Air Quality

I remember the way she leaned into her knees, breathless, sitting in her mother’s semi-private room. Her purse had a crushed flower petal design.

She’d asked to consult with me directly before the admissions release – she told the nurses I seemed the expert on bi-pulmonary embolism, her mother’s condition. She’d insisted on having a “wrap up” with me – seemed proud of herself for it. Surprised, I explained how I was just one of her mother’s five docs - taking information to prescribe blood thinners.

“Well, the point is that I love nice doctors,” she said, her teeth white as gurney covers. Clearly, they were bleached, though I’d come to expect that phony whiteness. Tea-stained smiles were a thing of the past.

My days jostle along, one day and then the next one shoving after. I think about what I would do or say, even how I’d sound saying it, the exact words I’d choose.

I would ask her to step outside and have some air with me, even if the air quality was dangerous. I would let her know how my blue pen exploded in my pocket moments after she left.