Waiting Room Natalie Tsur
A new nurse crowds next to me every few minutes, Just checking in, they say when another patient leaves. They aren’t shy with body language, bringing a hand to the top of my shoulder, dropping fear down my arm. Some distant voice sings about miracles until the door slam cuts the notes short and the nurse doesn’t flinch. Instead she gives me that smile that’s supposed to warm and distract me from realizing I’m sitting on a flat hospital chair -which couldn’t have been any less comforting -- as I wait for my father to leave one of those rooms, our third visit. This time back to tell the doctor the prescription isn’t working, and the nerve’s still pushing into his spine like a dislodged tooth stretching further through the gum each day. My sister often talks about which of us will take care of him when he’s older. In the scenario where it’s me, I unscrew my limbs like lightbulbs, unzip my skin, peeling back each layer to trade every bone I’ve got. I tell this to the nurse and she laughs, rubs my back a little harder and between chipped teeth she spits out, Here, drink some water.
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