The doctor’s waiting room. Martha was sick to her stomach. These were supposed to be her golden years. But the “C” word had changed all that.
She was angry at the world. Angry at herself. And scared.
Doctors confirmed that it wasn’t serious. They operated. It was an outpatient procedure, she was cooking supper for her grandkids that same evening.
But she was anxious. The fear kept her from up at night. She couldn’t focus. She spent days, weeks, months feeling sorry for herself. It was hell on earth.
In the waiting room, a little girl sat beside her. She was the only one in the room with Martha.
The girl was reading a magazine, swinging her feet. She wore an Atlanta Braves ball cap. A brace on her leg.
Martha’s anxiety was bad, it almost swallowed her. She had to talk to someone. Anyone.
It was the usual kid-to-grown-up conversation. How old are you? How do you like school? Martha had spent a lifetime raising kids, she knew how to talk to them.
The girl was a conversationalist—which a rarity in a technological age. Martha
asked where the girl lived.
“Used to live here, in the hospital,” the girl said. “But now I live at a foster home. I don’t got me no parents.”
The girl was small. Her joints were unusually big; her limbs were hickory switches. A thin tube ran from beneath her shirt into a hip pack.
“What grade are you in?” asked Martha.
The girl shrugged. “No grade. Can’t go to school because I’ve always been in a hospital.”
“Always?”
“Since I was eighteen months.”
“Wow, that’s a long time.”
The girl set her magazine down. “Hey, know what’s cool?” she said.
“What.”
The girl held up five fingers. “I died five different times.”
“Died?”
“Yessum. Last time, I was dead for forty-nine seconds, I don’t remember it. All I saw was just white, bubbly…