A painting speaks

“I love my doctor. Although he is always the person to deliver me bad news: “Robert, I’m sorry to inform you that you suffer from HIV. Robert, this sickness has no cure.” Always bad news. And yet I love him because he takes care of me. Here I am in his clinic, after a long walk from my apartment and after a long night of partying- I chose to enjoy the remaining time that I have by walking more and partying more. Here I am feeling secure in the most morbid place on earth- white walls, white gowns and steel-clinky sounds of tools and peeping machines. His cold stethscope listens to my waning heartbeat and his hands probe my failing organs, with no judgment. Although we don’t talk a lot, but there’s a mutual understanding of what my body is going through, and I don’t have to go through the whole speech of explaining aids like I do with friends and family. He is not my friend nor my family, but he understands me. I want to tell him that I appreciate his time and company, his knowledge and dedication, and his ability to get closer to this scary, dying body, but I don’t know how to do that. Words fail me, but the brush never does.”