Diagnosis



Don and Chance parked in a large garage across the street from the Children’s Hospital. Don got out of the car, put his navy blue backpack on his shoulder, and slammed the door shut. The metal was cold against his ungloved hand. “Dad, are you mad?” Chance asked him.

“What? No. I’m not mad,” Don said.

“Why did you slam the door like that?”

“No reason. Zip up your coat,” he told his son. But he put his hand on Chance’s shoulder to reassure him. They walked from Level Three down the cement stairs to the street.

People stood and waited to cross to get to the hospital. Cars and city buses and ambulances were driving by. The electronic sign with the orange hand that told pedestrians they couldn’t cross never seemed to change. “We’re just going to have to run across”, said Chance, and they waited for a lull in the traffic and ran.

Outside the hospital was a little basketball court, where no one was playing. “Can I play later?” Chance asked. “Maybe someone inside has a basketball I can use.”

“Maybe.” Don wished that he could live in the moment like his son did. Chance wasn’t thinking about the appointment, he was thinking about the basketball court right in front of him. Of course, Don and Gina hadn’t told Chance the whole story yet. Let’s wait until we know for sure, they said. Wait until he sees the specialist.

They entered a big four story building with a large open atrium in front that had glass windows all the way around in squares that were alternately clear and shaded. The windows went up all the way to the roof, letting in a lot of light.

They stood a minute by the entrance looking around. On the first level were chairs and couches and a piano. An elevator with clear glass walls could take you to any the four levels, and from each level you could look out from the balcony into the atrium and the open space and the windows.

There were big hanging wheels that came down from the top ceiling that were covered with feathers. Don thought it was some kind of abstract sculpture. What it represented, he didn’t know. Gina knew more about art, she would probably have an idea. But she hadn’t wanted to come today. She said she couldn’t handle it. She thought Don would do better. He wondered if she really understood how he felt, that he was just as worried as she was.

Don saw an information desk in the middle of the floor, by a large fish tank. A volunteer at the desk gave them directions. When the elevator stopped at the second floor, they turned left. On the way from the elevator to the waiting area they walked past wooden people in earth tones dancing on the wall. Chance stopped to drink water from a little drinking fountain. It was shaped like a robot with a round metal head in the middle and two arms extending into two different spigots. Don watched as Chance leaned over the stream of water and a lock of his blond hair fell in front of his face. The fountain was too small for a twelve year old.

For a minute Don felt dizzy, like he wasn’t getting enough oxygen. He tried to breathe calmly and slowly. If only he could stop thinking, he would be okay. If only he could get back to that pure childlike state where you don’t see the inherent dangers in everything. He remembered the first time he rode on an airplane, when he was eight years old. Flying over the clouds and down through them, closer to the ground and the lush green trees; it was the first time he experienced euphoria. Now, when he got on an airplane, he thought about mechanical failure, drunken pilots, and terrorism.

Don managed to steady himself. He saw the check in desk ahead of them. To the left of the check in desk was the waiting area with a sign that said “The Jeff Burton Racing Zone”. There was a TV. A Nintendo. Along the wall, pictures of racecars, pictures of Jeff Burton, Jeff Burton with a trophy, and Jeff Burton with fans. Don guessed if Chance had been interested in racing, he might have stopped to look at some of the pictures, but he wasn’t: he went straight for the Nintendo.

Don got into line. In front of him there was a young mom and a little girl, maybe about three years old. The girl had straight hair and bent legs; she was using a walker. The woman and her daughter finished checking in, and walked away slowly. The employee behind the desk, a young black man with a moustache, a white button-up shirt and a badge, smiled at Don. He took Don’s insurance, address, and phone number, typed “pediatrician referral” in the database, and gave him a questionnaire to fill out.

Don went to the waiting area, papers and pen and clipboard in his hand. There were some adult size chairs with cushions and he sat down in one. He took the backpack from his shoulder and set it down on the floor. In front of him were tiny wooden toddler chairs by a table with sand and magnetic shapes inside. A “Little Tikes” plastic wagon was turned on its side.

Chance was still playing Nintendo. He hadn’t taken his coat off. Behind him, Don could see doors to the checkup rooms where the nurses and doctors were. Every couple of minutes the doors would open and a nurse would come out and call somebody’s name. A child was crying behind the doors, but the sound was muted.

Don looked at the row of chairs across from him and listened to conversations. A father was sitting beside his teenage daughter. She was wearing jeans and a baby blue sweater.
Her father said something to her about her shoes and socks.
“I have socks on.”
It really didn’t look like she had socks on.
The father said something else that Don couldn’t hear.
“My ankles don’t get cold,” said the girl. “Do you see how far these shoes come up?”

We never stop worrying about our kids, Don thought. The little things, like whether their ankles are cold. The big things, like appointments with specialists.
He felt a sharp pain in his stomach and he thought that he should eat something. There were some snacks in the backpack along with books and papers and medicine. But he did not open it.

He looked down at his questionnaire and the pen and the clipboard. He needed to fill in the circles to answer the list of yes and no questions. But they were questions he wasn’t ready to answer. The pen felt heavy in his hand. He took a deep breath. The air smelled dry and clean. He looked up from the clipboard at the television. It was playing a cartoon about a train.

He looked away from the television toward the balcony. The railing on the balcony had metal mesh on the bottom and an ornamental row on top of the mesh with alternating circles of stained glass in pale purple, green, yellow and blue. Between the waiting area and the balcony, the floor was all smooth speckled marble. A neutral background with a curved wide yellow stripe like a road, intersected by wide green stripes. The yellow stripe reminded Don of the yellow brick road to Oz, but it wasn’t leading anywhere.

A baby laughed.
A man cleared his throat.
The piano was playing from the foyer below.

Their name had not yet been called.

Don looked out past the balcony at the large feathered wheels hanging in the air. As long as he kept looking out into that wide open space and listening to the piano play, he could pretend that he was a guest in an expensive hotel, traveling on business.

The trick was in not turning around.