We went back yesterday, exactly one month later, looking for answers.
I was really only there as support. A cane for my husband to lean on as we walked back into the building, back into the sights and sounds and smell of the place. The smell is the worst. It hits you in the nose, runs right through your body and makes you physically cringe in despair.
My husband in turn was his aunt’s cane, holding her up as we entered through the sliding doors.
But the man we met wasn’t who we were looking for. He certainly wore a white coat but where was his cane? His fake American accent? His bottle of pills? His team of young, attractive, efficient doctors who get tests done and receive the results immediately? Where were those doctors who always find out what’s wrong in the end? Nowhere in sight.
This man was just someone’s husband, someone else’s son, another’s dad. He looked very ordinary, very human, very tired. And through his tiredness we could see his frustration, his sadness at having nothing more to tell us, his guilt at not being the doctor we wanted him to be. I was sitting nearest him and I so wanted to whisper in his ear ‘Don’t worry, we know your limits, we know that sometimes there are no answers. But please just tell them that there was nothing else they could have done.’
Of course I didn’t dare and he didn’t say it. He stayed non-commital, non-judgemental, highly professional.
So we left, none the wiser, disappointed, sad, but with the realisation that real life is just that. Real. People die. Sometimes we know why. Sometimes we don’t.
And no matter how hard we wish he’d turn up, there will never be a real Dr House in the house.