It was the first day of the psychiatry rotation and moments before, the attending physician had enthusiastically pushed me out of the office and into the unit. The door swing shut behind me, the resolute click indicating that the lock had firmly latched into place.

“Just go talk to him,” the attending had clucked. “Tell me what you think when you get back. He’s got bipolar disorder. Manic. Go.”

The man in question spotted me from the opposite end of the hallway. His short legs propelled him briskly towards me and only when he was standing directly in front of me did he smile.

“Hi,” I began, reciting the same thing I had recited to every other patient I had ever met for the past eight months. “My name is Maria and I am a third-year medical student. Dr. Man Who Pushed Me In Here With Little to No Preparation suggested that I talk with you. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

(In retrospect, my first question should have been, “Is that alright?” followed by “How are you?” I didn’t learn this until well into my intern year. Doctors can and should still exercise social graces.)

“Yes, of course!” he replied. “Dr. Man told me that a medical student would be dropping by today. Let’s sit down!”

He slumped down into a cheap plastic chair, folded his forearms onto the table, and leaned forward. He hadn’t shaven in probably two or three days. His brown hair was cut unevenly, though this appeared intentional. His blue plaid shirt looked worn and tired over his belly and his jeans hung loosely over his legs. A watch with a blue leather band encircled his thick, left wrist. When he smiled, he revealed the space where a molar once resided.

“I’ve been here for about three days. Dr. Man knows me. We’ve met two or three—or maybe four, five?—times before. He’s not bad. I ran out of my meds a few weeks ago and I didn’t get them refilled because I got caught up in work and then one day I got into a fight with my boss because he was giving me attitude and I don’t need to take that kind of crap because I do good work and I think he was trying to get rid of me the whole time and needed an excuse because that’s the kind of guy he is and I don’t know why those kinds of people have to pick on people like me because I never did anything to him because I do good work because I’ve been a welder for over fifteen years now and I’ve got experience like the county courthouse—”

I am certain I looked bewildered.

“—and City Hall and that kind of work needs experience and skill and I got that from my dad who was very good and he taught me everything I know and he also taught me about cars because I also work on cars in my spare time and I just got this beat up truck from a guy who lives down South and another truck from a guy across town and—”

“Sir?” I interjected.

“—and they both need a lot of work and I’m trying to find the right parts but that’s been hard because my usual supplier went away for vacation but he’ll be back—”

“Sir, can you tell me—”

“—because there’s only so much time someone can spend in Las Vegas before they run out of money because the last time I was there I lost about $6,000 but I was up about $10,000 for a while but those blackjack tables can really—”

I had an agenda and it wasn’t happening. I wanted to know what brought the man here, what medications he was taking, and what his symptoms were. I didn’t need to hear about his trip to Las Vegas.

“Sir, I’d like to know—”

“—get a lot of money out of you really quick like women like my first wife who was a gorgeous lady but would spend all of my paycheques on shoes of all sorts and I never understood why women like shoes so much—”

“Sir!” I curtly said, making no effort to mask my impatience. I no longer wanted to waste my time listening to his rambling stories about his life; did he even know what he was talking about? I had better things to do than put up with his illogical, disjointed blathering—I was paying money to get a medical education and here I was, squandering both my time and money. Buoyed by indignation and allowing my voice to rise, I belittled him: “I only have a few minutes and I’m trying to get some information from you—”

“You’re rude, you know that?” he snapped. Though I had tried to talk over him, this simple remark instantaneously silenced me. “You’re really rude. If you want to become a doctor, you need to learn how to listen. You weren’t listening to me. I’m telling you something important and you should listen.”

I felt my face flush in embarrassment. My eyes darted away from his face.

“If you don’t have time to listen to me, then don’t bother talking to me because I don’t want to waste my time.”

Frowning, he suddenly got up from the table, pushed the chair to one side, and briskly walked away.

I sat alone in stunned silence.

I never had the chance to thank him.

(Part of the ongoing Relationship Series.)