“Late night, doc?”
Wrinkled eyes, deeply furrowed yet friendly brows
Betraying age (wisdom?)
Jorge, a wet mop in hand.
His soft eyes brimming with curiosity.
“Yes, it’s one of those nights again”, I say.
Hunching over the computer.
Takkety-tak. Click. Almost done.
Inputting patient data, figuring out a plan,
I hear the familiar
swish…swash, swish…swash
Jorge cleaning the floor behind me.
What do I tell the family? My fingers hover:
“…required multiple transfusions. Current prognosis extremely tenuous despite…”
Swish…swash, swish…swash
“Hey doc, how’s he gonna do? He gonna be okay?”
My head lowers, shoulders drop. A deep breath.
I see him pick up his pink-tinged mop and place it in the bucket. Wringing out the rest of the blood he continues scrubbing rose-colored drops from the grey tile. Once there, now gone.
Swish…swash. Then nothing.
“We do our best, doc. That’s all we can do. That’s why I do what I do. You know?”
Though across the room, his words embrace like a strong bear hug.
“Thanks, Papi. I know.”
Swish…swash.
“Te quiero mucho, hijito.”
--Eric H., Adult