I never forgave my parents for naming me Abraham. At forty years old, I still resented them. It's not my fault I was born a boy and that everyone got it wrong. Someone didn't read the sonogram correctly and failed to see the one body part that differentiated males from females. I guess that part was hidden. My parents had a girl's name picked out and everything. My name should have been Isabella. Instead, a boy popped out, and my parents selected the first name that caught their eye in their baby-naming book. Why didn't my parents choose normal names like Aaron or Alexander? There were at least a dozen Alexanders in my school, but only one Abraham. I hated being different.

I blamed my parents and the poorly chosen name for all my childhood woes with all the diagnoses that went along with it. ADHD, Oppositional Defiant Disorder, asthma, chronic pneumonia... to name a few.

And I earned these diagnoses before I turned six years old, and my name had nothing to do with anything. Some people liked the name Abraham.

Because of my issues, no one thought I'd amount to anything. Everyone, particularly the elementary school principal, assumed I'd end up in Juvie or prison, but I proved them wrong. No one... and I mean no one, predicted I'd become a physician, let alone an oncologist.

But I sure as hell wouldn't have survived my childhood without my best friend, someone I concocted out of my own imagination.

"I like your name," Raphael always told me. Only Raphael could cheer me up. "Besides, you're more than your name."

At six years old, I didn't understand what he meant by that. It didn't matter, though, because he made me feel important and special, like I was more than a problem child with bad asthma.

Raphael entered my life just when I needed him the most. By the time I turned six, my parents made me believe they'd given up on me, fed up with all the doctors' appointments and hospitalizations.

With no friends and no siblings, I relied on my vivid imagination. It's strange that I never wondered how I came up with the name Raphael. I wouldn't learn about the Renaissance until middle school, so I hadn't yet realized his significance, and I didn't care until years later. A popular figure during the Renaissance, artists often featured the archangel, Raphael, in paintings. In my early teens, I discovered the meaning of his name. Biblical accounts portray Raphael as an archangel who healed and guided, frequently shown as a healer and protector. Judaism considers Raphael an archangel who banished demons and healed illnesses.

I needed protection and healing, so Raphael was a perfect imaginary friend.

My Raphael preferred to be called Rafe.

Hooked up to an oxygen machine in the hospital, a blond-haired man with blue eyes showed up beside my bed, between the two nurses who tried to convince me to keep the oxygen mask on. Too young to be a father-figure and too old to be a brother, I suppose the blond-haired blue-eyed man was more like a teacher or a guardian angel, if there was such a thing. "L

"Behave, Abraham, and keep the mask on if you ever want to get out of here," the man said. "Besides, it'll make you feel better."

Raphael never steered me wrong. Once I behaved and kept the mask over my nose and mouth, my condition improved significantly. As a kid, I could distinguish between fantasy and reality, aware that my creative imagination brought Raphael to life.

The time I first met Raphael was the last time I visited the hospital until I broke my arm during my second year of medical school. I really needed him then, but he never showed up.

Usually kids say goodbye to their imaginary friends by eight or nine years old. Not me. I said goodbye to Raphael just before I turned fifteen, around the time I was coming to terms with my sexuality, but that's a story for a different day.

But something happened today that neither my imagination nor science could explain.

My mother just hung up the phone after letting me know that Dad had fallen again. I was an oncologist, not a miracle worker, yet she expected me to 'help him.' I couldn't just give him a pill that would magically make him stop falling. If Dad stopped drinking, then his falling would stop, and he was the only one who could make that decision. As I prepared for my next patient, I tossed my phone on my desk.

Upon entering the examination room, I saw a healthy young man sitting in a chair by the examination table. He had no idea I was about to disclose his diagnosis of Hodgkin's lymphoma for the first time. Smiling, the attractive thirty-two year old stood up, not the type of greeting I expected from a patient who was about to hear some troubling news. His face lit up when he smiled.

"Hello, I'm Dr. Brewer," I said, accepting his handshake.

"Raphael," he said.

His name made me pause. I hadn't heard the name Raphael in a very long time. I wondered if I'd just seen a PBS show on Renaissance paintings. It's also possible I had a dream about Paris, recounting the time I visited le Louvre.

"Wow, you look different," he said. "All grown up. I always said you'd amount to something big, even though you thought you never would, but I never expected you to be so tall and handsome."

My face burned, a sign I was blushing. He wasn't the first patient who made me blush. Most compliments came from women in their eighties, which amused me but embarrassed their adult children who often accompanied them to appointments.

"I'm sorry," I said, swallowing hard. This man acted like we were long lost best friends. "Have we met?"

"They told me you wouldn't remember me," he said with a disappointed sigh. "You were six years old... in a hospital, afraid you were going to die, but I assured you that you wouldn't die as long as you did what you were told."

Chills trickled down my spine as the hair on the back of my neck stood up. I'd never met this man, yet he knew information I never told anyone.

