The doctor studies the burnt, bleeding rag of a woman penned in the iron crucible. Then he glances down at his notebook and asks, “On a scale of 1 to 10, how much pain are you in?”
The corpse’s eyes flicker open, revealing bloodshot conjunctiva on a charred-black face. Her hair is burnt to the pink of her scalp. Her skin is blighted with oozing pustules. “I don’t know,” she rasps. “Maybe an 8?”
“Hm. An 8.” The doctor scribbles this down.
“Is that a bad thing?”
“Why is it not a 12? How can we make it a 12?”
“A 12?” the corpse blinks slowly. “On a scale of 1 to 10? That doesn’t make sense.”
“Of course not. The entire scale makes no sense. It’s a subjective measurement we're using for objective data. But the Hospital Commission tracks these metrics, and so here we are. Now, what do you say?”
“You want me to lie?”
The doctor raps his pen on her forehead. “No! I want you to say it because you mean it.”
“Okay. Then my pain is a 12,” the corpse replies. “It’s the worst pain in my life.”
The doctor jots this down with a troubled sigh. He shakes his head in disappointment. “The problem is, now I don’t believe you. For one thing, you’re not alive, are you? So this can’t be the worst pain in your life. But more concerningly, you gave in immediately to my suggestion. You’ve proven to all of us that the pain scale has no objective value.”
“But I do mean it,” the patient insists. “I really do mean it.”
“I’m afraid it’s too late. The doctor-patient relationship has been irrevocably broken. It’s called the deficit of trust. I have an entire chapter on it in my next book.” The doctor glances at his watch and tsks with impatience. “We'll need to start over tomorrow. In the meantime, let’s get you some pain medicine, eh?”
“Something for the pain?” the corpse asks hopefully.
The doctor chortles. “That’s a funny way of putting it.”
0 Comments Add a Comment?