Little Elephant Week
Part Two
By Scott J. Welles
scottjwelles@yahoo.com

DISCLAIMER, for those who enjoy reading disclaimers: All "ER" characters and institutions are the property of Warner Bros., ConstantC Productions and Amblin Television, and ain't nobody making a profit on this piece. (I trust that covers the bases.)



(On Tuesday, Becky Charles limped into the emergency room...)

Ow.  Ow.  Ow.  Ow.

Wrench your back one time, and the whole world turns into your own private obstacle course. I mean, I'm glad that they built the hospital so close to the 'el' station...or maybe the other way around, but when you have to hobble from one to the other, it makes me wish they'd also put in a ski lift or something.

Ow.  Ow.  Ow.  Ow.

Following the signs, I arrive at the entrance to the emergency room...I think. There's a couple of ambulances parked outside, so I guess this must be it. I enter through the double doors.

At the front desk, there's this...what, receptionist? Secretary? Only she looks like she belongs in a nightclub, or a pool hall. She's got a Vegas fashion sense, hooker makeup, and a leather jacket from Cycle-Sluts-R-Us. She's ignoring two ringing phone lines while yelling on a third that she'd "rather throw myself under a zamboni than get back together with you, Eddie!" My ex-boyfriend would have been turned on by this chick.

I wait for her to finish, but Eddie doesn't seem to get it. He must be dense, 'cause she's pretty clear about it. Plus she's got a gutter mouth that my mom would swat me for. Those phones keep ringing. All the while, there's a steady stream of people and equipment and those rolling bed things moving back and forth behind her.

Another woman, with dark hair, arrives at the desk. She's wearing a uniform the color of bubble-gum, and she looks really stressed. She answers the other two phone lines quickly, then hangs up and snaps at Gutter Mouth, "Randi, get off the damn phone!" and disappears again.

Randi finally tells Eddie something pretty graphic, and slams the receiver down in disgust. At last, she looks up and sees me.

"Hi," I say, with my friendliest smile. Then, trying to lighten the mood, I add, "You know, I've got a cousin named Randi."

"Yeah, well yipp-EE," she snarls, then waves it off. "Sorry, this day's just...what do you need?"

"I kinda fell during dance practice, and it's really bothering me," I tell her, "so I thought maybe I should see a doctor about it..."

Randi hands me a couple of forms on a clipboard with a ballpoint pen attached to it and tells me to fill them out and have a seat in "chairs." I'm guessing that she means the area a little ways away with all the plastic chairs. I thank her and take the clipboard over there.

Ow.  Ow.  Ow.  Ow.

An hour later, I'm sitting in the same chair, waiting my turn and listening to a hispanic woman try to hush her screaming baby. I hear her say "pobrecita," several times, and I wonder what it means. I don't speak any spanish.

When the baby gets tired of crying, she quiets down. I think it's a she. The woman rocks her, seeming relieved that the ear-splitting wails have stopped. Everyone else in Chairs is sure thankful for the quiet.

I lean over to her for a closer look. "That's a beautiful baby," I say.

The woman shrieks at me in spanish and swats at me as if I'd tried to rob her. She rails at me, using what I think are racial epithets. The baby is startled, and goes off like a siren again. Everyone glares at me like it's my fault. I want to disappear. I get up and walk to the far corner of the waiting area.

Ow.  Ow.  Ow.  Ow.

I'm leaning on the pay phone, trying to decide if I should call Cecile to come pick me up when I'm done, when a handful of people come charging out from behind the desk, along with one of the rolling beds. One of the doctors catches my eye. She's a short, red-haired woman wearing some kind of plastic slicker over her white coat. I notice her because she's got some kind of crutch on one arm. It doesn't slow her down much at all that I can see. It moves more like a natural extension of her will than a real impediment. For some reason, she makes me think of Julianne Moore in the hospital scenes in "The Fugitive". My favorite movie. This woman isn't statuesque, like Julianne, but she's got the same kind of energy.

She and the others go out the front door, and come back in a few seconds later, with some other people in black outfits with yellow stripes. Paramedics, I guess. They're all talking at once, and there's a guy on the rolling bed with blood all over his face. There's a lot of medical talk I don't understand, but I think I hear the words "drive-by shooting." Jeez. I guess they've got bigger problems than my back to worry about.

I try calling Cecile, but she's not home.

A little later, I see the paramedics coming back, with the red-haired doctor. I hear a paramedic saying, "...gangbanger sprays off a full clip from the UZI, out the van's window, along the length of the block. Six grand in property damage, but the moron doesn't hit a soul. Not even a pigeon. Then he rams his van into a light pole and puts his own face through the windshield. How's that for poetic justice, huh?"

"Little lesson for you, there, kids," says the doctor, "Don't drink and drive-by."

I have to laugh at that, and the lady doctor looks at me like I've belched at a funeral. I guess it's not the sort of joke you're supposed to laugh at. I give her an apologetic look and turn away, blushing. Man, I'm not making any new friends today.

