Waiting

“Mommy” was the call.

“She’s not here” was the response.

They sat to my left.

In the corner an old woman reads Golf Digest. Her wrinkles and liver spots remind me of my own mortality and why I am here in the first place.

I’m suddenly nervous.

A nurse walks by with a clip board and calls a name.

“George Erickson”

A man I hadn’t noticed before stands up. He is probably in his late 40s. He looks fit, in shape. He probably doesn’t really need to be here. Maybe he is getting a physical because a new job requires it. Maybe his wife just felt something abnormal in his testicles while they were making love. Maybe she talked him into getting it checked out even though he takes good care of himself.

The nurse leads him away into the examining room where Doctor and patient will laugh together about how wives don’t understand the male anatomy and never will. They will exchange golf tips.

“Mommy!”

“Your Mother isn’t here, Caitlin!”

The man tries to keep his patience.

The girl huffs and scowls.

I notice that somebody has carved the word “FUCK” into the arm rest of my chair. “How odd”, I think but I suppose even vandals go to the Doctor.

Or maybe it was simply a man who just found out he had cancer or AIDs or some other fatal disease. Maybe “FUCK” was his way of letting off some steam, getting something off his chest.

I sigh and bury my face into my hands and wonder if I will be feel the urge to vandalize something after I’m done with the Doctor.

Before I left Angie asked if "it was fear or worry".

I told her "I think it's both".

In a while I will be home and everything could be different.

This is waiting.