I think what we're finding is that we're not finding anything, which is something we've found.
If you were me you'd understand, but you don't need to be me, and you don't need to understand. I can and can't tell you what you need.
I know that you have a gallbladder infection because your sugar intake is 300 times what it should be per day. I know Santa Clause isn't real because I buy my kids their presents.
You don't give a shit about your gallbladder because you like sugar. Santa Clause is perfectly real to my kids. He's not, but he is.
You decide. I decide.
Heads or tails.
You get a doctorate in medicine and suddenly everything is real. Just like when you were 18 and you went to college and your parents drove away and life sucked and it was real. The problem isn't knowing what's real and what's fake. You always know what's genuine and what's not, and if you can't tell then there's always some tag or stamp to tell you.
But I'm not interested in what's real or fake. I've had enough authenticity.
It's 12:30am and I'm still at work because Nate at the receptionist's desk has been flirting with Sarah, the receptionist, for so long that I haven't been able to get the last report I need to fill out before I can leave. Nate watched a lot of ER, and he wants to be George Clooney, and he's already got the arrogant, self-centered jazz down. Sarah is mediocre, average looking, but she's the best looking girl at the hospital right now, so Nate, by law, must flirt with her. Maybe it's just that nurse outfit thing that turns guys on.
I don't even notice it. But I've been working here for awhile.
What Sarah looks like doesn't matter, but it does to her.
She's got these "freckles," if you can call them that. They're very light, and they match her strawberry-blonde hair, which is medium length, however long you think that is. Her eyes are too big, but not for Nate. She's maybe 5'6 with a fine body, which is what Nate is really interested in, though he's probably only interested in the back half of that body, which is understandable.
The idea is, people will just keep on doing shit, even when they know it won't make a difference. Nate will keep on flirting with Sarah, but Sarah won't be any hotter by the end of the night. Sarah will keep on thrusting out her chest, but she's still going to be almost flat when she leaves the hospital. I'm going to keep on standing here, waiting for them to finish, and I may be here until 1:00am, but I'm not in any real rush to go anywhere, so I don't do anything about it, and I keep letting them flirt.
At least it makes a difference to them, at least for some part of the day.
You work in a hospital long enough and you get way more comfortable around sick and dying people than you are around healthy ones.
The problem is, sometimes people just want to die. That's why they're in the hospital. They need to die, they want to die. Who am I to tell them otherwise? I'm supposed to know the facts about life and death, but I'm not supposed to tell anyone what's best for him or her. That would be prejudiced, and that would get me sued.
So when someone with leukemia and neck-down paralysis tells me to pull the plug, I'm supposed to say, "You're chances of survival are whatever you make of them," or, "I'm here for you, man. We'll beat this together."
What I'm really thinking is, "Ok." I'm thinking, "You're going to go to hell, you're going to leave this world and go into eternal punishment. You're going to abandon your family and give up hope and not even try. Hey, go for it, I just know the facts."
That's what doctors do. They tell you the facts. We're just not allowed to do that anymore.