Do you remember that day as well as I do, Anne-lady? You told me, once, that if I ever needed to talk, you’d be there to listen. You said that to me even though it wasn’t your job and it wasn’t your responsibility, even though we crossed paths once a year and no more, even though as long as I was physically healthy your job was over. Even though you barely knew me, you made me that offer, and I can’t think of anything I need to do more than talk to you, because although I may be an atheist, I have to believe in something, and I’ve come to believe that you can understand anything and everything, no matter how weird or incomprehensible.

It’s a strange thing, Anne, because I’ve never felt as strongly about anyone as I have about you, and maybe I never will again. Do you think that’s sad? Do you think it’s pathetic, that I’m so deeply attached to you after all these years? I’m going to try to explain it to you, because I need you to understand, because I think you’re the only one who can, up to and including myself.

If I had to pick a moment, a single moment in time when this began, I’d pick this one. See if you can remember it, if you can pick out my face from the thousands of patients that must be lodged in your memory by now.

Picture this, Anne, and see if it stirs any tendrils of recollection. I was sitting on a crinkly, flimsy white paper sheet, wearing equally crinkly, equally flimsy paper clothing, dangling my legs off of the edge and watching you with suspicion. I had sworn a solemn oath to myself that this year, this year I wasn’t going to cry, that no matter what happened, I wasn’t going to cry. So there I was, holding on to my dignity with the barest tips of my fingers, and there you were, rummaging through your cabinet, looking for pointy objects with which to test my resolve, taking some out and laying them down on the counter top. You turned around to face me and extended your arms, palms of your hands up to show that they were empty. “I haven’t got anything in my hands,” you said to me, with great solemnity. “I’m not going to do anything yet.”

“Did you know,” you said, “that everyone has large veins in their arms? That’s why it’s easiest to get blood from there. Look, I’ll show you mine.” You tried to roll up your sleeve, but it got caught on your watch, and you were forced to abandon the idea. It was a nice attempt at distraction, though, and I mean that with all sincerity.

Let’s talk about a few things, before I remind you what happened next. Let’s talk about some words, Anne, some words like compassion. Yes, let’s talk about compassion for a moment. It comes from the Latin, from the prefix con, meaning with, and the verb patere, meaning to suffer. Thus, to be compassionate is to suffer with someone. Let me tell you, and I mean no insult by it, that there is a dearth of compassion among your colleagues when it comes to people like me. I could tell you stories about other doctors and other places, I could tell you about being called a wimp and being treated like a thing, but in the interests of brevity I’ll settle for saying that in sixteen years of existence, you were the only one to look me straight in the eye, the only one to talk to me like a human being, the only one to make an effort to quiet my obvious terror.

Do you remember what happened next? Never mind if you don’t, because I remember it well enough for both of us. “Take a deep breath,” you said, and in that moment, I perceived us to be all tangled up in each other. Your fingers were cool around my wrist, and our heads were both bent forward, yours in concentration, mine in surrender, close enough to be almost touching, your dark curls falling practically into my lap, my knee just about pressed into your stomach.

Let’s talk about another word, Anne. Let’s talk about the word surrender. It comes from the Latin verb rendere, to give up or to give back, which is a corruption of the verb reddere, itself a compound of re, a prefix meaning back or again, and dare, a verb meaning to give. To surrender to someone is to give yourself up, to be wholly in their power, to rest your fate in their hands and trust them not to let go. Can you think of a better word for what I did that day?

You said it best yourself, when you told me that you knew that it was easy enough for you to say that it would be all right, because you were the one with the pointy objects in your hand. Well, you didn’t say exactly that; I think you used a less euphemistic word, but you’ll just have to put up with my language, I’m afraid, because at risk of appearing even more insane, I have to admit that I can’t use the right word without cringing.

You and I were bound together, in a sense, by a power balance tipped disgustingly in your favor. In such a case, there were only two choices: I could hate you for terrorizing me, or I could love you so much that nothing else mattered. I’d always chosen the first option before, but how could I hate you, how could I hate you when you were kind to me, kinder than anyone had ever been before?

How can you not understand, Anne, that in a tangle of pain and ugliness and blind, unreasoning terror you were the only thing left, the only steady point to hold on to in a rapidly tilting universe? How can you not understand that your voice seemed like music, your very presence like some sort of balm upon my aching consciousness because you were so much in control, so very full of power when I had nothing left at all?

I’m not going to tell you what happened next, because I imagine that you can guess. I’ll tell you this, instead. I’ll tell you that the other day, I tried to explain to someone what it felt like to be terrified of something that the rest of the world sees as ordinary, as harmless, and, quite by accident, I came up with something interesting. I told him that it was a matter of perception, that if instead of seeing what he sees, he could see what I see every time I step into a doctor’s office, then he would understand. Do you understand any better now, Anne? Now that I have dragged you across the border into my own recollections instead of yours, can you see why I’ve loved you, or at least loved what you were to me? Can you see why whenever I remember you, you seem to glow faintly and grow faintly until you are more guardian spirit than true person? Because before I met you and after I met you, I’ve had to fight my battles alone, because you were the only one who ever reached out and tried to help, because out of all the doctors I’ve ever met, you alone stood beside me instead of against me. Now that I’ve explained all that, can you honestly blame me? If you can, then you must be less than I’ve imagined you to be, all these long years.