“Balloons.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“That’s it. That’s what you always smell like when you come home from the hospital.” I’d blurted this observational bit of news to Lucas one afternoon, index finger pointed high in the air; eureeka.
He was always coming home from his clinicals in the medical campus buildings trailed by an incredibly sharp, distinctive smell – rubbery, and sort of plasticine. It flicked at my nose and got me pondering what, exactly, he’d witnessed that day. What physical trauma had he learned to resolve? What new disease had he worked to understand? While sometimes he would lament the hours spent pouring through the gargantuan, encyclopedic tomes of medical information, he mostly seemed to glisten with the excitement of the work.
For a little while, I contemplated becoming one of those fake patients, so I could get in on it; really see behind the curtain. The med students at Eastern Virginia Medical School were always diagnosing, prescribing, and treating these people who came in and were paid to play sick, something I’d grown quite skilled at during my elementary school years. I figured it wouldn’t be such a stretch to give it another go, especially if there was money involved this time around.
Essentially, you study your particular issue like an actor preparing for a role, which is precisely what you are – an actor. You memorize lines and symptoms and all of the ins and outs of your assigned affliction and then it’s lights, camera, action! These standardized patients really do get to play at so many different things, faking sick like it’s their job – because it is.
It seemed to me like the best acting gig you never knew you’d always wanted. I’d heard about a woman who’d “been infected” with HIV by her closeted gay husband which seemed compelling, a nice challenge to one’s acting chops. And then there was the particularly demanding role of bi-polar meth addict, which also held its appeal. There seemed to be ample opportunity to really dig one’s heels into the roles of a lifetime, at a cool $20 an hour, no less, and I’d come very close to signing up. Auditioning? No, I think this is something you just sign up for.
I figured it could be a solid way to make some money and it was bound to both cost and hurt less than donating plasma, which I’d also looked into doing. While we were dating, Lucas had participated in a couple of university clinical trials to save up some money for an engagement ring. He’d given his body over to science in exchange for some cold, hard cash. The romantic gesture, though unconventional, was not at all lost on me.
I did bust him loose one night which, in hindsight, seems like a really messed up thing to do in the middle of a scientific study. But he’d assured me it was fine as he slipped out of the faded vomit-hued gown and carefully detached himself from the beeping equipment that semi-circled his hospital bed. Giving off an air of cool nonchalance, we mozeyed our way down the corridor, past the nurse’s station and what I assumed were the security cameras that were going to catch us in our late-night exodus. Seize them! They’re trying to escape!
Traveling on foot, we crossed the four lane-road on which the large hospital sat and made our way into the first restaurant we came across, a Denny’s. Food, it turns out, tastes a little better when it comes served with a side of daring. A little adventure can single-handedly make up for lack of seasoning, underwhelming menu options, or over-cooked this and that. We ordered cheeseburgers and fries and as we split a milkshake, waiting to pay the check, I wondered if any of that would register on the monitors once Lucas was hooked back up, situated in his role as patient once again. Would they be able to tell? I’d wondered this, as I slurped up the melty last dregs of chocolate shake.
