Idolatry

Julie was lost in thought.Her right pointer finger slowly traced the edges of the metallic trinket.  It was tucked far enough into her pant pocket that only the longest digit could reach.  Back and forth, her hand moved caressingly, pausing from time to time to inspect any irregularity, any imperfection.  In such a manner Julie built a mental image of the old forgotten piece of jewelry.  Her hands visually occupied a space that her eyes had long abandoned.There was not much to the frigid, sterile room  A few rickety chairs. A  worn carpet.  Some posters placed haphazardly on the wall. The smell of bleach wafted through the waiting room and mixed with the alcohol emanating from where the IV had been placed in her forearm.  Julie had grown used to the metallic explosion of iodine assaulting her palate shortly after the injection.  There were all sorts of explanations.  It reminded her of fear. She drank it in.  Every few months.  Much like her mother had.  Cat scans and blood tests, radiation and chemotherapy.  At least there was action.  Waiting is what slowly killed her mother.  Desperate moments lost in rooms such as these.  Waiting to be poisoned.  Waiting to be irradiated.  Waiting to be informed and then consoled.  If one could string all those moments together side by side, surely there would have been enough time for one last trip to Mexico, or maybe Vegas.Julie's mother ...
Source: In My Humble Opinion - Category: Primary Care Authors: Source Type: blogs