Art mirrors life, a story with illustrations: Ramone at the Clinic

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 3^rd 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