Excuses

You probably won't like this but I've been working on it for a while. However, if you do feel like reading, here's a song to listen to while you do.

 

 

 

“Excuse me, sir. I am quite cold. May I please borrow your jacket?”

She was sitting in the waiting room of the doctor’s office. The receptionist kept staring through the glass above the desk. “Ma’am, you are going to have to stop asking people for their clothes.”

Embarrassed, she shrugged her shoulders and folded into herself. Waiting, waiting. That’s all she did. Pulling her knees to her chest for warmth, she let her hair fall into her eyes. Breathe, one, two, heartbeat, hear it. Breathe, one, two, it’s gone. If she held her breath, closed her eyes, and rested her head on her knees the drumming of her pulse electrified her body. She was cold.

She was so cold. The tiny hairs on the back of her neck stood up and she absent-mindedly rubbed her arms, trying to bring the life and color back. “Excuse me, miss?”

The receptionist’s eyes darted as her head snapped up. She didn’t reply. Instead she just stared. Stared and stared.

“Excuse me, miss?”

“What!”

“Excuse me, miss, but I was wondering how much longer?”

“How much longer for what?”

“Excuse me, miss—”

“Oh for the love of…would you cut that out!”

“Excuse me, but cut what out?” she asked, sincerely.

“The polite bit. It’s quite obnoxious, really.”

“I’m sorry. I never meant to annoy you. But I was wondering how much longer—”

“Oh, spit it out already! How much longer for what!”

“Well, how much longer until the doctor can see me?”

The receptionist sighed and brought both hands to her face in complete exasperation. “He should be out shortly. Is that satisfactory enough for your inquiring mind?”

The words were drenched in spite. She knew well enough an answer was not sought and would, in fact, make things worse. The drumming in her ears grew louder and she curled into the uncomfortably sterile chair.

“Shelby?”

She rose quickly, dazed. Not knowing where she was. She must have fallen asleep, which seemed almost impossible.

“Sorry for the wait, honey. Such a busy day.” The nurse sighed and rolled her eyes as she pointed in the general direction they would be headed.

Shelby laughed and blinked unnecessarily because that was what she did when she was nervous. A few hallways later they arrived at the room. The nurse slipped the chart into a plastic tray on the door and pushed it open. “You can have a seat and the doctor will be with you shortly.”

“Excuse me, ma’am, but that phrase was used on me, verbatim, out there. I cannot even recall how long I have been here. I believe I fell asleep, actually. It must have been hours.”

“Oh, honey, I’m sorry for the wait, but it’s been a busy day, remember? It shouldn’t be much longer,” the nurse said as she strategically backed out of the door, closing it behind her.

It was so cold in the room. Everything had a blue hue to it, as if the room itself was becoming a block of ice. The ugly white tiles became blue under the harsh light while the repulsive green countertops became blue because they hated being green. Grabbing the inside of her thighs, she slowly leaned back until she heard the ends of her hair touch the clean paper. She opened her eyes and saw the chipped stucco ceiling became blue because all the uneven parts were staring at her like a beaten face. The cheap cabinets became blue as they whispered angry, bitter secrets to their captives in glass jars. The chair that squeaked when she moved was already blue from all the patients who had come before her. She thought probably their veins had stained it, their fists had beaten the color out. The lighting had nothing to do with that.

She startled at the knock on the door. Too quickly, she said, “Come in!” She was relieved to see he was thin; overweight doctors perturbed her to no end.

“How are we doing today?” He smiled. His teeth showed. They were white and crooked. They reminded her of ice, so white and packed together capriciously. She was so cold. The phrasing of his question dumbfounded her. Against her will, she felt her eyes narrow and her brow furrow. We? Who would ever think to take an already insincere formality and include themselves in it?

“Excuse me, sir, but that is rather arrogant, don’t you think?”

His pen stopped mid stroke. “What is rather arrogant?”

“Well, presuming that I would want my day to be impudently lumped into the same category as yours? What if today happened to be the best day of your life, and I got hit by a cyclist en route to this appointment? Or maybe I received an anonymous check of a monumental measure in the mail, but you couldn’t find a tie to match today? Quite frankly, the former seems more applicable to our situation.”

He shook his head but his hair stayed in place. “It’s just a greeting, Shelby.”

She raised her eyebrows and tilted her head just slightly to the right, letting her hair fall over her face.

The doctor sighed. “So what brought us—er, you here today?”

She looked down at her nails. Picked at the raw skin as she did so often, unaware. Concentrating on the rise and fall of her ribcage, she blinked with the same rhythm. How to start. Where to begin. What story to bring to life.

“Shelby?”

“Yes.”

He looked at her, slightly bewildered. It had been five minutes. Five minutes of silence. Five minutes of his watch ticking, reminding him of what he was losing by staying in that room. It was so deafening, the passing of each second. He wasn’t quite sure why he had let the time pass without saying anything for so long. It had been such a busy day. There was so much left to do. “Could you tell me why you are here?”

