The Doctor's Inquiry

The fluorescent lights of the general hospital hummed, a sterile counterpoint to the quiet anxieties that often filled its waiting rooms. For me, this particular visit felt like stepping onto a precipice. I was young, single, and navigating the choppy waters of life with a confidence that often wavered, especially when it came to my health. The hospital, so close to my rented sanctuary, was a place I frequented more out of necessity than choice, a silent testament to my lingering doubts about managing both my personal life and my well-being.

It was during one such visit, amidst the hushed rustle of papers and the distant murmur of consultations, that I first encountered Basweti. He was the officer recording my case, his presence a calm amidst the usual clinical detachment. The air in the room seemed to shift subtly as he began his inquiries. Then came the question that, in its apparent simplicity, unraveled a tapestry of complex thoughts within me: "Are you married or single?"

My answer, a soft "Single," was barely out before he followed up, his voice a low murmur, "Why single?" It was a question that, from anyone else, might have been a mere formality. But from Basweti, it felt… different. It opened a door, not just to his understanding of my health, but to something deeper. I found myself looking into his eyes, seeking a clarity that eluded me.

The waiting room, usually a purgatory I endured with gritted teeth, suddenly felt like a stage for a crucial performance. I yearned for efficiency, for an end to the looming risk of inpatient questions about my future, about the guarantee of my health. I needed to know, with a certainty that felt miles away, how long this health case would take to resolve. Who would be in charge? Would it require legal intervention, and if so, what would that entail? The weight of these unknowns pressed down on me.

The officer recording my OB, sensing the undercurrent of my anxieties, directed me towards a different path, a post-ward for home nursing and clinic check-ups. It was a suggestion of a more personal, perhaps even familial, approach to my health, a potential "family doctor" for these uncertain times. The thought of a "friend request" being accepted, a connection forged beyond the purely clinical, flickered in my mind.

But the ball, once set in motion by Basweti's simple question, was already rolling. Turning back felt akin to trying to relight a dying ember when a bonfire was within reach. His question about my marital status had sparked a profound realization, a wisdom about the intricate dynamics of hiring a doctor – the date doctor, the check-up doctor, the personal doctor. My mind, a car still learning to navigate the roads of personal decision-making, was racing. I imagined a female doctor visiting my home, perhaps every weekend, or on the 15th of the month, a living calendar of my well-being, followed by another visit on the 30th, marking the end of a cycle, much like a monthly salary.

This mathematical approach to healthcare, to the rhythm of appointments and payments, began to take hold. If Basweti were to be my hired doctor, his work would be guided by an agreement, a contract that would define his role as my health supervisor. I pondered the options: two days a month or four? The financial implications, the risk of investment, felt like a stakeholder’s gamble. The thought of asking him for a favor, to allow me to ask him again, this time in front of his "bestie friend book and pillow pen" on the high rank of the OB health office, felt simultaneously audacious and necessary.

Basweti, I mused, was more than just a doctor; he was becoming an architect of my health, a civil servant of my needs, holding the reins of my medical report. The idea of him acting as an agent, finding other colleagues for my case, presented another layer of complexity, a headache requiring the intervention of another clinic officer to record the health initiatives. The timeframe for transferring my file from Basweti, the potential risks involved in sending him out for another "NURSECOUPFLOORCRA" of my health case, occupied my thoughts.

To secure a family doctor, I knew, would mean dividing my salary, a significant portion dedicated to his fees, with an added buffer for unexpected expenses, a "salt or sugar payment" from my wallet. This feeling of adding extra money to someone else's pocket was a risk, a mental hurdle. Yet, the constitution of the nation allowed for part-time earnings, for professionals to supplement their income wisely. To interfere with his professional knowledge, his "side money maker," felt like an illegal submission, a call to question someone with the specialized training to heal.

It was difficult to focus solely on my health when my mind was already grappling with the "opposite mind of my health," to consider his original salary from the government payslip. After all, his hard work deserved such rewards, his vision a gift. I listened intently, absorbing the quiet honesty in his voice, the transparent reality of the "train or the bus" he planned to steer me on, beneath the "specialist of chosen file medicine umbrella" for the sake of my future health. His heart, I felt, radiated a quiet strength, a "unit body and love poems of feelings," a "song of clear mind," the very "car wash mind" I sought to cleanse the complexities of my health case.

