Ramone at the Clinic
Last Tuesday Chuck had an
appointment at the VA Hospital in White River Junction. It was at the Podiatry Clinic, on the 3rd
floor, adjacent to the Hearing Clinic, both recently and handsomely remodeled
in warm earth colors. We arose in the
elevator, immediately opening to the bustling welcoming desks, where a
white-haired gentleman, leaning over the desk, cupping his ear, was responding
to the nurse who was inquiring if he were here for the Hearing clinic, with a
resounding, “What?”
Chuck signed in and we moved to the
crowded waiting room, where most seats were taken. A few patients in wheelchairs, with
attendants, loitered in the middle of the room, adding to the confusion of employees
and patrons. We managed to get seats,
and I selected an old New Yorker to read (this clinic always has interesting
reading material, including local newspapers, as well as Veteran-related
periodicals). The population was, as
always, an interesting variety of Vets from the whole history of
contemporary military activity, from the few WWII survivors, Korea, Vietnam, and other Asian
conflicts, as well as the more recent Middle Eastern actions.
Chuck was soon called, met with amiable greetings from his
Foot Specialist, an attractive Asian-American, who took him off with her
towards quarters in the hall lined with physicians’ offices.
There were many
folks, alone or with partners. In one
corner sat a well-dressed gay couple, diligently reading, as were many of the
people, of all sizes and ages, in the waiting room, many reading books that had
been brought from home.
Into the melee came Ramone, a slight, skinny man, in baggy
white shorts and a sleeveless white tee-shirt, his hair disheveled, his eyes
large, looking about, as if to find his bearings. In a small, but clear, rusty-voice he
muttered, “Why do I always get the young guy who doesn’t know anything?” He stared about, with no apparent interest in
the humanity seated and surrounding him.
He seemed to slump momentarily, then, looking towards the doctor’s hall,
said to himself, “I can’t stand this anymore!”, and disappeared, determinedly
heading down the corridor of offices, lost from my view.
I went back to reading, amused at the outburst of this
man, a twin to my Ramone. A young
bi-racial couple came in, and had to sit separately, she taking a seat across
the room from her husband, as he pushed their baby in a stroller, a stark
contrast to the pale octogenarian in a wheelchair, to which the child, with
beautiful curly-hair and soft bronze coloring, was briefly paired. The wife, watching
her mate and child, smiled as he took the tyke from the stroller, to feed him on
his lap. The look of adoration on her
face was a serene balm in the crowded room.
I relaxed and returned to reading.
Chuck came out shortly, a big binding around his right big
toe, cartoon-like, in his sandaled feet.
His doctor had performed a little surgery on an ingrown toenail. Then he headed to the desk to make his next
appointment.
Waiting behind him I was drawn to the attention as the
door to the large elevator, capable of taking hospital beds plus a half a dozen
adults opened. In it was one solitary
person, the one I had dubbed Ramone. He
looked up, his hand griping the side railing, eyes wide with a streak of panic.
With exasperation in his voice, he slowly, quietly, said, “I can’t get out of
here.”
Silently, the doors closed.
.
3 July 2014
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