Doctor and Patient

Henley was sitting at the table in the middle of the small room, writing something on a piece of paper, his head down in concentration. The stylus ran dry just as another man entered the room. It was Bishop. Henley did not look up at first, while Bishop stopped just inside the doorway and looked around the room. There was a wide window, which looked through at the lounge and cafeteria and there was a smaller table in one corner, which had a projector on it. Bishop moved to the table in the middle of the room and sat down. Henley lifted his head and stopped writing, studying Bishop as he sat down.

Henley pushed his writings to one side and put his hands together in front of him on the table.

Bishop was already studying him and seemed somewhat bemused by him. He waited for him to speak.

‘It appears, after what happened the last time you were in here, that you still believe your findings. Is this correct?’ began Henley.

‘If you’re referring to our discussion on professional vocation, then yes.’ replied Bishop.

‘I see. That is going to cause some problems with the board. They won’t be happy with you.’

‘Just exactly what does your board think about all this?’ asked Bishop, stroking his cheek with one long finger.

‘That information does not concern you.’ answered Henley, ‘What should concern you is that they have proposed some measures to ensure your co-operation.’

‘Is that so?’ replied Bishop as he reached into his pocket and took out a small notepad and a stylus, whereupon he proceeded to make some notes. Henley noticed this.

‘Just exactly what is it that you're writing there?’ He enquired.

‘Some notes, important information, as far as I am concerned, about our current state of affairs. Does it occur to you that it might seem somewhat odd there never appears to be anyone you claim to answer to? How is it you refer to a board when you never have any contact with anyone other than me?’

‘Is that your conclusion?’ Henley said doubtfully, ‘It seems largely appropriate for someone in your position I suppose, though still grossly fictional.’

‘And what position am I in? You seem to know so much about my current state of affairs.’

‘Why, you are a patient at this hospital, a fact which you continue to deny. I am your doctor, though I feel I cannot continue much longer with your charades; if we do not see some improvement with you soon, I fear we may have to overturn you.’ Henley stretched back in his chair, teetering on the back legs.

‘Aha. How is it then if you are a doctor that you appear to be wearing pyjamas and slippers?’ At this Henley fell forward from his perch on the chair’s back legs. ‘Does that not seem slightly odd attire for a person in your position, such as you claim to be? One should think that would immediately give the impression, to any casual outside observer, that you are my patient and that I, your doctor, am conducting an examination upon you, which is just so.’

Henley shook his head in dismay, ‘Your delusions I can see have not lessened at all since our last meeting. You don’t want me to put you on the medication again do you?’

‘I have never been on any medication as you so claim. I can produce a record of my health here at this hospital, if you do not believe me, which will show this to be true. Shall I?’

‘Seriously, you think a piece of paper can prove anything to me? Such a simple article to fabricate…here look,’ Henley pulled his piece of paper back again, ‘I can write here, in plain ink…“History of medical conditions: nil”. There, see how easy that was? A piece of paper with writing on it is just that. It is not proof by any means. I fear I grow tired of this and cannot continue.’

‘Would it be that you’d like me to leave? I can come back at another time?’ Bishop gestured at the doorway.

‘No!’ Henley slammed his hand on the table, forcing his stylus to jump into the air, ‘If you will not admit you are wrong then I can see no way ahead. We are at an impasse. If you are not willing to help me, to help me help you, then there is nothing further for us to discuss. I cannot offer a truth that you refuse to believe, so there it lies.’ He finished, exasperated and wide-eyed.

‘I’d better go. You’re upset and I can see this talking is not helping our situation.’ Bishop answered, looking to placate the other.

‘That is precisely where you’re wrong!’ Henley rose suddenly, ‘You are not in any position to judge accurately this situation, as it progressively worsens and I am therefore forced to put an end to our work together and recommend you to the psychiatric rendering unit for acute assessment. I’m sorry but you have left me with no choice.’ He forced his chair back, grating the floor like a wailing animal, and stood aside. He stuffed his pieces of paper, covered with random and incoherent scribbling, into the imaginary pocket of his pyjamas, whereupon it fell to the floor, and stormed out of the room, muttering under his breath about impossible patients and their schizoid delusions.

Bishop stood calmly, with a small smile on his face, took his own notebook, equally covered with indecipherable scrawls - except in bright, fat red ink - and placed it back into his pocket, which was actually his armpit. His crayon, with which he’d been making notes, he put in his mouth as he walked serenely out of the room. The two men both returned to the lounge next door and continued playing their game of draughts, sitting quietly in their chairs, occasionally reaching to make a move then retreating their hands, each second-guessing themselves.