Waiting Room

I signed in at the counter, and the lady handed me some forms to fill out. Mikey, my three year old, tugged at my hand, and I went with him to sit down. An old woman passed me, her companion’s red hair faded and patchy.

Mikey had gotten clipped by a passing cyclist, who had apologized profusely, and offered to pay for any bills that incurred from it. I understood that it wasn’t his fault, of course. Mikey had run out into the street without looking, and the bicycle’s pedal had scraped a gash up his leg. I brought him in to see if he needed stitches.

Once I finished all of the paperwork, I took it back to the lady at the counter. “Thank you,” she said. “Dr. Ramon will be with you shortly.”

I sat back down next to Mikey and looked around. There was a middle aged woman nearby with her little one asleep on the chair next to her, his head nestled in her lap. I noticed he was missing part of one ear, and asked in a whisper what had happened.

“Car accident,” she replied, stroking his head and taking care to avoid the scar. “About a month back. He’s just here as a check on his progress. He’s fine though.” She looked at Mikey. “And what happened to you, sweetie?” she asked kindly.

Mikey turned away from her, hiding his face. I stroked his head soothingly and said, “Don’t worry, he’s just shy around new people. He got clipped by a cyclist pretty bad.”

She smiled at me. “You did a pretty good job bandaging him up,” she said, nodding at the wrap that was tightly wound around Mikey’s leg.

I laughed a little, shaking my head. “No, I didn’t have the presence of mind to do that,” I said. “The cyclist was actually an EMT, and he had a little kit on his bike for situations like this. He did recommend bringing him in for stitches though, and offered to pay for anything.”

The woman smiled back. “Well, that was mighty decent of him,” she said.

“Hank?” called the lady at the counter.

“That’s you, honey,” said the woman, rousing her little one, and picking him up gently. She got up and went through the door at the side of the counter, only to be replaced by a man whose charge was completely bald.

He saw my pitying look and nodded sadly. “Rosa here was diagnosed about a year ago,” he said. “The chemo is really rough on her, but I can’t lose her. She’s all I’ve got since my wife passed.”

I wanted to ask if there was anything I could do, but I knew what the answer would be if I did. “No, that’s all right,” he would say. “It’s hard, but we’re making it.”

Before I could offer any words of condolence or support, I heard “Mikey,” from the door.

I got up and tugged on Mikey’s leash. “Let’s go, boy,” I said, and he limped along through the door beside me, gingerly favoring his left front paw.