I wanted to be a doctor.
I didn’t need to. My father was rich — you’ve heard of him — but I wanted to make my own way, and I wanted to help people. I wanted to see them sick and help them to get better. It hurts me to know that there is suffering in the world; and I have always wanted to help those who need it.
So I went to school. I was third in my class, I went to Johns Hopkins; my teachers all said I had a bright future; and when I got my license, after one discreet party, I set about setting up an office of my own, in a well-kept building in a nice part of town.
After about a month the office was ready for me to take up my practice in it. I remember very clearly the day I opened my doors for the first time, and sat, hopeful, waiting at the desk for my first patient. But nobody came that first day.
And for the rest of the week I waited every day for eight hours at the desk for a patient to arrive, and made several calls to friends of mine who I had thought would be interested in my services, but nobody came.
And for the rest of the month I waited every day for eight hours at the desk for a patient to arrive, and took out a few advertisements in more prominent places so as to become known to the public, but nobody came.
And for twenty-seven years I waited every day for eight hours at the desk for a patient to arrive, and I lived on my father’s money, and cadged for referrals and made arrangements with insurance companies and offered to do charity work and begged for patients on the street like a faith healer; and still nobody came.
And I am still waiting for my first patient to arrive, so that I can help them to get well, which is all I have ever wanted to do.
You must excuse me. I cannot continue this conversation now.
