Patient 4604103. Caucasian male. 23 years old. Terminal illness: Stage IV leukemia. 

My eyes scan the demographics and reports lying within the folder resting in my shaky hands. I find myself repeatedly looking over the given information. 

It’s just another day at work, I tell myself confidently; although, if I were to voice the words aloud, my tone would say otherwise. 

I snap the folder shut and walk down the long, white hall that has no windows or doors lining the sides. Bright, white lights shine overhead as they hang from the ceiling, coming down in chandelier-like designs, slightly swinging from side to side even though there is no account of possible air flow. 

My pace quickens, causing my black lab coat to fly around me, giving me the illusion of wings. My black heels are silent as they hit against the marble floor, but this lack of noise does not cancel out the words I hear screaming in my head. Before I can give those words another thought, I push them to the back of my mind and find myself stopping in front of a grand cypress door. 

My grip tightens around the black door knob. Cautiously, I push it open. I am always a little anxious with every new patient I receive. The work I commit to is fulfilling but distressing.

Before I turn around to face my client, I take a deep breath and smile. After all, this is a grand occasion. 

I turn around to face Patient 4604103: a young man who is easy on the eyes and has a winning smile. His posture hints that he is just as nervous as I am, yet his smile betrays the opposite; it is as if he has been waiting for this moment for a long time. As far as I can see, he has.

However, somewhere buried deep in his expression is a hint of doubt, suspicion even, as if he could not believe or trust the work I commit my life to. Yet he seems to be pushing these emotions aside and focusing on what really matters at the moment: the chance to be cured from his terminal illness. 

“Good morning, Mr. Smith. My name is Dr. Moore. Angie Moore.” I extend my hand to him for a proper handshake.

He takes it tentatively, but his smile never falters.

I take a seat in front of him. 

“Doesn’t sound too frightening,” he says, trying to make lighthearted conversation. 

“I would hope not. It’d be a shame to scare you before the actual operation,” I say, looking away from him and into the distance, letting my screaming thoughts wander for just a few more seconds. 

We sit quietly for a moment. Mr. Smith looks around the room we are in: a small library, filled to the brim with books. There is a set of French windows placed directly behind the chair he is sitting in. The light shines on his silhouette, making him look like a figure from heaven. The thought brings a smile to my face. 

His eyes come to meet mine again. After a few more seconds of silence, my client speaks. “I cannot even begin to express how grateful I am for this opportunity.” 

“And I am grateful that you chose me to carry out what others could not.” 

This statement seems to send a pang of sadness through his body, because he shivers noticeably. It isn’t a chill from the air around us; it is more from the feeling that he has been helpless and desperate to get rid of this cancer. All of the other doctors failed to help him. I am his last hope. 

His eyes trail to the floor. Mr. Smith stares at his fingers as if they were the most interesting thing in the world. He begins to twirl them around in circles, obviously getting uncomfortable about the topic we are about to discuss. 

“All right,” I say, opening his folder. “You have tried countless treatments and none seemed to work: changing your diet, chemo, natural remedies. Is this correct?” 

He nods his hairless head ever so slightly. 

“It also says here that you have symptoms of vomiting, weight loss, bone pain, and extreme fatigue. Are you feeling anything else that isn’t listed in your profile?” I click my pen to write down what he prepares to say. 

Mr. Smith lets out a small laugh before he speaks. “Well, let’s see. Depression. Loneliness. Losing the will to live…” His voice trails off, as if these symptoms were already noticeable. 

I write down everything he says and ponder his words for a minute. The last intangible symptom is usually common in all of my patients. I purse my lips in thought and then click my pen. 

I uncross my legs from my sitting position and close the folder. It is time to crack down to the real important questions now. 

I put my folder on the table next to me. I lean my elbows on my knees in complete concentration, intending to hang onto his next words. 

“All right, Mr. Smith.”

He looks me directly in the eyes, awaiting everything I have to say, which I have said millions of times before. He gives me a hopeful but scared smile.

“I have instructed you to only come to me as a last resort. It’s been a whole year since your last visit, as we had planned. Are you sure you want to go through with my procedure before anything else is said? If you don’t, speak now or forever hold your peace.” My tone is grave and forthright. I need to make sure every patient has followed my instructions before coming back to me six months to one year later. 

Mr. Smith looks down at his frail hands. His kind eyes scan the skin that clings to his thin, bony hands. His smile falters as his head bows to the floor. Soon enough, his gaze travels back up to mine. “I’m sure.” 

My stomach drops at his words, like it has done every time one of my patients voices those words. I give him a big smile as I look into his sparkling eyes. Outside, I’m ecstatic for him. Inside, I feel the pain he feels. I can tell that what he’s feeling has weathered him down to nothing. He wants another chance at life, at a life that doesn’t need to be fought for. 

I rise from my chair and smooth my white dress. “Please remain seated for a minute while I get the contract.”

My feet carry me to the door. I pull it open and make an immediate right into my office. There are piles upon piles of fresh contracts on one side of the room and the piles of signed ones on the other.  I can feel my hands shaking as they always do before a contract is about to get signed. I snatch a fresh form and hastily leave the room. 

When I enter the library, I hand the contract to Mr. Smith. “Read carefully, and if you are absolutely positive, sign your full legal name at the bottom.”

I hand him my pen and sit down, waiting for him to read over the instructions. 

Before a full minute has passed, the pen starts scribbling against the bottom of the paper. He hands the pen back to me and I tuck it into my lab coat. Both of us rise from our seat and shake hands.

I speak first, watching his cheerful smile light up the room. I have to stop myself before there is a chink in my armor. “It was a pleasure doing business with you and I hope you achieve the results you want from this operation. Good luck, Mr. Smith.”  

I pull my hand away and gave him a warm, constricting hug. 

“Well, now that all the paperwork is done, it’s time for your long-awaited operation. Follow me to the treatment center, please.”  

Mr. Smith and I exit the room and walk down the narrow, white hall to the room on the left at the very end. I point to the bed in the middle in the room, silently instructing him to make himself comfortable while I prepare the tools.

I check his height and weight for the proper anesthesia dose and prepare my antidote for his leukemia. I flick the needle to get rid of the air bubbles and set it down.

I walk over to Mr. Smith to clean the area where his injection will go. The scent of rubbing alcohol stings my nose. Patient 4604103 is now sterilized. I fix the bed’s angle so my patient will be lying down for the operation.

“All right, Mr. Smith,” I say, looking down at him. “Are you ready?”  

He nods and smiles the biggest smile he’s given me all day. “I’ll see you soon.” 

I connect the anesthesia mask to his face. He coughs a few times at first, but then begins to tolerate the gas as it enters his system. Patient 4604103’s eyes begin to flutter and soon shut completely.

I watch the meter to make sure I get the proper dosage and turn off the machine once I reach my mark. I retrieve the needle and inject it into the vein on his left arm. 

The injection won’t take effect for a few more hours, but once he wakes up, Mr. Smith will be as good as new. I sit down in the chair and let my own eyelids shut as I wait for him to regain consciousness.