It was almost 5:00 when she walked in. The doctor was in the back; __ had gone home. __ was waiting for me in the car. Nurse and Receptionist and I were going so clock out when the bell rang and a woman appeared in the doorway.
I did not particularly notice her at first, but there seemed to be a long interval between the moment she appeared in the doorway and the moment she stood at the counter. I didn't hear what she asked, but I heard Receptionist say, "No, this is not a free clinic."
"Well, what is it, then?"
"It's a doctor's office." Receptionist was using what I had always imagined as her welfare patient voice: very even and civil.
"Well, can I see the doctor?" She was hard to understand; she mumbled. She was young, with straight brown hair and strangely swollen eyes.
"Well, do you have any insurance?" Receptionist asked.
She didn't. She was leaning her elbows on the counter, her chin on the heel of her hand. "Can't you give me a pregnancy test?"
"This is not a free clinic," Receptionist said. Or maybe she said, "This is not a GYN."
"Oh, really," the woman mumbled sarcastically. Except it didn't seem to come out as sarcastic as she had meant it. Her eyes were closed. There was a silence. Receptionist asked helpfully, "What did you want to be seen for?"
The woman seemed to gather herself and leaned forward on the counter. Her eyes were open now. She still mumbled, but she seemed to be making a great effort toward coherency. "Look," she said, "I had an abortion a year ago. They messed it up or something. I haven't gotten my period since then. Except I bleed when . . . just once I bled . . . I went to the doctor and they did tests on me . . . "
It was hard to understand her. Or maybe it was just hard to hear her. I felt that I kept missing things. And as she talked, she kept falling asleep.
"It sounds like you would need to go to a GYN," Receptionist told her.
"But it's my back, too," the woman said. Now I began to feel sick. She was not whining; her voice was too hoarse and toneless. She did not seem to be trying to manipulate anyone; she was simply like a child who has not yet learned the proper way to ask for help. "I'm really sick; I sleep all the time and my back hurts; I could hardly walk across here . . . "
"If you're in that much pain, you should go to the ER," Receptionist said.
"I did - five times. They did some tests and it scared me really bad because when the nurse gave me back my results she had this funny look on her face . . . That's what they told my mom, before, when she got sick, so it scared me . . . "
Please, I thought, just don't cry. Maybe her voice had broken, or maybe she had just nodded off again. Or . . . There is fear.
Receptionist asked if they hadn't given her any pain relief medicine at the ER.
She said no. "Can't you give me some pain pills?"
Receptionist said the doctor only prescribed pain pills to established patients. She moved over to let me sign out.
"Can't I see the doctor?"
"It would cost forty or fifty dollars just for him to see you."
I clocked out and left. I held the door for the woman. She was only a girl, really. When she turned from the counter, I was startled by how thin she was. She wore a white tank top and a long denim skirt with a slit up the front, and sandals. She moved very slowly, and not in a straight line. I did not watch her as she staggered across the waiting room. She passed me on her way out, close. She was not drunk, I thought, only sick.
I remembered the girl on the steps of the metro station in St. Petersburg. Leka and I had been little then, and we had been too shy to talk with her because we thought she was a boy. But she was a girl, and she was dying of AIDS . . .
Maybe she would be dead next week.
Outside she took a long drag from a cigarette that had been lying on the concrete windowsill. I hesitated, then smiled at her and crossed the sidewalk to the car. Through the front window I wanted her. She watched Nurse exit the building, then Receptionist. When Receptionist got into her car, the girl staggered off down the sidewalk.
What do we fear, that we passed her by? What was I afraid of, that I smiled at her and walked quickly on in a mist of tears, leaving her standing on the sidewalk, staring dully after me?
What if she had AIDS? What if she were pregnant? What if she had slumped over on the sidewalk and fallen asleep for the last time? What if she were not died then and there but later, half-consciousness dragging on and on to cost us time and money and effort? What if someone else would have helped her instead?
Am I afraid of contracting a contagious disease? Am I afraid of smelling a foul smell? Am I afraid of looking foolish? Perhaps more than any of these (perhaps involving them all, perhaps unrelated to any of them) I am afraid of my life changing dramatically and irrevocably, of life as I know it being suddenly over. The best thing that could happen to me, and I left her standing on the sidewalk.
We pray for Christ to reach out to the people we see, but we are His body. He is not magic, He is Christ, and we are His hands and feet.
I could compose a piece of music for her. I could write a happy ending for this story. But how can I ask You to help her when You would have used me? On Judgment Day maybe I will see her swollen eyes . . . or maybe she was an angel . . . or maybe she was You.
