jdharake
Aug 14, 2009
Writing Feedback / The Next Patient [7]
Just an essay i'm writing for fun based on a volunteer internship.
"Cynthia?...(silence)...Cynthia Lancaster?"
I hear the rustling of an old magazine and a soft clap as it hits the oak table in the waiting room.
"Yup. That's me all right."
I'm standing at the far end of the white hallway near the clinic's two examination rooms with Dr. Ada. As he casually looks over the next patient's chart, I anxiously watch as the door at the other end of the hall slowly creaks open and Cynthia walks in, wearing blue jeans, a faded green jacket, a black baseball cap to hide her baldness, and a metallic prosthetic leg.
"How are things going today Ms. Lancaster?"
"Oh, they're going, that's for sure."
"Well hopefully we can make things go better for you today. It's going to be the last door on the right."
Dr. Ada and I push ourselves against the wall to make room as she slowly walks by, followed by the technician. As they enter the examination room, we fall back to the middle of the hallway and I examine the charts over the doctors shoulder. LANCASTER, CYNTHIA. AGE 43. DIABETIC RETINOPATHY. He closes the musty yellow folder, knocks twice on the door, grabs the handle, and puts on a smile.
"Hi there Ms. Lancaster... This here is Julian, and he's tagging along with me to get a glimpse of the medical field... So, what's troubling you today?... Were you affected by the fire?... Oh, that's fortunate... Yea, we had to be evacuated... One of the other ophthalmologists here lost his home in the fire... Well our home came close, but luckily nothing was damaged..."
I usually just sit in the corner near the door, trying to stay out of the way. Occasionally, Dr. Ada will quiz me on retinal diseases or ask me to turn off the lights, but other than that, I like to pretend that I'm just a shadow. Like balding, vision loss is a sensitive subject, something that makes you admit that you're getting old and there's nothing that you can do about it, something that most people try to keep a secret.
Upon seeing me, some patients will become upset or apprehensive. Every once in a while, a patient will look at me as if I'm some kind of unwanted houseguest, as if to say, "Who the hell are you?" Other times, a patient might look at me as if I'm about to rob them, and I can practically hear them thinking, "Here, take my cell phone, my wallet, my keys; just leave me alone!" In any case, both looks signal that I'm making the patient uncomfortable, so I quietly stand up, leave the room, and wait in the hallway.
Cynthia's small, bloodshot eyes start to wander over in my direction, and I feel that maybe I should go. But I don't. She stares straight at me, and I don't move a muscle, as if I've suddenly turned to stone. The look she gives me isn't one of anxiety or distress, but of something different, something subtler and more powerful. It is a look of long-lasting exhaustion, a look of perpetual indifference. It is the same look that I see on the homeless lining State Street, the same look my mom had when my dad left her. It is the look of defeat.
"I have been living with diabetes for 37 years."
(to be continued)
Just an essay i'm writing for fun based on a volunteer internship.
"Cynthia?...(silence)...Cynthia Lancaster?"
I hear the rustling of an old magazine and a soft clap as it hits the oak table in the waiting room.
"Yup. That's me all right."
I'm standing at the far end of the white hallway near the clinic's two examination rooms with Dr. Ada. As he casually looks over the next patient's chart, I anxiously watch as the door at the other end of the hall slowly creaks open and Cynthia walks in, wearing blue jeans, a faded green jacket, a black baseball cap to hide her baldness, and a metallic prosthetic leg.
"How are things going today Ms. Lancaster?"
"Oh, they're going, that's for sure."
"Well hopefully we can make things go better for you today. It's going to be the last door on the right."
Dr. Ada and I push ourselves against the wall to make room as she slowly walks by, followed by the technician. As they enter the examination room, we fall back to the middle of the hallway and I examine the charts over the doctors shoulder. LANCASTER, CYNTHIA. AGE 43. DIABETIC RETINOPATHY. He closes the musty yellow folder, knocks twice on the door, grabs the handle, and puts on a smile.
"Hi there Ms. Lancaster... This here is Julian, and he's tagging along with me to get a glimpse of the medical field... So, what's troubling you today?... Were you affected by the fire?... Oh, that's fortunate... Yea, we had to be evacuated... One of the other ophthalmologists here lost his home in the fire... Well our home came close, but luckily nothing was damaged..."
I usually just sit in the corner near the door, trying to stay out of the way. Occasionally, Dr. Ada will quiz me on retinal diseases or ask me to turn off the lights, but other than that, I like to pretend that I'm just a shadow. Like balding, vision loss is a sensitive subject, something that makes you admit that you're getting old and there's nothing that you can do about it, something that most people try to keep a secret.
Upon seeing me, some patients will become upset or apprehensive. Every once in a while, a patient will look at me as if I'm some kind of unwanted houseguest, as if to say, "Who the hell are you?" Other times, a patient might look at me as if I'm about to rob them, and I can practically hear them thinking, "Here, take my cell phone, my wallet, my keys; just leave me alone!" In any case, both looks signal that I'm making the patient uncomfortable, so I quietly stand up, leave the room, and wait in the hallway.
Cynthia's small, bloodshot eyes start to wander over in my direction, and I feel that maybe I should go. But I don't. She stares straight at me, and I don't move a muscle, as if I've suddenly turned to stone. The look she gives me isn't one of anxiety or distress, but of something different, something subtler and more powerful. It is a look of long-lasting exhaustion, a look of perpetual indifference. It is the same look that I see on the homeless lining State Street, the same look my mom had when my dad left her. It is the look of defeat.
"I have been living with diabetes for 37 years."
(to be continued)
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