musingsonwomenshealth.com

Reflections on 40 years as a doctor in Women's Health

Derivative Anger


I bumped into a Jessica the other day. She was standing at a corner of a busy street waiting for the little man to light up on the crosswalk sign. I hadn’t seen her for ages, but apart from the inevitable tell-tale wrinkles of a maturing face, she looked the same as she had when we shared classes at university. Well, almost the same. I mean she wore her auburn hair in a bun that still struggled unsuccessfully for the summit of her head, and her taste in clothes, although always neat and frequently laundered, still lagged several years behind current fashions, but her eyes no longer danced as I remembered, no longer silently interrogated everybody around her. In fact, she didn’t even notice me standing beside her until I accidentally bumped her arm in my eagerness to cross the road as soon as the walk signal lit up.

She actually turned her head in annoyance at my inadvertent breach of her personal space, and lashed me with those once-curious eyes. She seemed angry now -not at me but at everything: the crowd jostling around her, the need to wait, the world –everything. It only partially dissolved when she recognized I was not a threat, and my touch not so much a breach as an understandable eagerness to escape the milling crosswalk crowd.

Her eyes, at first reluctant to accept they knew me, shrugged like her shoulders and instructed her face to smile. “G,” it said, until further recognition dawned. “I haven’t seen you since…” – a short pause followed as she checked some sort of internal library- “… Since university, wasn’t it?” Her face wasn’t at all sure of my provenance, but nevertheless her eyes softened and the smile enlarged.

I could tell she had to force a “How are you?” through her lips, but at least it was marginally friendly and hopefully well-intentioned.

The two of us struggled through a few memories to prove we were in fact who we’d thought we were, and then I asked her if she’d like to join me for coffee in the little café we were approaching. She stared at me suspiciously and then nodded her head: a café on a busy street was safe.

We managed to find a seat in a corner by the window after an awkward silence as we waited for a chatty barista to fill our orders. Jessica had ordered a cappuccino and spent a moment staring at the intricate floral pattern of foam on its surface, seemingly unwilling to disturb it by drinking.

I smiled at the pattern, and then had a sip of my own unembellished coffee. She watched me for a moment and then sighed. “I always hate to disturb it,” she explained, as her eyes drifted back to the pattern in her cup. “The design’s so… beautiful. So… I don’t know, so seminal.”

I nodded in agreement, careful not to roll my eyes at her choice of words. But she was always like that, I remembered. We’d both taken a philosophy course together at university and she’d adopted some of its concepts for her world. ‘Seminal’, for her at least, was a word she’d started to use around then when she really meant ‘original’; ‘derivative’ was another popular word she used as seminal’s evil twin: an uninspired copy…

She glanced at me and then had a tentative sip of her cappuccino, trying hard not to disturb the pattern. “You know, that still bothers me, G…”

I pretended not to know what she meant, but I could feel it coming; she hadn’t changed.

“I always admired seminality… remember?” She studied my face with hopeful eyes.

I knew it was important that I remember, so I nodded again.

She slowly swirled her cup as if she was playing with the pattern. Trying to improve on it however slightly. “It’s something I felt I could never achieve…” she added, frowning at the fragmented flower she’d created. She risked a quick peek at my face and then smiled. “Have you done anything you thought was truly seminal, G – something so original that it was clear that it was just a template for continuing future improvement…?”

I had to smile; she’d actually grasped the meaning of ‘seminal’ after all these years. Then I shook my head and shrugged. “I write a little…” I hesitated, because I wouldn’t actually call myself a writer. “My ideas are probably not very original, but I keep trying.”

She gazed into my eyes, some interest actually blossoming on her own face. “Me too,” she said, focussing on her cappuccino once again. “I write too, but nobody seems to notice…” She took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and then lifted her head and shrugged. “I seem to remember that you wanted to do philosophy… or was it journalism -I’ve forgotten.”

“I’m not sure I really knew in those days, Jessica. The future seemed so open then, you know. Anyway, I’m retired now, so the future’s closing…”

She shuddered and sent her eyes over to rest on my cheek. “I’m still working… well, sort of…” she admitted in a sad voice. “My future never really opened -I ended up as an accountant… until the company closed. Now I’m in the gig economy.” She looked down at her cappuccino. “So I guess I’m sort of retired too… That’s why I’m juggling with words now, rather than numbers, I suppose.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I had another sip of my coffee.

“I’ve kind of given up on originality,” she said, gathering up her coat and purse. She sounded terribly disappointed in her life, and it was clear that she had heard little to applaud in mine, either. “Even being a single mother is no longer original -if it ever was…”

“How many…” I was going to ask her about her children, but she moved her chair back from the table.

“Edward is 18,” she said, putting on her coat. “He’s in Art School now…” she added as she picked up her purse.

I stared at her for a moment. “And you’re complaining of not producing a template, Jesse?” I shook my head.

She glared at me for a moment, wondering perhaps if I was mocking her. Suddenly, her face softened and she shrugged. “But it’ll be him who achieves something for the future -not me…” She sounded almost like she was pouting.

It was my turn to shrug. “It’s the originator who starts it all off, isn’t it? Creates the template…”

She stared uncomprehendingly at me for a moment, and then smiled as she thought about it some more.

I glanced at her cappuccino, and she noticed. “You’re right,” she said, smiling all the while, and then gulped it down, pattern and all. “I never thought of Edward like that,” she added and kissed the top of my head as she left the table.

There was a lightness in her step as she headed for the door.

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gozzter

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