"How... how did you know I was in the hospital?" This man both distracted and frightened me. For a fleeting moment, I forgot why I was in the room and that I was about to deliver some distressing information.

"Because I was there." His blue eyes sparkled as he spoke, as if he was proud and relieved to divulge this information. "Think hard, Abraham. We were friends for almost a decade. When you were fifteen, you had no more use for me. It's okay. It happens, but it proved to me how much I wanted to be here... in this world. You kept me around longer than anyone else. I'd never experienced pain before. They told me my heart was broken. It became so real. I wanted more. I wanted you, so I'm here now, and I want to feel anything and everything. Will you help me feel?"

Nothing seemed real. Any minute I expected to wake from this strange dream. I avoided his eyes, staring at the screen on my laptop, re-reading his demographics. Raphael Smith... date of birth December 21, 1992... age 32... 72 inches tall... 175 pounds... Hmm... appears healthy.

By the way, nobody called me Abi anymore.

"Why won't you look at me?" Raphael said. "Am I ugly?"

"No," I replied, stifling a laugh. He was far from ugly.

"Don't you recognize me?"

"No," I lied. My childhood's vivid imagination designed what I considered 'the perfect man' for me, although I didn't admit it at the time. Yes, Raphael looked very familiar. I was also aware that I was tired and overworked. Lack of sleep did a number on me.

"I was there when you found Molly dead in the street. She got hit by a car, remember? You thought it was your fault, but I told you it wasn't."

When I was nine, my cat, Molly, died in a 'hit and run accident' as Raphael called it. I had nothing to do with the accident or her death. I never told anyone about Molly.

Raphael continued, divulging information I never told anyone.

"I helped you write a letter to what's his name... Ryan? Yeah, Ryan. You liked him a lot. What'd you do with that letter, anyway?"

I paused before responding. "I tore it into pieces and flushed it down the toilet. Who are you?"

"You know who I am. I'm real, Abi. The door closed all those years ago and now it's reopened. I couldn't pass up on this chance."

"What chance?"

"The chance to be part of your life... for real."

"To be part of my life as someone with cancer? That makes no sense. You're here because your CT-scan indicates you have stage 3 Hodgkin lymphoma. Maybe it's metastasized to your brain. Excuse me..."

My heart raced and my hands sweat as I rushed out of the room. On the verge of hyperventilating, my heart pounded out of my chest as I struggled to breathe. I hadn't had an asthma attack in years. "Doctor, are you okay?" my nurse, Susan, asked. "What happened? You look terrible."

"Who referred Raphael Smith?" I asked.

"His PCP, I assume."

I examined his chart again, searching for the name of his primary care physician. I didn't recognize the name, so I concluded it was someone outside of the area. He also had no insurance. Hopefully, the social worker could assist him with getting him on state insurance. The cost of cancer treatment was exorbitant.

"Do you want me to come in with you?" Susan asked.

"No... no... I'll be okay."

After several deep breaths, I returned to Raphael's room. When I opened the door, I found Raphael pacing back and forth, biting his fingernails. As I closed the door, he came to a halt.

"I'm not imaginary," he said. "You said I have cancer? That's bad, isn't it? Am I gonna die? I don't wanna die. I just started to live. Why did this happen? I'm young, right? I shouldn't be sick."

"This type of cancer often strikes people in your age group. It's also treatable with a fairly high success rate." It was time for me to focus and act like his doctor. "Now, I see you don't have any insurance..."

"Insurance? What's that?"

His ignorance startled and alarmed me. I nevertheless answered the question as if his ignorance didn't bother me. "It pays for your medical care, and I'm afraid the treatments for cancer are quite costly."

Raphael plopped down on the chair, tilting his head down, clearly distressed. "Could you do me a huge favor, Abi? I've been begging for life for years... maybe longer. I know all mortals die, but I thought I'd have at least a good fifty years left to experience everything humans experience. I chose not to be imaginary... don't let me die." As he begged for his life, he lifted his chin up.

As we made eye contact, tears glistened in the corners of his eyes. I'd grown accustomed to tearful reactions, but there was something about Raphael that affected me more than the others for a variety of reasons.

"I wouldn't worry so much," I said, a stupid, unscientific thing to say. "People with stage 3 Hodgkin lymphoma have high survival rates."

He didn't respond to my words of reassurance and encouragement. "Why is there water in my eyes?" he asked, squeezing the corners of his eyes. "Is this normal?"

"Yes. Tears are normal." I approached him and placed a hand on his shoulder, attempting to comfort him. Gazing into my eyes, he placed his hand on top of mine. Chills and goosebumps returned with a vengeance.

"I want you to like me" Raphael said. "You always liked me and wanted me around. Am I too young? Too old? I can't change it now."

"You're perfect," I said, barely audibly. Perhaps I needed my head examined. "Do you still like to be called Rafe?"

With tears rolling down his cheeks, Raphael cracked a smile. His smile would forever remain ingrained in my mind.

Words: 2016