The Quiet Place

It's quiet there. We retreat there when the time between appointments is long and we have no place else to go. There's art on the walls, couches to sprawl out on, and although there are no posted signs with admonitions or warnings, everyone speaks in a whisper when they walk in.

He has an autoimmune disorder. We make jokes and laugh about it, because that's the only way we know how to deal with it.

For the day long doctors' appointments, I pack books, games, snacks, a cooler of drinks, a list of questions, and my anxiety. We walk back and forth, always grateful that we are not the young couple sobbing quietly in corner, the old, worn woman pushing the bald child in the wheelchair, or the man who must rest heavily on his cane after each step.

We call the quiet place base camp. For the tests that they won't let me stay by his side, we separate with the promise to meet at base camp at thirteen hundred hours. While he is gone, I compulsively check my phone to make sure he hasn't called while I pace and bite the inside of my cheeks raw.

The outcome of the tests was good. The weight is coming back. The exhaustion and inability to sleep has gone away. It was a bump in the road that we've motored on past. Hopefully we will not have to see base camp again.