2012 by Peggy Buxton
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Mark traveled the world. Friends were jealous of the thirty-year olds success and freedom. If only they knew the turmoil that brewed just under the surface. It had always been there, but now even he could not control the desires.
“Doctor Johnson, thanks for meeting with me,” he said as he shook the man’s hand.
“Please, have a seat. I read your letter, and I don’t know what I can do to help.”
“That’s why I thought we should meet in person. I know you helped Fran Conners. I met her though her husband and he understood the need.” He didn’t really know either, but had swapped a few emails.
“Oh-h,” the man in the white doctor’s coat droned, rubbing his chin. “That was several years ago.”
“Yes and I hope nothing has changed with your ability to help.”
“Well, as I explained in my letter to you,” the doctor looked idly toward the window for a moment then back at Mark, “I can no longer do that kind of surgery.”
“What do I do?”
The doctor walked around the desk and leaned against the edge with arms crossed. “I’m at a loss to offer anything.”
Dr. Johnson opened the office door and waited for Mark to leave. There was nothing more said. Mark was no closer to a solution than when he boarded the plane ten thousand miles before.
Mark walked the bustling sidewalk leading from the five-story medical office building. The voices of others spoke in words he did not understand. The day was hot and humid, his shirt was growing damp with sweat, and he was miserable. In a park by the river, he called the number on a business card, but after listening to a message that they would be out of the office for a few days, he left a message in hopes someone would call back.