Chronic Illness

He’s sick again.

It’s a major production
getting him to the doctor’s office.
Dressing a paraplegic,
loading the wheelchair,
strapping it down in the van.

Leaving an hour early, just in case.
Always prepared,
I take along a packed bag,
half for him, half for me.
Because you just never know.

His wheelchair is large,
and with the recline of the back
it maneuvers like a semi-truck,
taking up half the elevator.
So, we wait for an empty one.

Juggling the bag, the wheelchair,
the oxygen, the umbrella,
catching his blanket before
it hits the ground,
I pull open the door.

The waiting room,
the size of a stamp,
is full of sick people,
all waiting their turn.
And there is no room for us.

Navigating the narrow hallway,
taking the turns slowly,
creeping along, dodging techs
and their rolling machines.
They place us in the largest exam room.

The door won’t shut
with the chair in the way.
They ask if I can move him
onto the table, but we need a lift,
and they don’t have one.

So, this exam is done
fully clothed,
door wide open,
while he sits in his chair,
and people walk by.

As the doctor leaves,
I whisper, “I’m sorry,”
and the tears start to fall.
He says, “It’s not your fault.”
I squeeze his weakening hand.

We’re off to the hospital again.

And I worry that this visit
will end with the words,
“There’s nothing we can do.”
What if this time we say
our final goodbyes?

And I walk out the door, a widow.