Dear -,
What do you say to us? The parents of kids who have to deal with this stuff? That you’re sorry? Are you sorry? It’s just your job. Or is it just a job? Do you ever break down with all the tragedy and fall into a moment of despair? How can you let yourselves feel that much? I suppose that’s the answer.
At the end of the day, while we sit in the specialist’s office with our appointment that was made over a month earlier, we aren’t sure what the questions should be and there’s never much time. The clock is ticking just as we notice the medical badges hanging on pulleys and white doctor coats fly past and sit down and it’s all too obvious how quickly this will be over. We’re supposed to ask questions. There’s a limited amount of time to digest the information and then the door closes to the office and all the words you wanted to say appear in front of your eyes like a concisely written script.
Why didn’t I just say that? I think. Why did you forget to ask that? You think. We look at one another with doubts as if we’re in a chess game. Don’t let the doctors notice my ignorance and the weakness lurking in the corners of our eyes. The give away. Did this break you?
I’m thinking of coffee now.
You’re mentally mixing a Grey Goose martini.
A little dirty.
Extra olives.
The sound of the door shuts as you stir your drink and return it to the maple bar top. The happy hour is over. Again.
