When it was our turn and I was told to expect the school doctor's visit, I braced myself. After all, it was just a routine examination.
But it wasn't what I'd imagined. I've often hoped that the school doctor who came to see Paul that day wasn't typical of his profession. He stood in the doorway: a heavy-set woman in athletic clothes, her broad chest practically quivering with excitement. We'd never met before, and she dispensed with introductions entirely. I'd barely opened the door when she announced, with great enthusiasm: "I can't wait to examine your son. Do you think he might be an idiot?" I was seized by blind rage. I would have given anything to slam the door in her face—or better yet, to drive my fist into her cheerful one.
Read also "A Book You Can't Put Down — a review of Mary Craig's «Blessings»"
How is it that doctors, who supposedly enter their profession because they want to heal others, become so often callous to suffering? For years, Paul and I were merely specimens under examination—two cases of passing medical interest. It never seemed to occur to anyone (or if it did, it didn't matter) that we were also sensitive human beings capable of being deeply wounded. Learning to become invisible was hard, but I learned it fast. Building a thick shell to hide in became part of survival. The only safe way to protect myself from harm was to refuse to be hurt, to refuse to notice, to refuse to care. Normal human feelings had become a luxury I couldn't afford.
Dr. W. was different from all the rest. He didn't treat Paul as merely another interesting case, but as a person. He didn't rattle off clinical symptoms as if Paul were an inanimate object, but focused on a few limited areas where there might be some hope. He didn't just examine Paul thoroughly—he earned his trust, his confidence, and as much of his affection as circumstances allowed.