Until Then

Chapter 31

Chapter 31

Kenneth

She sits in a chair that doesn't even bend as she listens to her doctor tell her there's nothing he can do for her. I watch her small form sit proudly in the unforgiving metal and I wonder if I'll be able to pick it up and throw it through the window behind his over-priced desk when she finally stands up. I wonder if it will bend then, when I've used every ounce of strength I have to send it sailing past the man that has just delivered the news that her life is over before it even had a chance to begin.

Her fingers tap the black painted metal that pokes out from beneath the ugly commercial fabric of the hospital chair that I know was purchased in bulk. Couldn't they have at least bought a nice chair for this office? She can't be the only patient getting this kind of fucked up news within these four walls, so would a chair with a little more padding and maybe even a small throw pillow be too much to ask?

"I'm sorry," he tells her. Some of the anger dissipates when I can see that he actually is empathetic to her situation. "I've looked over your chart and spoke with the radiologist as well as both of my colleagues here in the department." He closes his folder and taps the cover with his two fingers. "At best it would prolong things a month, but it wouldn't be a great quality of life."

"I understand. Thank you, doctor." Quinn is calm. "I don't want more time. I just want to be comfortable."

"Of course. Don't ever worry about that." He wakes his computer by moving his mouse and begins to type in information rapidly. "I'm giving you a few scripts to help with the pain, two separate ones for nausea—use which ever works best for you or alternate them, then of course one for sleep." His eyes meet hers again. "In home hospice or do you want me to arrange a bed next door?"

Quinn thinks for a minute. She looks to me but is careful not to give away that she can see my form. Instead she lets her eyes drift past me to the window near where I'm standing. I look over my shoulder and down to the small building next to the hospital. It's an extended care center. At first glance I would have thought it was a retirement home, but the sign clearly notates that it is a hospice facility.

"Maybe next door," she says but then shakes her head. "Actually, I'll need to think about that more. I'm not sure what I'll do when that time comes. I still have something..." her voice trails off and the doctor waits patiently for her to finish. He has no way to know that she only really has one thing to figure out. When the silence has stretched on, Quinn finally realizes she needs to complete her escaping thought. "I, um, I just need to figure out a few things still. I'll need to say goodbye and let the girls and the patients on my floor know."

It's the first time I hear any doubt in her voice. Those kids on her floor, the patients she cares for are the only reasons she will have a hard time letting go. She's a healer, and she knows first hand how badly it hurts to lose someone to a terminal illness. She's going to have to say goodbye first this time. It's a position she's never been in before and by the look of agony on her face, it's not one she's looking forward to.

The doctor steeples his fingers as he rests his elbows on his desk. "We'll do this however you want. Just let me know what you need and I'll see what I can do." He pushes his chair back and stands with his hand extended to shake hers.

"Thank you again," she says as she puts her hand in his.

He walks her out to the waiting room where he tells her to call for another appointment when she's ready to talk about the next step, or leave a message for him if she needs medication refills or any forms filled out for medical leave. Quinn smiles as she gives him a small wave goodbye and holds the door open for the next patient who walks in as she is leaving.

The hallway is nearly empty and the lobby outside the elevator shines as the fresh scent of pine and disinfectant surrounds us. She never looks at me as the light above the elevator signals its arrival or when the doors slide open to allow her to step inside. Her thin finger selects the button that will take us to the lobby, but once the doors are shut and the elevator is in motion, she presses the stop button beside it quickly suspending us between floors.

Both of her hands cover her face as she begins to cry and slowly sinks to her knees. I kneel in front of her, my hand in her hair, my eyes closed and my forehead pressed to hers. She whispers, "They aren't supposed to lose me. I'm the one who's supposed to have to say goodbye."

And the only thing I can do is tell her, "They aren't losing you, Quinn. You're just going first." 

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