Silence

There is much a doctor can never say. Keeping silent hurts, but it is a necessary exercise when a patient arrives at the clinic seeking more than just a prescription for her illness. It is the part of the vocation that neither university teaches nor the church canonises.

This silence is a miracle when one knows how to listen to it. The sacred religiosity of the profession ends here, faced with the sharp wit of a client probing for an answer. If, for every patient who complains about their spouse, I allowed the slightest hint of concession and my expression betrayed even the faintest amen during the consultation, rest assured, I would be sealing the marital grave myself. That’s right—when someone starts complaining, they already have their bags packed, merely awaiting a formal excuse, and nothing serves that purpose better than something straight from the doctor’s mouth to decree the end.

But being a companion to silence does not prevent me from muttering a few words of caution here and there, even if any attempt to guide someone in matters of the heart is such folly that, sooner or later, I expect to hear they have identified a disorder for it. There seems to be no other way. I have seen people divorce for the most absurd reasons, but I have also seen people marry for even worse ones.

In people’s minds, every desire can and should be fulfilled, ideally with someone at hand to listen and then generously spread the good news. Most of the time, however, reality is quite different, and the heartbeat of desire is not always reciprocated. I do not even understand why people are so obsessed with fulfilling everything. A light heart is not one burdened with achievements; it is simply a heart that remains faithful to what is just and beautiful, unyielding to whatever weighs it down. After all, it is sometimes better that certain desires never come true.