I did not particularly notice her at first, but there seemed to be a long interval between the moment she appeared in the doorway and the moment she stood at the counter. I didn't hear what she asked, but I heard Receptionist say, "No, this is not a free clinic."
"Well, what is it, then?"
"It's a doctor's office." Receptionist was using what I had always imagined as her welfare patient voice: very even and civil.
"Well, can I see the doctor?" She was hard to understand; she mumbled. She was young, with straight brown hair and strangely swollen eyes.
"Well, do you have any insurance?" Receptionist asked.
She didn't. She was leaning her elbows on the counter, her chin on the heel of her hand. "Can't you give me a pregnancy test?"
"This is not a free clinic," Receptionist said. Or maybe she said, "This is not a GYN."
"Oh, really," the woman mumbled sarcastically. Except it didn't seem to come out as sarcastic as she had meant it. Her eyes were closed. There was a silence. Receptionist asked helpfully, "What did you want to be seen for?"
The woman seemed to gather herself and leaned forward on the counter. Her eyes were open now. She still mumbled, but she seemed to be making a great effort toward coherency. "Look," she said, "I had an abortion a year ago. They messed it up or something. I haven't gotten my period since then. Except I bleed when . . . just once I bled . . . I went to the doctor and they did tests on me . . . "
It was hard to understand her. Or maybe it was just hard to hear her. I felt that I kept missing things. And as she talked, she kept falling asleep.
"It sounds like you would need to go to a GYN," Receptionist told her.
"But it's my back, too," the woman said. Now I began to feel sick. She was not whining; her voice was too hoarse and toneless. She did not seem to be trying to manipulate anyone; she was simply like a child who has not yet learned the proper way to ask for help. "I'm really sick; I sleep all the time and my back hurts; I could hardly walk across here . . . "
"If you're in that much pain, you should go to the ER," Receptionist said.
"I did - five times. They did some tests and it scared me really bad because when the nurse gave me back my results she had this funny look on her face . . . That's what they told my mom, before, when she got sick, so it scared me . . . "
Please, I thought, just don't cry. Maybe her voice had broken, or maybe she had just nodded off again. Or . . . There is fear.
Receptionist asked if they hadn't given her any pain relief medicine at the ER.
She said no. "Can't you give me some pain pills?"
Receptionist said the doctor only prescribed pain pills to established patients. She moved over to let me sign out.
"Can't I see the doctor?"
"It would cost forty or fifty dollars just for him to see you."
I clocked out and left. I held the door for the woman. She was only a girl, really. When she turned from the counter, I was startled by how thin she was. She wore a white tank top and a long denim skirt with a slit up the front, and sandals. She moved very slowly, and not in a straight line. I did not watch her as she staggered across the waiting room. She passed me on her way out, close. She was not drunk, I thought, only sick.
I remembered the girl on the steps of the metro station in St. Petersburg. Leka and I had been little then, and we had been too shy to talk with her because we thought she was a boy. But she was a girl, and she was dying of AIDS . . .
Maybe she would be dead next week.
Outside she took a long drag from a cigarette that had been lying on the concrete windowsill. I hesitated, then smiled at her and crossed the sidewalk to the car. Through the front window I wanted her. She watched Nurse exit the building, then Receptionist. When Receptionist got into her car, the girl staggered off down the sidewalk.
What do we fear, that we passed her by? What was I afraid of, that I smiled at her and walked quickly on in a mist of tears, leaving her standing on the sidewalk, staring dully after me?
What if she had AIDS? What if she were pregnant? What if she had slumped over on the sidewalk and fallen asleep for the last time? What if she were not died then and there but later, half-consciousness dragging on and on to cost us time and money and effort? What if someone else would have helped her instead?
Am I afraid of contracting a contagious disease? Am I afraid of smelling a foul smell? Am I afraid of looking foolish? Perhaps more than any of these (perhaps involving them all, perhaps unrelated to any of them) I am afraid of my life changing dramatically and irrevocably, of life as I know it being suddenly over. The best thing that could happen to me, and I left her standing on the sidewalk.
We pray for Christ to reach out to the people we see, but we are His body. He is not magic, He is Christ, and we are His hands and feet.
I could compose a piece of music for her. I could write a happy ending for this story. But how can I ask You to help her when You would have used me? On Judgment Day maybe I will see her swollen eyes . . . or maybe she was an angel . . . or maybe she was You.
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