Trial of the Senses

Five: Betrothed

Grandma Sky!

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It was on another warm Sunday afternoon that I ruined another notepad of mine with coffee stain rings. Years of living on these cups had led to the unhealthy habit of drinking it at terrible hours of the day which displeased mom because then I wouldn't sleep. But today, I needed them to help kill the drowsiness muddling my eyes after a week of being at everyone's beck and call, and from the lack of sleep that anxiety gave me because I still had no clear materialization of my plan.

Last Monday, it was determined that I would bother my contacts list and get help for the clinic, but I was only able to make one unsuccessful call. One hypocrite crossed off. After that, I admit the pit of giving up buried me. Partially. Then I made it worse by nagging myself about trying again. The week was spent in this cycle, until today which was determined to be the day I would see a path whether it be muddy and under-developed or paved and visible. There needs to be a plan.

I picked up the phone again.

Earlier during the conversation with a friend, he had brought up the idea of organizing a page for donations, but there were multiple Native organizations asking for this. Clearly, that wouldn't amount to much.

"But listen," Eric said, "you have us. Those organizations didn't, and the reason they failed is because we don't know what happens on the Reservations. Most people don't even remember Native Americans exist. I don't mean to be rude but that's the brutal reality."

"...True..."

"You're the link to our social media, it can work. We might not be able to help since none of us are Presidents or own much, but we can try this much. We can try John."

"Fine say we do try this route; will it be enough to help consistently? People will donate once, twice maybe then forget," I sighed and tapped my pen on an unlucky ant circling the coffee stain.

"You want extra support. That is the smart thing to do," he paused to think, "what do you have in mind?"

I pulled the chair closer to my desk and thumbed through my notes.

"My plans are big Eric. I'm tempted to laugh at them myself—"

"What the hell do have planned John?"

"It will be in stages. The most pressing need is medication."

"Alright."

"Loads of it."

"...Alright."

"The clinic only has the most basic types: painkillers, cold and cough, laxatives, meds for hypertension, the bare minimum. These I managed to get after pressing the National Indian Health Fund because they shouldn't have to travel two hours away to get them."

"That is atrocious."

"My thoughts exactly, but even that supply is dwindling down, and I haven't gotten a response from the NIHF for some time, but it's difficult for them too so I understand what's happening. There's also the issue of most patients who are diabetics or have heart disease and liver problems. I don't have the medicine here, and they are just too expensive."

His silence was thick.

"Plus, the equipment here is junk and as for the clinic itself, it might last for a few more months. It's impossible to work when it rains."

Eric remained quiet. I couldn't tell if he was shocked or scared off. Having second thoughts about suggesting my plans became ours. Leaning back in my chair, I could see light dance on the ceiling against the shadow of leaves from the tree near my window. It was sort of comforting in this stressful conversation.