A man and woman walk into the waiting room – middle-aged, maybe in their early sixties. The man is wearing the requisite upper-class Southern husband attire: button-up Oxford shirt, pressed Dockers chinos, penny loafers. The woman in a pale pink sweater and black stretch pants (slightly too big) and a blondish wig, large black purse tucked tightly under her arm. I can tell they’ve both been crying. The woman has a Kleenex clutched in her fist, still dabbing at her swollen eyes. The man stoic, silent, downcast eyes rimmed red. I wonder if they’ve just come from seeing her doctor, if they’ve gotten bad news. I imagine them in the exam room, the scratchy crackly paper covering the table, her in the drafty blue robe, goose bumps rising on her arms crossed tightly across her chest, the husband sitting in the corner uncomfortable, the wife crying on the table, the doctor on the rolling stool in his white coat, words soothing but eyes grave. The couple sits down near me. The wife sticks one finger beneath her wig, scratches, pulls it straight, darts her eyes around the waiting room. I glance down so she won’t see me looking at her. She uncrosses her legs, re-crosses them, foot bouncing, chatters self-consciously to him – “Goodness, is my nose still running, it’s so cold outside, where are those Kleenex (rummages through her purse, can’t find them, wipes her nose with the wadded bunch in her fist) I think I’ll get a cup of coffee, they have pretty good coffee here sometimes, would you like a cup of coffee honey?” The man shakes his head, not looking up. I can tell that he can’t look at her, can’t speak, keeps his eyes down and mouth shut so he won’t cry. She looks at him for a moment, wipes her nose again, jumps up, unsteady, wavers. He reaches out and puts a hand on her arm. She pauses, steadies herself, brushes his hand off, walks over across the waiting room, smiles jerkily at the man she passes on her way to the coffee pot. She pours into the styrofoam cup, adds a packet of Equal, little grains bouncing on the countertop. She returns to her seat, pausing in front of her husband, looking down at him. He does not look up. She sits again, repositions her purse, hands shaking, spills the coffee on her stretch pants, mutters “Darn it,” dabs viciously at the stain with the Kleenex, which shreds into little white fuzzy wads on her pants. She shoves it back in her purse, crosses her legs, foot bouncing, rummages again in the purse, pulls out a cough drop, unwraps it, sticks it in her mouth, sucks furiously on it, sniffs, chatters: “These cherry drops do make my throat feel better I like them better than those other ones but I guess shouldn’t have put it in when I just got a cup of coffee, do you want one? (he shakes his head) No, okay, well I should have waited ‘til after I drank my coffee, where’s that pager, did I give you the pager (he holds it up), oh good because remember last time we lost it I hope we don’t have to wait too long today, I don’t think I can stand it if we have to wait hours and hours– “ he reaches out and puts a big hand on her bouncing knee and she falls silent. She looks at him, leg still. He pats her knee once, twice. She looks away, sips her coffee. They wait.
"The Chemo Ward"
I sit in my plastic recliner under my blanket, watching the drip drip of the IV. Across from me is an old woman in a white cardigan, one skinny arm exposed for the needle, long kunckly fingers beneath thin mottled skin. It always seems terribly cruel to me to stab a needle thru skin that thin, arms that old. I wonder if it hurts her more than it hurts me. She has a white canvas cap on her head, brim pulled down firmly, as though she were boating. It makes me smile, and she sees me, and smiles back hugely. We grin at each other for a moment, two trapped sickies strung to our poles. Next to her is a wheeled walker contraption, coat and scarf draped across the back, cup of water on the little seat. She leans forward, sips her water, leans back in the chair and closes her eyes. A few minutes later, her IV drip machine starts beeping, the sign that a bag has emptied. Her daughter says “Oh, good,” and the old woman’s eyes fly open. She raises her fist in the air and says, “Yes!” She’s done. This makes me laugh, and she grins over at me again. I’m glad she gets to go home. She immediately struggles to sit up, slams the footrest of the recliner down into place, pushes her blanket off, begins to scoot herself forward in the chair. The daughter: “Now wait a minute, Mama, they have to come take the IV out.” She cranes her neck, looking around for her nurse. The beeping gets louder. A nurse in blue scrubs saunters over, speaking to her in those cheery, placating tones reserved for the elderly and the infirm. She takes the IV out of her arm, bandages her up, and pats her on the shoulder. She walks off as the daughter gathers her bags from the floor, the woman taking a last sip of water. My eyes close as they ready themselves to go. The mother starts coughing and it goes on awhile. I look up as I hear her breath grow ragged, that first horrible noise between a groan and a gasp that signifies an inhalation that is not actually bringing air into the lungs. The daughter asks if she’s alright and she shakes her head – “No.” She’s holding her chest now, hacking out and then desperately trying to suck in, the hoarse moan worsening. I’m looking around and where the hell are the nurses, there’s no one anywhere, all the patients are staring at this woman choking and no damn nurses. The daughter is getting more frantic and my mother is getting ready to go over when finally my nurse appears, glances calmly in her general direction and says “Are you okay, hon?” And I say loudly “No, she’s not.” At this the nurse actually goes over to the woman, kneeling down, taking her hand, talking to her. After a few panicked moments the coughing begins to ease, and the ragged sucking of air lessens, wheezing now instead of gasping. I hear the woman trying to say something and relax an inch; at least she can speak now. Her hand still clutches the neck of her sweater. I sit back in my chair as the nurse walks away, but I keep my eyes glued on the old woman. The daughter offers her mother the cup of water and she shakes her head, refusing. I hear her croak, “That’s what got me coughing in the first place, the water went down the wrong way.” Slowly they begin to gather their things again, the daughter urging the mother to take it easy, take her time. She just wants to get the hell out, and I don’t blame her. As she rises and gets her walker situated, she looks over to me and my mother, flaps her hand at us, and mouths “I’m sorry.” For some reason this makes tears spring to my eyes, and I shake my head, trying to smile at her – “No, no, we’re just glad you’re okay.” She nods, waves her hand again, I wave back. Her daughter comes, takes her arm, turns and says goodbye to us as well. They leave. I lean back, close my eyes. My nurse appears, picking up my arm to check my IV. “Isn’t she the cutest little old lady?” she says, “I just love her little hat.” I want to smack her pudgy cheek.