I'm rescued from my embarrassment by a nurse who takes me into an examination room.

Ow.  Ow.  Ow.  Ow.

Maybe an hour later, I'm sitting in the same room, wearing one of those uncomfortable gowns that don't close in the back. I was taken up to get X-rays earlier-thankfully in a wheelchair-and I'm waiting for the doctor to come back and talk to me. His name is Dr. Carter, and he's a young guy. Let me tell you, he is Cute, with a capital Q! Don't tell my mom I said that. She doesn't really approve of me dating white guys.

"Ms. Charles?" It's Dr. Carter, coming back in. "I have the results of your X-rays." He doesn't look very cheerful about it, and I start to wonder how bad I'm hurt.

"What's wrong?" I ask him.

He rolls a stool over and sits on it, so he can talk at my eye level. Uh-oh. That's something people usually do when there's bad news. Maybe I've slipped a disk or a vertebrae or something.

"I'm afraid I have something very serious to tell you," Dr. Carter says. "The pictures of your spine show early indications of Multiple Sclerosis."

Oh, God. I can't speak.

Dr. Carter is very soft-spoken and considerate as he explains what he's talking about in more detail. He's talking about the way muscular control degenerates and the spine gradually deforms and stuff like that, but I can't really take it all in. I can't think about one day not being able to walk, or to write my name, or drive a car. All I can think of is that I won't be able to dance anymore.

I'm shaking, and I think I'm about to start crying, and I don't want to do that here. Dr. Carter is still talking, trying to console me. He's talking about how people with MS can still live full, rich lives, but all I can think is I can't dance, I can't dance, I can't dance...

There's a soft knock at the door, and the lady doctor with the crutch comes in.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," she says, "Dr. Carter, can I see you for a moment?"

"I'll be right back," Dr. Carter says to me. He steps into the hallway and they talk behind the closed door.

I can't dance, I can't dance, I can't dance...

The two doctors are looking at my X-rays, and Dr. Carter has a look on his face like he's just had the world's biggest practical joke played at his expense. The door opens, and they both come in. Dr. Carter is turning a deep red. If I'd seen it under happier circumstances, I'd say it was adorable.

"Ms. Charles, I, uh...I'm afraid that we owe you an apology," he says. "There's been kind of a, well, a little mix-up involved here..." He looks like he wants the Earth to open up and swallow him.

"What do you mean?" I say, anxiously, "What kind of mix-up?"

He doesn't know how to put it. The lady doctor isn't jumping forward to volunteer information.

I can't take this anymore. I stand up - Ow - and grab my X-rays out of Dr. Carter's hands. For some reason, the first thing I look at is the name on top of the sheet. BECK, CHARLES. Shouldn't that be CHARLES, BECKY? Then I get it. "This isn't mine, is it?"

Dr. Carter shakes his head, mutely.

I feel like laughing uncontrollably.

The lady doctor steps forward and takes the X-ray gently out of my hands. "Ms. Charles, I'm Dr. Weaver. It seems there was a clerical error in the X-ray department, and your pictures were transposed with another patient's. I want to apologize sincerely for any undue alarm or distress this may have caused you."

I've got this mile-wide smile on my face now, and I'm starting to giggle. "I'm sorry," I say to their stunned looks. "I'm just so relieved, is all."

"I understand," Dr. Carter says, getting his composure back. He's traded X-rays with Dr. Weaver, and looked mine over. "Well, there's certainly much better news for you this time around. Looks like you have what we call a bruised hip. My recommendation would be aspirin and ice."

I'm wiping tears from my eyes from laughing. "So I can still keep dancing, right?"

"Oh, yeah, absolutely. Just take it easy for a couple days, all right?"

"Thank you, I'm just so relieved. I don't know what I'd do if I couldn't dance. It's all I ever wanted to do. I mean, I don't think I could go on living if I was crippled, and..." I manage to make myself shut up, just a little too late. They're both staring at me, and I've forgotten all about Dr. Weaver's crutch. I'm suddenly blushing as much as Dr. Carter was. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean anything by that. I mean, I'm sure you're not..." Shut up, Becky, just shut up already!

Dr. Weaver says, "Please excuse me," and leaves. I can see a great sadness in her eyes, and I feel awful about it. I do that a lot, running my mouth off at the wrong times.

"I really didn't mean to offend her," I say to Dr. Carter.

"I wouldn't worry too much about it," he says, "She's got some pretty thick skin."

I smile. "Okay. Listen...can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Are there any rules against doctors, like, dating their patients? Or, you know, former patients?"

He smiles, kind of embarrassed again. I'm really starting to like how sensitive this guy is. "Uh, no, not really," he says, "At least not in the case of out-patients such as yourself."

I smile a little more. "Then, how would you feel about, maybe, having a drink or something with me? I mean, if it's convenient for you?"

