Solstice

It is a Monday, and the longest day of the year. I am writing this from a room that is not really mine. But it is small and green and has served me well this week, as I gave up my own bed for Emily’s sister who was visiting. The walls are a forest green, the shades are always drawn, and there is a branch hanging above the window.

I’ve gotten good use out of my raincoat this month, but today during my lunch break I didn’t need it. I left the office around 12:30 after faxing more paperwork to important places. It was a pleasant temperature today, and during that hour the clouds were thin enough to feel the sun. Pioneer square was bustling. The afternoon farmers market was set up, and people were meandering through, eating sample strawberries from Mt Hood and little chunks of goat cheese on toothpicks. I had a few bites and then went to my normal spot, the part of the staircase closest to Starbucks. I ate my sandwich and watched people do similar things. Reading, writing, chatting on their cell phones. Most people alone. They seemed like they were at peace with that. I thought of all of the lunches I ate growing up, and the white tile of the cafeteria, the enforced people-at-the-table limit, and felt thankful that I’d past that phase.

It was an emotionally draining day at work. Especially with the reconstruction of our office, and that my small space has turned a bit smaller while Business Enterprises prime and paint the walls, and install storage shelves and a sink. One of our patients made some decisions over the weekend that left her in the not-so-pretty state that we found her in during morning rounds. Sometimes I see things during my day that I may close my eyes for if I were watching a movie, and I guess today was one of those days. She cried and couldn’t articulate what happened. And I stood there in the crack of the door while the case manager did the talking, that we weren’t mad and she wasn’t in trouble but we just needed to know the truth. We needed to know what was in her body so we could find a way to make it better. And she cried more and looked at me and said “I’m so sorry Lizzie” and I echoed what my coworker told her, and then we had to go. I felt very angry about all of it, about the time I’ve spent with her, the conversations in the car, all of the things she asks me for throughout each day. I wish I wasn’t. I wish that I could just nod and be compassionate and mean it when say that everything will be alright. But I couldn’t. And by the way she looked at me—no matter how altered her mind or behavior was at the moment, or how hard I smiled—she knew this.