Illusion

I once believed I had chosen my profession for the gratitude I was given.

To see that look of pure relief on my patients’ faces, when the pain was at long last replaced with soothing warmth, that is my joy. Fresh blood filling newly repaired vessels, clean and working as intended once more; my desire. Gashes sealed, infection burned away, scars settled and diminished with the time it takes me to draw breath; my skill. The exultation in the sudden release from torment, and the return of function; my gift. I thought I was a healer because they viewed me as a worker of magic, some keeper of great secrets, divinity, in a way.

I know better now.

I need them. All of them. I wish my ills could be resolved with a brief wave of my hand. Replace the use of my senses with what they were when I was young; erase the trauma of years and scars of my past. I am a healer because I seek my own salvation, and in no small way do I find it in them. Each face, each bright light restored to a soul after too long of suffering… that is my motivation, my goal.

Someday, there will be the magic-weaver who can wave his or her hand, and my pain will lift. I will smile and view the world with fresh eyes, and I will praise this being as a God among mortals. Like so many have done when they look upon me.

I have no illusions, not anymore.

(( Oh Rhosy, what -are- we going to do with you? ))