Robert Edwards

I had a doctor's appointment this morning. It was in a building just 20 minutes from my home; four floors up from the lobby by elevator. I was the first patient, and they took me immediately. I was in and out in 30 minutes. 

I left my house at 7:45; I would have been home by 9:15 even if I stopped to refuel. But I took a little detour.

When I rode the elevator back down to the lobby, as the doors opened, I saw a man grappling with his wheelchair. He was quite literally inching toward me, his feet useless to help him push forward, and his arms only able to make small movements. "Don't worry, I'll hold it," I said, and when he got close I stepped out, one hand over the electric eye so the door wouldn't shut, and one hand lifting chair and man just enough to make it over the threshold. He couldn't have weighed more than 90 pounds. "What floor?  I'll take you up and get you out," I said.

"Two," he said. "Thank you. So much."

"Oh, sure," I said. This was an easy gift for me to give. I could cover the ground in minutes. Based on what I'd witnessed before, it would have taken ages to travel 20 feet on his own.

I noticed his hair and clothes were dirty, but his sneakers - white ones - were spotless. Of course. He doesn't walk in them. Perhaps he just has someone put them on when he has to leave the house. We reached the second floor, and he said, "My doctor is down the hall."

So I pushed him forward, staring down at the way his hair separated in waves because it was a little greasy, and wondering if he had someone to help him get ready for this appointment; if he took a Metro Access service bus to get here, like the one I investigated for my father but decided was too impersonal for him. I'm no stranger to wheelchairs - my mother was in one for years before she passed - and when we reached the door, I knew it would be easiest to take him in backwards. I leaned down so he could hear me and said, "What's your name? I'll sign you in."

"Robert Edwards." He seemed so small, so solitary. It's been almost a year since my father died, and I know this helplessness. I watched my father bend under the enormity of it, day after day. And he was one of the lucky ones; he had a family member as caretaker and companion. It's hard to be alone and old and weak and sick. Or any one of those things.

I put on my best cheerful voice and said to the two women behind the glass, "Look! I found one of your patients in the elevator! Mr. Robert Edwards is in the house!" They looked up and barely glanced at him, and didn't crack a smile for me, either. No smile! After I was so jocular! I'm not used to being resisted like that. And I hated leaving Robert to the mercy of these joyless women, but I pushed down the guilt because, as I often say to others, we can't save everyone.

"You okay now, Robert?" I asked. He nodded, and I said, ridiculously, "Okay - have a nice day."

A nice day.

I think it's been a very long time since Robert had a nice day. But I sure hope he had a kind doctor, and someone to bring him back down the hall and into the elevator and back to the lobby. He deserves that.

© 2020 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie