Another day. Another nonagenarian. Ninety-year-old Mr. V sat in his wheelchair, his son seated in the burgundy office chair beside him when I walked in the room.
I walked into the clinic chart room where the list of patients with appointments to see me that day was thumbtacked to the corkboard. I was both happy and sad to see his name. The last time I saw Mr. Brown was 2 years ago.
She was asleep when I walked into the hospital room, so I gently stroked the back of the hand resting on top of her other one on top of the faded blue cotton blanket. She opened her eyes immediately and wide to look at me.
The very old woman and her almost old daughter returned to clinic. I knew the very old woman had recently been in the hospital twice over the course of a week.
