Interlude 3.3: Tales of Ambition II
El Dorado Medical Centre - 05 July 0023: 03:24 am
Dr. Marco stood in the doorway of the side room, outlined by the dim lights of the corridor. In the bed, taking the long, deep, sighing breaths of the truly unwell, lay little Teo. His parents were crumpled a few feet away, in the darkest part of the room, sleeping the dead sleep that comes from total exhaustion.
The only other conscious person in the room was Johan, Teo’s older brother. While the little one had cried and wheezed, while his parents anxiously wore themselves out, Johan had rolled his eyes and made fun of his little brother, calling him a “crybaby”. Where they had anxiously held his hand through the long hours of the night, Johan had slept soundly.
This night, the third night of his admission, Johan was awake. At the foot of the bed, hands tense on the thick hospital blanket, it seemed the seriousness of his brother’s condition had finally dawned on him.
Dr. Marco has decided to leave medicine for good. There weeks ago, a lifetime ago, he lost his first patient. When his boss found him crying in the staff room, he told him, in what his boss probably thought was a kind way, that he had to toughen up to make it in medicine. To focus on the clinical, take away the personal.
He knew he took these things harder than most. That’s why his resignation email already written and waiting in his drafts. Every task of the night, illegibly scribbled onto the paper crumpled in his pocket, had been ticked off and solved. He has nothing but time and nothing to lose.
As he entered the room, he was careful not to look at Johan. Boys of that age, under this stress, hated the idea of their emotions being noticed. Instead, he sat by little Teo’s bed, took the sleeping boy’s hand, and began to tell a story.
We must listen carefully to this story, for it is not merely a story. It is a new myth. Myths are fragile things, particularly new ones, so we must be careful not to startle it or scare it off.
In the begining, humans lived in nature. Life we hard, food was rare and illness took many people away too soon.
In this struggle, some humans, perhaps even just one very smart one, began to think with straight lines. They used roads to shrink distances, ploughed fields to grow food, built houses for shelter and developed medicines for disease. They proved that curves are just lots of little straight lines, that mysteries are just facts not yet uncovered.
Even as they built this paradise, the men with straight lines found new problems emerging. Roads filled with traffic, farming depleted the soil while the abundance drove people to such excesses that new diseases ravaged the people. No matter how inventive or creative the doctor were, death still ravaged the people in new and terrifying ways.
The King of the straight lines saw what was happening - no matter how much engineering and structure they put into the world, new problems emerged. His heart was filled with a great sadness that he could not fill or fix. His advisers and experts were as ignorant of the causes as of the solutions, so he summoned an artist to try to fix the problem.
In those days, of course, an artist was one step above a beggar. To summon one to an esteemed court was unusual in the extreme, but these were extreme times.
“Artist,” said the King. “My people are burdened, and my heart is full of sadness. Build me a great work to heal our woes”
So the artist went away for thirty days and thirty nights, labouring with wood and metal and porcelain and paint. When he showed the King his great work, the King could not see it’s beauty and was angry with the artist.
“Take his hands,” he ordered his guards, “which have failed to build what was ordered” So the guard hefted their axes and took the artist’s hands.
“You have failed me,” said the King, “but I am generous and will give you another chance. Go into the wilds and find me something in nature, to heal our woes”
So the artist went, and for thirty days and thirty nights he searched in the dark and damp caves, in the soaring and snowy peaks, in the burning deserts and flourishing rainforests. He collected and catalogued, gathered and documented all the beauty of the natural world to show to the King.
Yet the King could not see the beauty - when he was shown animals and fish, he saw only meat and bones. Flowers and rivers were to him only inefficiency and future farmland.
“Take his eyes,” he ordered his guards, “which have failed to find what was ordered.” So the guards hefted their hooks and took the artist’s eyes.
