In case I don’t get to see you again… I knew only bits about Mr. G. The bits that don’t really matter. I knew what medications he had been prescribed. I knew his blood pressure. I knew his weight. But I knew nothing about the bits that mattered.
When I was a girl, I went to church with my mother every Mother's Day. Before we left the house, she would pin a white rose on her heart-side lapel in remembrance of her mother who died tragically more than a decade before I was born, and a red one on my dress where the left lapel would be.
He looked so good, I stopped at the open exam room door and turned back to the fellow and asked, “Is the patient in the bathroom?” “No, that’s him sitting there,” he said.
