Cold in a Paper Gown

Cold in a Paper Gown

I eavesdrop in the emergency room. Next door, past thin plaster, an orderly assures a stranger who cannot see out of her left eye that her doctor will soon arrive. Soon is measured by the number of emergencies.

I wait on X-rays. I cannot feel my feet.

The pain in my hips and back mimics childbirth contractions imagined each time the PA plays lullabies. They let me keep my underwear, and the cotton’s a comfort when I stand or sit or lie down. My spinal fluid weeps, and doctors whisper over my emergency.

In the hall, a nurse examines the woman-with-a-good-right-eye.

“Excuse me.” In my doorway stands this blinded woman. She is barefoot in a fire-engine red, mis-buttoned power suit. “You’re going to be all right, aren’t you?” The hallway empties. “Sure, I’ll be okay.”

I pray I don’t lie. She straightens her suit, “Me too.”

An orderly coaxes her by elbow back to her gurney. I still shake when a nurse comes with a wheelchair

and news he’s contacted me a ride home. When we pass her room, the woman snaps on her phone: “I’m waiting for the doctor

—yes, soon—no, I don’t know what’s wrong with me yet.”