“Lock him away,” the King said in disgust and despair. “Let him rot in our cells for my pleasure”
After thirty or so days and as many nights, the King was surprised to see the artist in the great hall, standing with the supplicants. “Perhaps he has come to beg for my forgiveness,” the King thought. “Maybe his begging will be sweet music to my ears”
Yet when the artist spoke, his tone was sharp and abrasive “King, my cell is crooked,” he complained. “The curvature of the earth and the pull of the sun have bent it out of shape!”
This was a grave insult - to build a crooked and bent shape was the ultimate failure. So the King sent his engineers and architects to repair the cell. Yet try as they might, the artist would point out a perspective or position, an angle or a flaw that his feet, so much more sensitive since the loss of his hands, could detect.
The engineers and architects failed and were dissmissed. Yet the idea of the curvature of space left with them, and filled the world.
It filled even the mind of the King, who was plagued with visions of bent shape and muddled angles. When he wrote, his lines trailed off alarmingly, and when he lay his head down to rest he felt like he would slip off the edge of the world.
Again, the artist arrived to complain “King, there is something wrong with the army guarding me - even though the cannons to the east and west fire at the same time every day, the western fire earlier if I run towards by the west window, and later when I sprint to the east.”
This was an unacceptable insult for a King - an undisciplined army was a grave weakness. So he sent his navigators and timekeepers to fix the problem.
Yet no matter how they tried to synchronise and develop one constant measure of time, the artist ears, made so much more sensitive after the loss of his eyes, could detect the inconsistency. When he moved fast, the timepieces were too slow, and when he stood perfectly still, they rushed ahead.
The timekeepers and navigators failed and were dismissed. Yet the idea of relative time left with them, and filled the world.
It filled even the mind of the king. When he rushed from meeting to meeting by plane and train and automobile, the time flew faster than it ever had, and when he lay his head down to rest, time stood still in endless nights.
Wracked and confused and dazed, he went to visit the artist in his crooked cell. “Have whatever you want, any treasure you desires, so long as you take this suffering back!” The guards obeyed, offering the artist gold and gems and jewels, yet turned down every treasure that was offered to him.
“Please!” Begged the King “whatever you want, just take this confusion away!”
“King,” the artist said, not unkindly “you did this to yourself. You locked away the curves and mysteries yourself, living only within the lines. Only you can cure yourself of this. After all, what is a straight line except an infinitely small part of a greater curve?”
Some say that, at these words, the King finally saw the errors of his ways and the empire flourished. Others say he was driven mad and died screaming, cursing the artist who had so weakened his mind. What we do know is the artist left and wandered, and his ideas filled the world.
El Dorado Accomodation Block - 28 July 0023: 08:24 am
Dr. Marco stood in the communal kitchen, making his morning porridge.He enjoyed experimenting, a little change to the recipe every day. Today he was trying apples and cinnamon with a little less milk than usual.
He’d finalised his resignation last night. His boss had sent him an message explaining, in what his boss probably thought was a kind tone, that he didn’t think he was emotionally prepared enough to be a real doctor. Dr. Marco agreed.
If he sent his resignation today, his last day would align with the holidays, causing minimum disruption for everybody involved. This would be for the best.
You can imagine his surprise when the doorbell rang with a package for him. A box of chocolates and a card greeted him as he carefully cut open the cardboard package with the kitchen knife, still slightly damp with the juices of the green apples he’d diced minutes before.
Dear Doctor Marco,
Thank you so much for what you did for us during Teo’s admission. You gave us great strength and comfort in this impossible time.
Johan has decided he wants to be a doctor, and we have you to thank for that as well. When he is older, he’d love to do some volunteering on the wards.
Teo’s funeral will be next week, at midday. We know you did everything you could, and far more than anybody else. We would be honoured if you could attend.
He gulped and stood silently for a long moment. After, he cried for a lot longer. He sat down for breakfast and got ready for the day. The apples and cinnamon were good, great even. Maybe add a little honey tomorrow. He could always resign next year, after all.
