Voodoo Child v. 17: Welcome to the One Woman Show

I was sitting in the waiting room, immersed in my Harry Potter book (done, by the way). I started feeling a crick in my back, and I stared at the wall opposite to me, and my eyes adjusted to focus on the crinkles in the wall. I closed my eyes and felt them burn, that searing burn that, after reading too many microfiches, I used to feel when I was working on my dissertation. My eyes watered a bit, and I gave a big exhale and opened them up.

I looked at the eyes of the people around me, red-rimmed and watery with old tears. They stared off into different directions, silent, sniffling and quiet. People walking by looked into the room, and seeing that there was clearly no space, moved on and looked for other places to rest. I return to my book, and reread sections  I know I've seen but don't remember. I wonder how much I've sleep-read since I was here two days ago.

The doctor comes in, nervous, but knowing that the news is better. He says hello to us like we've known each other a very long time. Almost like family, it's quaint and I want to ask if he wants to come over for dinner later. He rattles off situations, possibilities, perscriptions, and mentions locations. The words fly past me. He looks at the one of us (there are ten) who understands medical terms, and says things that are in a different languages.  Measurements, numbers, dates, drugs. I wonder if I should feel insulted that he's not talking to us. The one that understands more medicine looks heavier, his shoulders sink. I know it's not good. I feel sad for the longest time, and it's not the first time today. But I don't know who I feel sadder for: the man in the ICU or the man in the waiting room.

In shifts we go to the room and sit quietly, awkwardly watching television and, covertly, his breathing. Labored. Different. Tenuous. We make small talk. There are so many machines and beeps, my tendency to want to push buttons and tug on things is tested. He smiles, and for a moment I feel okay.

The hardest thing about the waiting is that level of adrenaline that hovers near the edge, waiting for the moment to kick into gear. That moment between action and no motion feels like a dentist's x-ray vest on you. I drove back to SF on Sunday night at 1AM, on the drive home we talked about the weekend...but there were little words to be shared. We drove home mostly in silence, broken only to talk about things mostly unspoken until now.

Voodoo

PS: Bill Walsh memorial this weekend at Candlestick.

PS2: Nice job, Barry. Don't let the haters get you down.

PS3: Is very expensive.