a small pen & ink drawing appeared in the corner of the end of your letter today

a tiny man pushing a gigantic mass uphill

in it i saw what this has reduced you to  and what supreme efforting it is taking

for you to get on your feet and try to begin the journey uphill back to how your life used to  be        a former life, filled days of art    of painting

of music-making  and dialogue with friends      of public radio blaring          of long, brisk walks taken, breathing the ocean’s air

of books and articles to peruse and discuss         of postcards and letters written      phone calls to make and emails to write         of laughter and tenderness     of  holding your lovely wife at nightfall         

a life      to return to        as it used to be         this long road   back     this uphill journey     toward trying to  feel normal once again

enduring 18 months of medical hell has jarred you enough, dear friend

on this rocky road, a barrage of cold, too-busy clinicians

have surprised, saddened and overwhelmed  you

you, of tender heart and sensitive spirit

you, with a lucky lifetime of good health and no need for medical attention

you, who did not inherently  know the new, unspoken rules of this millenium’s medical game

you, who have now encountered the tricksters in this, the new business of corporate medical care

that is now run by  pharmaceutical companies and  insurance providers

who have slashed the ideals of the hippocratic oath to smithereens

leaving only ribbons of dollar signs blowing in our winds…

they have turned  wide-eyed, hope-filled medical students—- who may have initially wanted to somehow help as healers—–

into deadened wooden puppets controlled by  strings of high rates  high rents and

high incidence of blatant insensitivity…

your dream was that they would understand and truly care for you

that they could read into your eyes and see your absolute need for compassion

and a moment of their time

that they would know to assuage your fears and concerns      how to deal with you    in      our shared diagnosis as a highly sensitive person…

your hope was that these trendy, pseudo-hip LA docs with familiar art on their waiting room walls

might show a moment of humanity   listen closely to your words and engage in your attempts at simple conversation

instead they gave you little in your allotted 4.5 minutes of time

yet,  they have carved into nostril and neck, ravaging your skin

violated your vision

poisoned you with their drugs and mistakes

prodded into belly and bowel

insulted your manhood with stents and bags

drilled into and explored you       stripped you naked and left your spirit almost deadened by the wayside

prodded and poked   bloody and exposed….

weakened by their hands, they’ve

exhausted you at every turn, as they forced and spun you through LA traffic,

frantically    thrusting you into cold, unfamiliar buildings and crowded parking structures

they have sat you waiting and waiting in rooms filled with others

empty-eyed and hollowed      worn down by it all

like you

all this,  at this— stage next of your final chapter….

its a shame that they can longer can see into we humans without the

cold, metal tools of their trade—– cuffs and devices to read our beating  hearts

x-ray, ultrasound and other scanners used to search beneath the derma into organs of mystery, blood and bone

but where in their modern    toolboxes lie that which would locate and connect         them to our souls…or us to theirs?

in 4.5 minutes, physicians forget how to look into the eyes of a patient, and see fear and overwhelm

in 4.5 minutes in this new assembly-line world             its easy    to ignore the rules of humanity and kindness, dear friend

yet we continue to ask and wonder:

where, dear god

is the mercy