The doctor’s wife

 She is a doctor’s wife.

She is more an observer of his life rather than an active participant in his profession. His mornings many times begin with a call from the relative of a dying patient. He isn't doomed. His grooming isn't affected. He dresses, polishes his shoes, ruffles his son's hair, plants a kiss on his wife's cheek, and grabs the car's key with a sprint in his leg. 

The doctor's wife is shocked. Someone is about to leave this world. How can he be so casual about it? But like most wives do, she keeps her opinion to herself. She will bring it up at night as a starter and then go full throttle in accusing him of being insensitive. Like he is towards his patients, he is no different towards her emotions. 

That night he is late. Before he gently opens the door to their bedroom, she is blissfully snoring. He quietly tosses his sweat-soaked shirt in the washing machine, caresses his son's forehead, pulls the blanket up to his wife's chin, and like a mouse goes off to sleep next to his family. The night has been a fitful one for him as one of his patients is critical. He opts to spend the night on the sofa rather than the cozy bedroom. 

The next morning, the wife is up before him, ready to launch an argument. She serves him breakfast with clatter and clang. He gulps the milk in silence. 'Drop me to work,' she demands. He nods. On the way, she thinks, she will give him an earful on how things don't affect him anymore. The car pulls into the maddening traffic. 

For the onlookers, it is the wife who is mad and fuming as her doctor husband is whistling. The assistant calls. Last night's patient is on a ventilator. The doctor tells her he is on his way. Hangs up the call and puts on a happy song. The limit to her frustration is reached. When she is about to blow off her steam, a wailing ambulance speeds past their car. In that moment, he makes place for the other vehicle and his eyes close for a brief second and his lips say a small prayer.

Immediately, he is back to his jovial mood. She is aghast. She is reminded that she too was once an aggressively practicing doctor who dealt with emergencies as a way of life. He, too, was following suit. How come she became judgmental and critical of his ways? Wasn't she his companion for a late-night date after he had pulled the covers over a pale, lifeless face? Okay, it was their anniversary and he had to switch gears. She had comforted him saying, 'That was how life was with doctors. Brutal and tearing as a scalpel.' She, too, had arrived on the date after assuring a new mother that the typhoid fever won't consume her

baby. Back of her mind, she knew that was half-baked truth. Yet, she had smiled profusely and placed a warm hand on the mother's shaking shoulders. 

That was she eons ago. Life happened to her as well and she chose to take only safe, easy-going cases. Home was demanding. He wasn't. He told they could both take challenging cases and yet, come back to a relaxing home. No, she didn't wish to compromise her home. Thus, the home became hers from theirs and we became me. Years of staying away from life-threatening cases made her sentimental over being sensible. He was the same.

Today, as she experienced his soft side of praying for a stranger, she was acquainted back to her old self. Through him, she met the woman who juggled profession and its probabilities without being judgmental. To him, she became more forgiving. 

She is the doctor's wife who had forgotten her balanced side.