It was at the general hospital, on that fateful day, that I first truly registered the name Basweti, the man who would become the right desk of my healing. As he completed his assessment, his eyes scanning my health record, I knew I had to find a way to align my understanding, to grasp the unfolding situation. It was a moment that would define my single life, a professional encounter that felt like a deeply personal connection, a "friend request" accepted not just as a doctor, but as something more.

Basweti excused himself, asking me to wait while he attended to another room for further investigation of my file. As I sat there, a solitary figure in the waiting area, another patient knocked and entered. He had come to see the same doctor, his "clinic officer." Later, this fellow patient shared his own story, a testament to Basweti's dedication. He spoke of the long journeys he took weekly, only to sometimes return home without seeing the doctor, due to his frequent absences for union matters.

This patient's plight, his unwavering hope in seeking Basweti's care, struck a chord. It illuminated the doctor's importance, even as it highlighted the challenges of access. The idea of finding his "root back home without clearance of his health mind," a journey fraught with uncertainty, resonated with my own quest for clarity. This colleague's struggle, his treasured hope of meeting his doctor, was a stark reminder of the value placed on Basweti's expertise.

All the days he had marked in his notebook, the evidence of his persistent pursuit, solidified my decision. This was not merely a clinic check-up for my personal issues; this was a calling for a "home house doctor," no matter the cost. When Basweti returned, he informed me that my health case was not a general matter, but a private one. This confirmed my growing conviction: he was to be my private physician, not a public or general practitioner.

The experiences of the two patients in the waiting room, coupled with Basweti's pronouncement, created a stir in my mind, a transformation of my knowledge. It reminded me of a peculiar situation at my workplace, where we were tasked with categorizing ourselves into unit A and category [a]. The choice, it seemed, was profound, a reflection of our identity. Many of us stumbled, unsure of our placement, eventually settling for a more rudimentary distinction, like "senior" and "low rank." I, thankfully, navigated this choice, opting to skip the A/a dilemma and focus on my blood group.

The paperwork, a list of twelve questions, delved into specifics like [RV] and [XV], demanding explanations of our identities. It mirrored the current situation, a need to define myself, to articulate who I was. I thought back to the A & a gap, realizing it wasn't a foolish question, but a precursor to this very moment. Here again, [RV] and [XV] awaited, much like I had waited for the doctor. I needed to understand my [XV] result, to transform it from a general, public facility – like the government hospital – into a secret, personal outcome, known only to my doctor.

To maintain the secrecy of my [XV], to keep the "embassy of my heart" secure, Basweti was the logical choice. He was the sole custodian of my health case's secrets. Dr. Basweti, in his twenties, agreed, a promise echoing in his words: by the time he reached his forties, he would encompass all stages of my life, understand every "reckless traffic jam" of my cases, and become the ultimate cover for my health. This, he stipulated, if I agreed to share "every spare key of my house room." He vowed that anyone residing in that house would be covered by his "health insurance of his victory."

Basweti, now speaking from the very walls of my life's health assurance, acknowledged my plea. He would use the same "hang coat" to hang his "doctrine coat" in my house, a permanent fixture, not an outsider. His "40s bargain age" with me, then in my mid-forties, felt like a resurrection of a five-feet-limit case, to be answered within a year, a twelve-month period of shared commitment. This year, he explained, would allow us to understand which questions were right according to our "job policy," as he too, a civil servant, had to answer similar questions within his organization.

Our twelve-month project would commence immediately after signing our partnership agreement. After a week of intense conversation and document review, we agreed to be guided by the "symbol of covenant." Basweti and I meticulously laid out our policies, agreeing to sign the founding document under the "rule of health law," which stipulated that "unit" would be the primary rule for health worker-patient partnerships. I, his patient; he, my doctor. The agreement was finalized under the November court, emphasizing the sanctity of patient confidentiality and the respect due to a doctor, regardless of the methods employed. The willingness to share secrets, I discovered, was a cornerstone of the document, and I was stunned to learn that he had been my neighbor since birth, knowing me as well as I knew him. There were no hidden alliances, no secrets between us. I was blessed, I felt, to address him as a close friend, only after he accepted my "friend request" as a doctor.

