Stand and Pivot, Part Two

 I am extremely nervous as I sit in the waiting room. In a few minutes I will know if my gamble has paid off. Not that this means my troubles are over, but if I can get Dr. Rochelle to back down on the threats she made last week, I might feel like I can function again, which all week has been beyond my ability. To calm myself down, I stare at a wheelchair access button on the wall. It looks like a blue blob marred by white blemishes. I keep taking deep breaths to try to control my shaking. 

I wait a while before Kristin pops her head out. Kristin is probably the oddest nurse there, which is saying something. She often listens to what the other nurses are saying through the curtains, and yells to correct them or add commentary to their conversations. I haven’t seen her for a while though, and when I ask how she is, I’m filled with warmth when she answers, “Well I’d be fine if I didn’t have my children to contend with.” I don’t think she’s just saying that, I think she really does hate her children. 

“Ooh, callouses,” she coos. Kristin has a fascination with callouses that borders on fetish. To be fair, she’s not alone; Dr. Rochelle can barely hide the gleam in her eye at the chance of shaving away some tough, crusty skin. Kristen starts slicing but stops after a minute. “I know, I know. I shouldn’t.”

Jenny is here as well, for the second Tuesday in a row, though she usually has them off. “I don’t know what I’m doing here, my schedule’s all screwed up,” she says, and asks how my cat’s doing.

They take my vitals and measure my wounds, and for once I don’t have to wait a while long before Dr. Rochelle pushes aside the curtain. Usually I can hear her coming from across the office, but this time she just sort of appears. She looks at my feet, and says, “Okay, well these don’t really look all that bad.” My heart leaps; these are the exact words I was hoping she would say. 

How does the rest of the visit go? Who fucking cares? There is no talk of going on disability, no talk of wheelchairs. No talk of never being able to walk again. She says she’s going back to her original plan top put me into a cast to try to get the stubborn wound to heal. It’s still going to suck, but I’m practically giddy. Soon I have them all screaming with laughter, until the guy in the next stall yells, “Will you be here all week?” I yell back that I sure as shit hope not. By the time I hit the elevator I’m more subdued, sobered by the prospect of all that lies ahead, and how inconceivably shitty it’s going to be. But I catch the bus with a minute so spare, and get home and heat up some soup and stare dazed at the ceiling. I took a chance and it worked. My life is not yet over.