“Yes.” She was cold. She was calm. Too calm to be sick. Too calm to be healthy.

He waited for her to elaborate but she never did. He wasn’t going to wait any longer. “Shelby, I need to know what the problem is or you’ll have to leave. As I said before, it’s a busy day.” He was losing patience.

“Excuse me, I’m sorry.” She shook her head slowly, clearing it. Blinked fast. Laughed. Nervous. Anxiety. “It was so hot outside, I sweated off all my makeup. But now I am quite cold. Quite cold indeed. Might I borrow your jacket? Oh, excuse me, you don’t have one. My apologies, doctor.”

He just kept staring. She cleared her throat. Twisted her hair around her middle finger. Blinked fast. Didn’t laugh. “Well. Anyway.” She took a deep breath and watched her hands shake. That never happened. She didn’t know what it could mean. “Well, doctor. I was hoping you could give me an explanation for my constant need for affirmation. No matter what I do and how people react to it, I feel the need for more. Maybe it’s more correct or ‘right’ to say want rather than need. Except it just cannot adequately describe the racing thoughts, the constant drumbeat that can be counted out on my wrist. Just by looking at the tiny blue veins go up, down, up, down. Blood traveling, eyes going black or blotchy. Feel the need. ‘Tell me I’m good and sane and happy. Tell me that’s enough to keep people alive.’ And the thing is, doctor, they can’t give that to me, and I’m merely questioning why that is. Either there simply is nothing about me that is good, sane, and happy, or it’s all in my head and I need you to tell me what the cause is and the treatment which follows.”

He was thinking something she could not read. After years of experience he knew how to maintain composure. He knew how to be aware of every muscle in his face. Make sure they didn’t move, let anyone know his thoughts or judgments. That was why his divorce would be final in a matter of days. But he had yet to figure out a way to hide his eyes. They told, every time.

He cleared his throat before saying, “I’m the wrong kind of doctor you’re looking for.”

“You help people with physical ailments, do you not? Or refer them somewhere else if the issue seems out of your skill range?” she said hastily.

He sighed and started writing something with such elegance, she was impressed. None of that chicken scrawl doctors were so prone to. “That is correct, Shelby, but what you described is not a physical ailment. At least, not in the way you are thinking. It’s more of a psychological problem. I’ll refer you to a psychologist or psychiatrist. Or both, it doesn’t matter.”

“Excuse me, it does matter! There is something physically wrong with my brain and—”

“Maybe so,” he said, clicking his pen and sliding it into his pocket. “That is why I would recommend a psychiatrist. Maybe medication is the way to go.”

She felt her throat close up with tears. “No, doctor, you’ve misunderstood me. I also don’t appreciate you saying you know what I’m thinking. It is completely apparent that you do not.” A tear rolled down her cheek. He hated seeing patients cry.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly.

She blinked fast and replied, “No. If you were sorry you would ask about my thoughts, not boldly claim to know them. If you were apologetic in the least you would do something to repay me so you could sleep well tonight. But you aren’t sorry. You haven’t done those things. You don’t want to listen to me explain how words feel in my mouth. You don’t want to listen to me go off on tangents and slowly realize what I’ve done. You aren’t sorry at all. You have a sweet little life with your wife and children, and though it isn’t perfect, it’s better than mine.”

He felt the anger burn in his legs. “Oh, don’t you dare do the self-pity bullshit. I won’t stand for that.”

She leaned back in on the chair, taken by surprise. “Excuse me, I am not—”

“Oh yes, you are. I’ve seen people come in here for routine checks to find out they need to be sent somewhere else because they are most likely dying. Do you know how they handle it? They cry and they write their letters and they sell their house and finally go on that trip around the world they always said they would do. And then they come home and they wait out their time. Or they never come back from the trip. They live their lives, or what they have left of them. But I have never, and I mean never, known someone who was dying to be so self-centered to think they knew everything. No one has ever sat on that same table there and acted the way you have. I won’t tolerate it. You get your ‘poor me’ attitude out of here and find someone else who will enable you. Because you sure aren’t getting it from me. Now I believe it’s time for you to leave.”

Her shoulders stiffened. She leaned over to pick up her purse off the floor. “Excuse me, doctor, but could you answer one last question for me?”

He bit the inside of his cheek and flicked his wrist. He was interested in what she had to say, as much as he tried to deny that to himself.

“Could you tell me if the parking lots and spaces for people with disabilities include depression? Schizophrenia? Bipolar disorder? OCD? Good old fashion craziness?”

He didn’t know how to reply. Instead he locked his eyes on her as she slipped off the edge of the table. Her shoes were silent as she seemed to float across the floor to the door. Before closing it loudly, she said, “That’s what I thought.”

After he finished his notes he propped open the door as he walked back to the desks. He had one other patient to see. The receptionist looked up from her computer screen. “Any changes?” She raised her eyebrows.

“No. She doesn’t remember a thing,” he said, dropping the chart on someone’s desk. “She has no idea.”

Done