Technician
By heinzs
Technician Skin smooth and soft, a small ball in my hand, totally hairless from the chemo and radiation. Her big, brown, lashless eyes stare questioningly into mine - but I have no answers for her. She must be a surrealistic painting - a fantasy far removed from fact - but, sadly, it is true. What perverse twist of cruel fate decreed her disease? What crimes did her former life commit to warrant such punishment? I try to convince myself that this is not God's retribution for sins committed or imagined. It is simply a fact that this child shall die long before the consummation of life. I can see the understanding in her gaze. There is no malice or blame. Acceptance flows forth in her reassuring hug as if to say," It's alright. This is the way it is meant to be." I cannot contain my tears. "Don't cry, daddy," she says to him. I leave her with her doting father, and return to my job pumping x-rays into tumors and observing the human drama. No longer able to detach, my tears soak into the surgical mask. "Send in the next one." I tell the box on the wall. 4/23/2002 Written April 1st, 2002 © on Apr 23 2002 06:29 PM PST, Heinz Scheuenstuhl 0 • 12
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"Technician..."