Appointment

I found a writer's website today and they had a writing prompt for a short story up. I decided to try my hand at writing a short story from a prompt. Let me know what you think. Constructive Criticism is mostly appreciated, though I can't promise I won't be mad at you if you say you hate it, afterwards I will be thankful.

       It was a Monday and I was running late for my appointment. Again. Somehow every Monday came and went and it was the same story each time. I would wake with a gigantic headache and the feeling of dread would well up in my stomach at the thought of the day ahead.

        As I parked my old car at the foot of the hospital, it felt as though a cloud of gloom overshadowed me. It was a beautiful sunny day but it didn’t matter. All I could see was the face of the doctor again, like so many prophets, proclaiming my doom before I had even begun to fight.

    

         I stepped into the small, sterile waiting room and wondered, for the umpteenth time why they kept it so cold. A shiver ran through me and I hugged my purse against my middle in a weak effort to ward off the fears that always came. I tried to still the frantic thoughts going through my mind but to no avail. “What will he say this time? What if I have to go through more tests? What will Don say when he finds out the insurance won’t cover any more costs? How are we going to pay for this? What if he tells me the medicine isn’t working?” The questions came and shouted at me, each one overpowering my weak reserve to stay positive.

       Trying to shove the thoughts aside, I opened my purse for some kind of distraction. I usually brought a book for these appointments but had forgotten it in my haste to get out the door. Why do doctors always make you wait so long? Was it self-importance or ‘efficiency’ that caused them to make such long waiting lists? As I sifted through the contents that had all fallen prey to gravity and chaos in the bottom of the purse, I found a little piece of paper.  As I unfolded it, my breath caught in my throat.

      It was a little note from my youngest daughter, Emily, a testimony to the long hours she had spent learning to write cursive in her class the past month. Scribbled across the page with plenty of loops and flourishes, she wrote simply, “I love you Momma.” She had even drawn a picture of a rose at the bottom. At least it resembled a rose.

       Tears came unbidden and I looked up to see if anyone noticed. They seemed as wrapped up in their thoughts as I was mine. Slowly, I smiled and took a deep breath. I tucked the note back in my purse and thought about the conversation Emily and I had the night before. We have a few nightly practices that are nearly religious. Since Anna, my oldest, was a baby we have sung them to sleep with a hymn. Anna’s was “How great thou Art,” while we lulled Emily to sleep with “Fairest Lord Jesus.” Last night Emily was grumpier than usual when we finally wrestled her into bed. Don’s eyes were bloodshot from stress, anxiety and too many nights spent at the kitchen table discussing questions we had no answers to. He looked spent and was on his last reserves of patience with Emily.

       As we knelt down next to Emily’s bed, he gave me a weak smile and grabbed my hand. His eyes said we were in this together no matter what the outcome would be. We asked Emily to pray and her sweet voice came back to me as I sat in the waiting room. “Jesus, I am sorry. I know I wasn’t very good today and made Momma and Daddy sad. Jesus, I love you. Please heal Momma.  And help me to make Mrs. Peircings happy tomorrow by learning my letters. Amen.” When Emily looked up from her prayer she reached a hand up and patted my face. I was crying again, something that I seemed to always be doing these days. She patted my wet cheeks with her small hand and said, “I love you, Momma. It’s gonna be ok.” I smiled down at her and kissed her cheeks. No words would come so I looked at Don and he began to sing in his rich tenor, “Fairest Lord Jesus, Ruler of the Nations…”

     My throat closed at the sound and it was some time before I could join him to finish the song. Emily snuggled down into the covers and promptly fell asleep.

     I pulled out the note once more, amazed that my little one could know what I needed so badly. I sent up a silent prayer of thanks as the receptionist called my name. Perhaps it was enough right now to be surrounded by their love. Perhaps I was enough for them right now. I didn’t know what he would say but I knew I had sweet girls and the love of a good man waiting for me at home.

     I smiled, a rare occasion since my prognosis, and walked back into the exam room. As I did, the strands of that hymn filled my mind and heart and I sung softly again, “Fairest Lord Jesus, Ruler of all nations, O thou of God and man the Son, Thee will I cherish, Thee will I honor, thou, my soul's glory, joy, and crown.”