doctor answered quietly as he shut the door of the surgical refuse bin, and shuffled stiffly to the window.
Beyond the blackened clouds now pregnant with rage, a hint of clear bright horizon promised a near day's relief from the frozen winter wasteland.