I spent approximately 720 hours contemplating my place in the next eleven months, striving to become Dr. Basweti's top fan, to understand him, to get closer. I pondered the cryptic "handbag own in 8,640" he had mentioned earlier. It brought to mind the original Basweti, the one who had journeyed through education from nursery school, embracing his "education vehicle" as a bridge. His path through grade eight, junior secondary, and the "godfather of secondary school" was a testament to his dedication. I longed to understand the smoothness of his educational journey, how he collected every "broken piece" of his classes, transforming them into the "treasure of wisdom." He was, in my eyes, a "motivation girl" who had transitioned from a housewife to a "global class woman," building a career in medicine. The "J card" was his best cloth, a symbol of his ambition to join the ranks of the most excellent in medical institutions.

Later, after our hearts had aligned in our one-year mission, I seized the opportunity to ask him about his journey into medicine. With an "embassy mind," he recalled the "dry land living" of his arduous path to success. He recounted telling his mother, with a playful tone, that he wanted to be a nurse or a doctor, a joke that would later become a serious aspiration. He remembered the joke as a "vision from the mission messenger," urging him to take his mother's words to heart. From that moment, he decided to arrange his entry into the health field, supported by his parents, joining the medical institute as an entry-level "1" with the hope of becoming a "game-changer doctor."

This was the story Basweti shared in my living room during a holiday visit, a moment of "Interpol black coat" at home. He had been passing through, his map leading him to my house, the residence of an old friend from his village days. With a "wise pencil," he had noted my gate number, 1661, as his 1551, before proceeding to his friend's house. This friend, also a doctor, had graduated from a USA university, returned home, and established a clinic. However, he later relocated his clinic from the rural outskirts to the city, finding shelter next to my house before establishing his dream clinic three kilometers away. I was surprised to learn that Basweti's friend was my neighbor and expressed a desire to visit his house with Basweti.

One of Basweti's "doctrine style scales," a peculiar approach, revolved around pregnancy. He seemed unfazed by the prospect, even desirable of having a child. I recalled him urging me to become a mother, perhaps as a form of healing for him. Yet, he often complained about the arduous "research of a baby" in the lab. Being near me, he confessed, made him feel a sense of incompleteness, a "missing piece in the rocket" that might cost him dearly one day. "I don't know what you're talking about, Basweti!" I would often reply.

But now, he was serious. He used to tell me so. I remembered my youthful vigor, my certainty of being a "normal man." This was my constant observation of him, whenever he spoke of love and feelings. But how could normalcy and his desires coexist without positive results? Basweti's questions to me felt like he was on a honeymoon, then a vacation, only to find himself on his way to meet an old friend, someone he knew more intimately than he knew me during our year-long acquaintance. I felt compelled to request his company to meet his lifelong friend, but I knew he wouldn't accept. He was not a friend of a male neighbor, but a female one, a classmate with whom he had shared a desk. The distance between her, his friend, and me would make him a "cost history of mission thing on the rocket." He had never shared such intimate talks with her, the "high temperature hotspot" of his body's desire for a child, and the lack of positive results. He knew someone who held the keys to the "flamingo sturls of chair ladies in paradise society," a society rife with questions about parenthood.

The thought that Basweti feared growing old without a husband was a downloaded file in the intelligence dashboards of both our minds. He needed me to record this as a secret case in the intelligence file of the Investigations Parental Institute. It would become an article from my side, detailing how to record such a statement, even though I was not an intelligence police officer privy to secret love affairs. Without hiding anything, Basweti would eventually realize that my argument of being a "normally man" would come to an end. I would become his "personal assistant," installing his vision in my mind's camera, helping him realize the "Fanta man" he wanted to be the father of her child.

But why did he always call my name, "o'lematope"? What did he know about my name? And why did he think it wise for me to change it to Stephen or Steve? Who was this Steve he admired, the one who could fulfill his dream of having a child with the "Greats of covenant"? Why not o'lematope, but only Stephen? Oh, Dr. Basweti! If only you knew how sweet my name is on my mother's lips, how she loved to call me o'lematope. How great it would be if you could understand that this name was not my choice, but my parents' will. I wished he could understand the "GOES'VE FOM, H" of my parents that led them to call me o'lematope, and not the nicknames of Stephen or Steve.

Our first day together felt like a perfect reunion, two individuals in a lab, much like Franklin and Lomonosov, each in their own research space. Franklin, with his private experimental room, and Lomonosov, practicing in his Russian research school, both studying thunderstorms. They never met, yet they knew of each other's work. Franklin, formerly known as private, later embarked on a journey to Russia, to Lomonosov's lab, to seek information about thunder. But they never agreed.