Uninvented Stories of Invented People

Svetlana Isaenko

“Where did you get this one?”

“Well, I was changing the blackbody in a thermal imager during its calibration.”

I could see, how Vadim was starting to get a cognitive dissonance. The ‘pull was becoming the push’ and his face became the bewilderment itself. Then I saw an Error message at the display of his consciousness and he writhed out:

“Oh, well … well … well then, put ointment to heel it.”

After that, for some reason, he promptly retreated to sort out some ‘business matters’ and my friend from Kiev, Kir, laughed over than situation for a long while. I don’t know how the dialogue would have gone if Julia had said: “Well, I was cooking pies.” I have a feeling that Vadim would not appear to have any business matters then. For some reason, our modern world does not really encourage intelligent women.

“Well, Marie, why would I need a ‘Jonny pal’ smarter than I. I want a home kitty, eating out of my hand. As for your Julius, I’m even afraid to approach her. She is a beautiful, but dangerous, viper. What would I need her for?” stated my friend Danya after that incident.

Therefore, Julia was completely immersed into projects, children and life and Iliya lived next to her, but in a different dimension.

Having entered the office, I took off the uniform gown. When you put it on, you put on your profession. Your life circumstances become unimportant and you immerse yourself into the world of patients. You experience patients’ difficulties and pains, learn about their thoughts and soul and then disconnect, isolate the symptoms, bring them into syndromes and already prescribe a therapy. Why can’t it be the same with life?

I leave the department at 20.30. I am in no hurry to go home and ponder over all of my suitors in my mind. Kolya, the one I dated for a year at the university, was not approved by my mother. Oleg haunted at discount cheese in supermarket and took home wine leftovers after visiting friends. He blamed me of wasting my student allowance “in the wrong direction”. “Why buying that expensive Ruby Rose cosmetics, while you can manage without it, you still look fine”, he used to say. I fear of men of this kind, because “pettiness of the person equals to pettiness of the soul”. Having a family with the one of these, means to report on every slip for carrot, bought in a convenience store in detail, answering “where did you spend the money, spendthrift?” questions. Definitely negative, while the rest were just of no interest to me. Immersed in these thoughts, I took out my favorite record of Fr'ed'eric Chopin and plunged into the stunning emotional world of plot and sound beauty. I don’t remember the author but I read it somewhere: “Music is stronger than love.”

It can put you up to heaven or throw down into the depths of the most mournful emotion. Through the centuries Chopin’s music makes you feel your own soul's vibrations.

Chapter six

• Misha •

My love for daily duty shifts did not run out. Despite the years, the belief that the beauty of extreme psychiatry and human souls was revealed during shifts, remained an axiom.

Sunday, 8.15 am, 1200 patients are under my supervision. I am a single psychiatrist for the whole hospital and the city. It is beastly cold. Two winter jackets, felt boots (or “moon boot” to put it in a more fashionable way), a warm pullover and a white robe somewhere inside of that garment burger. That electricity saving simply kills, since it blows from every crack. As always, beset by case histories, I sit and write up everything, I didn’t have time to, as the work load is huge. Thirty patients solely for me. Annie is in love. She is almost invisible in the department. Sometimes, she is on a sick leave or vacation. Maxim has completely absorbed her. She has changed recently. She became twitchy and lost in weight quite a lot. Well, as it goes, “love is blind.”

Saving the world and the souls is a very noble occupation that, nevertheless, involves bureaucracy, where “you should file and log every patient not for yourself, but for the persecutor attorney. In psychiatry you’ve got to keep an eye out”, as our beloved Se~nor Pablo says. Sometimes it seems to me that there is something human and kind in him, but then some situation appears. Like, for example, a joint round over the department before elections. The Head of the Department, Annie and I coddle every patient. Pablo ceremoniously examines the entire department, checks the surfaces with white handkerchief, all the staff trembles, we enter the ward and he asks one of the patients:

“How are you feeling?” She is a complicated case – a moderate depressive episode, with a sleep disorder. She starts answering him:

“Oh, it’s all bad. I can’t sleep. When I close my eyes all the relatives, that passed away, climb into my head. The chest is burning, I feel sick at heart and see no future. Living like this is…“

Pablo interrupts her mid-sentence, puts his hand on her shoulder and says:

“It’s all fine, will you vote?“

At such moments, you realize: “Oh, Miss Clover, silly is the though you bare in your head. What was all that ‘human’ about?” I sit, write out endless amount of paper and, when it gets especially hard and I clearly desire to send everything to hell, I imagine that as soon as I am done, I’ll hear applauses. A handsome man in a formal dress will invite me to the stage and announce: ‘The literary award of the year goes to… Maria Clover!!!’ The storm of applause and standing ovation will follow his words and there I enter in a fancy floor skimming black dress with an opening over my leg. I wear gorgeous make-up. My short black hair is beautifully styled and as I walk my high heels through, all the men turn to watch me go. I wink at one of the handsomes, while entering the stage…

“Miss Clover there is a cardiac standstill in the Intensive Care! It’s urgent!” I hear one of our nurses crying from the other part of the medical checkpoint. I run out in one second and quickly head across the street and then to the third floor. Doorbell. The aid-man looks at me through the wicket. I clearly enunciate my words: “The doctor on duty, open up.” No hesitation possible, someone’s life has stopped. I rush into the intensive care unit and there the one is better than the other. The gentleman of around 50 lived his life brightly, drank heavily, though shoddily, therefore, the body has taken the decision to break ties with that unbridled joy. I start implementing resuscitation measures. “Adrenaline … 2.0. More … is dopamine done? … great … dexamethasone 4.0 … Live, start on, dear, come on … please, not at my duty shift.” After some time, the arteries begin to pulsate under my arms. “I’ve started him on”. The hands are shaking. The sweat is streaming. I fought for life. We managed to regain another one from the death. Although, was it really necessary? There, we are just the tools that possess certain knowledge and, then, the Universe is to take the final decision.

“Guys, can I have some water, please?”

“Sure, doctor, you are a Fury yourself, flew in and almost swept me off my feet,” the aid-man comments.

“Seems what they say is truth. We have a private joke that when you are on duty, you would not let anyone die, even if someone really wanted to!”

“Well, thank you. I appreciate your kind words!”

I am waiting for him to fetch me water and witnessing a picture.

There is one of our patients, lying down in alcoholic delirium, the ailment that people call 'the Blue Devils'. It takes place when one drinks vodka or homebrew booze steadily and heavily, or sips whiskey for quite a period of time, drinks oneself to death. The metabolism changes and, as soon as one stops drinking, the delirium develops the third day after. And there he is, our guy, extremely agitated, fixed (tied to the bed), hallucinating into the ceiling and imagining war.

“Shoot, you bitch, shoot… tanks… attack… fight off… ammos!!!! Fire!!!” While in front of him, there sits an Afroamerican chap, whose delirium has already passed. He sits on the edge of his bed with his head down, thinking of something to his own. The local one tears his gaze off the ceiling, stops twitching his arms and legs, turns to the Afroamerican and asks with complete surprise and indignation:

“Misha, did you paint yourself black or what!?”

The entire staff bursts out laughing. The Afroamerican is protesting with a thick accent: