November 14, 2010
Little Girl Lost
Wilma had two versions of her favorite saying. I wish I could go back and ask her about that. I’d be quick, not greedy with any time travel favors. I would give her a serious hug and ask, “Why did you say ‘I’ll swan’ sometimes and ‘I’ll swanee’ other times?” Also, “What exactly does that mean?” In truth, this would be a cover for hearing Wilma laugh. For a while, we lost Wilma’s laugh.
Wilma had a little daughter, who played with my sister. Wilma’s son was my brother’s friend. One day, the little girl got sick, went into the hospital and never came out. She had an enlarged heart. No one knew.
We went to the funeral. The brother cried hard. Then, we watched the doctor walk down the steps of the church. He was sobbing. This was the country doctor who took care of everyone for miles around in a clinic where you did not make appointments. You showed up and sat with the farmers and the women with babies and the grandmothers and waited to be called. Then, you picked up prescription bottles from the same front desk where you signed your name. No one had ever seen the doctor cry.
For a long time, Wilma’s laugh was absent in the neighborhood. And the doctor was even quieter.
Years later, my father had heart problems, and the doctor insisted that he travel to see a cardiac surgeon who helped to pioneer life-saving procedures at a university hospital where people came from all over the world for surgery. This physician and his team knew the country doctor well.
It was obvious to me what had happened. The country doctor poured himself into learning everything he could about the heart because so many, including his own, had been broken when the little girl was lost.
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thank you, Carole.
Cece.
What a terribly sad figure, the country doctor.