I recently came across some emergency room observations I had written down while visiting our local hospital with Jackson. Reading it again I could picture every person that was in the room with us that day.
There was one particularly memorable woman:
“Her mouth is set in a constant frown, her lips slipping ever so slightly into her mouth subtly announcing the absence of teeth. She glares across the room with furrowed brow. Her hooded sweatshirt is a size too small, unzipped to reveal a t-shirt pulled tight across her hard, round belly. Breakfast crumbs still litter her chest. The way she sits contradicts her appearance. Her legs are long. She crosses them in an elegant and graceful fashion as if she, in her best gown, is the guest of a diplomat at an important gathering. Her toes, once polished and perfectly groomed have grown gnarled, nails hard and yellowed, yet she still sits with them pointed towards the ground; the unconscious habit of a woman born into privilege and trained as a dancer. With each growling cough her gold flip-flop bounces against the sole of her foot and a strong calf muscle bulges against her wrinkled skin. While her face screams of a past that has been hard fought, her long sculpted legs tell the story of a beautiful ballerina”.
She was fascinating. I wonder if her reality is the adventure I saw unravel in my mind as I watched her that day so many months ago.