Song Cover Image

Where Are The Patients?

Half Diminished
Intimate, bittersweet British musical-theatre torch song for a mature female Consultant Ophthalmologist, unmistakably early 50s, Warm, experienced mezzo-soprano with natural English British accent; mature timbre, subtle weariness and authority, never youthful or girlish, Voice extremely close, dry, forward and dominant in the mix, with every lyric crystal clear, Sparse acoustic piano accompaniment, with only very soft warm strings entering later, No prominent woodwinds, Instruments must always remain well behind the singer, Conversational, restrained delivery with expressive pauses and wry understatement; no belting, Elegant, memorable recurring melody with sophisticated harmony, One gentle emotional rise, then return to almost spoken intimacy for the final “Send in the patients, ” Studio-clear vocal, minimal reverb, About 3 minutes, ‑young female voice, ‑youthful voice, ‑girlish voice, ‑soprano, ‑American accent, ‑American pronunciation, ‑oboe, ‑prominent woodwinds, ‑loud orchestra, ‑orchestral masking, ‑distant vocals, ‑muffled vocals, ‑breathy vocals, ‑excessive reverb, ‑echo, ‑vocal effects, ‑pop ballad, ‑contemporary pop, ‑Broadway belting, ‑power vocals, ‑melisma, ‑vocal runs, ‑autotune, ‑rock, ‑EDM, ‑electronic drums
V6

[Solo violin then piano] [CONSULTANT] Where are the patients? Isn't it strange? Nine twenty-five And nobody asking When clinics will change. Where are the patients? Where is the queue? No one complaining They've waited since eight For something at two. [Small pause] My coffee is hot. That's worrying. Usually by now It's stone cold, Abandoned, Somewhere behind A visual field. [Soft strings enter] Where are the patients? I've time to sit. Time to read letters, To finish my notes— I don't like it. Not one little bit. I ought to be grateful. A moment of peace. No knocks at the doorway, No pressure to finish, No list that won't cease. No one saying, “Doctor, while I'm here, Could you just look at this?” [Pause] They always say that. [Music warms] There was Mrs Harris, Who came twice a year, Always in purple, Always with questions, Always in fear. And Mr McCarthy, Who'd wink and declare, “My eyes may be useless, But look at my hair.” [Small smile] I knew all their stories, Their children, their lives, The husband who worried, The formidable wives. I watched some grow older. They watched me as well. Funny... The things that a clinic Will never quite tell. [Instrumental pause] Where are the patients? Some moved away. Some were discharged. Some simply stopped coming One ordinary day. And some... [Pause] Some names disappear From the list. You notice. You don't say much. There's always The next patient. [Strings rise gently] For years I complained Of the numbers, The waiting, The letters, The forms, The computer that freezes, The clinic that overruns, The endless small storms. But give me a room With no patient inside, And suddenly all of that noise Seems like life On the other side. [Emotional peak] Where are the patients? Bring back the queue. Bring me the questions I've answered a hundred times— I'll answer anew. Bring me the worries, The scans and the charts, The people who trust us With sight— And sometimes Their hearts. [Music falls back to piano] Perhaps I've gone soft. Don't tell the trainees. [Knock at door] [NURSE – spoken, young female ] Sorry. Computer problem downstairs. We've got eleven waiting. [Long pause] [CONSULTANT] Eleven? [NURSE] And two more have just arrived. [CONSULTANT] Ah. Of course. [Quietly, with a smile] Send in the patients. [Piano resolves softly]