Dr. Carter shakes his head. "That's very flattering, Ms. Charles, but I don't think it would be a good idea."

"Oh. Okay." I guess it was too much to hope for. I probably should let it go at that, but I find myself asking, "It's not because I'm black, is it?"

"Not at all. My girlfriend would disapprove, no matter what your ethnic origin." He grins, letting me know it's nothing personal.

I smile back, feeling better. Someone else beat me to the punch. Oh, well.

A little while later, I'm leaving the hospital, on my way back to the 'el' station, and I see Dr. Weaver, wearing a black overcoat. I guess she's on her way home. I should probably just leave her alone, but I hate the thought of anyone being mad at me, or having their feelings hurt because of me. Mom says I'm too sensitive, that way, but I think she's also a little proud about it.

"Excuse me, Dr. Weaver?" I call to her, kind of hobbling to catch up to her.

She turns, and it takes her a second to remember me. "Ms. Charles," she says, kind of neutrally. She keeps walking, and I have to keep pace with her.

"I really want to apologize for insulting you, back in there," I tell her, "I feel just terrible about what I said. It was so thoughtless of me."

Dr. Weaver looks confused. "Did you insult me?" she says, "I'm afraid I don't know what you're referring to."

"You know, when I said I was relieved not to be a cripple, and all. It didn't occur to me that..." I trail off and sort of gesture to her crutch.

"Oh. I see," she says, "Please don't worry about it. To tell the truth, I didn't really notice."

"Are you sure? I mean, you looked so sad, and I thought I had offended you..."

She stops and faces me. "Oh, that. No, really, please don't concern yourself with it. I was thinking of something else, entirely. I had some bad news to deliver, and I wasn't looking forward to it."

Suddenly it hits me. The other patient, Charles Beck, I guess his name was. If my X-rays weren't the ones with Multiple Sclerosis... "Oh my, you had to tell Mr. Beck..."

"I really can't discuss another patient's case with anyone," she says, quickly, but I can see in her eyes that I've guessed right.

"I'm so sorry."

"It goes with the job," she says.

I have nothing to say to that, and I half-expect her to walk away.

Instead, she says, a little hesitantly, "What style of dance do you practice?"

I'm surprised at the question, but I say, "Uh, I'm studying a variety of styles at the University. Mostly ballet, but also some jazz, tap, and a little modern."

She nods, interested.

"I'd show you an example, but I'm kinda..."

"No, I understand completely." Dr. Weaver smiles quietly. "I was just curious. I used to dance when I was younger."

"Really?"

"Does that surprise you?"

I think of the way I first saw her, flying out the front doors, toward the paramedics and History's Dumbest Gangbanger. Even with the awkwardness of the crutch, she had a kind of fluidity in motion. "No, it doesn't," I tell her, truthfully.

She smiles again, pleased. "Well, it might surprise you to find out that there actually is life after this." She holds up the crutch, momentarily.

"Do you still dance?" I ask her.

That makes her a little self-conscious again, and I wish I could stop saying stupid things. "No, I don't. I mean, I've done a little at parties, now and then, but not the way I'd like to. Not with the kind of poetic grace I used to have. My leg just doesn't allow me the range of motion to express that."

I think for a moment. "Let me show you something," I say. I close my eyes and inhale, then run slowly through a series of gentle movements. They don't put much pressure on the legs or spine, but work mostly through the upper body and the hands and arms. The movements are in tune with breathing, and are quite beautiful when done properly. I'm not as good as my teachers, but I'm getting better.

"That's lovely," Dr. Weaver says, when I've finished and opened my eyes. "Is that a form of Tai Chi?"

"It's related," I say. "It still works as exercise or self-defense, but we're learning it as a form of artistic movement. You ever try anything like that?"

The look on her face is one I've seen on students in their first day of class. "No, I haven't. I don't think I could maintain the stance..."

"Yes you could," I tell her. "I saw how you stood when you lifted your crutch. If you can handle that, you can try this. Come one, give it a shot."

She hesitates, maybe a little afraid to be seen by people she knows, but we're alone, standing in an alley, under a basketball hoop. "All right," she says.

I take her slowly through the movements, and she picks it up almost immediately. On her second time through, she looks like a natural. After that, she asks is there's anything else I might suggest, and I show her a couple of other things, and pretty soon we're standing in moonlight. The sun has set while we've been trying different styles and discovering new movements that neither of us thought we were capable of right now.

Finally, Dr. Weaver realizes what time it is, and says she should be getting home. She offers me a ride, but it's not that far to the 'el'. "That was wonderful," she says, "I wish I had learned some of these things years ago."

"I know women who've gotten started in their eighties," I tell her, "and some of them are as limber as I am. I mean, when I'm at my best."

Dr. Weaver considers that. She seems encouraged by the prospect.

"Maybe I could come by sometime after classes, and show you some more."

She smiles. "I'd like that. Thank you, Ms. Charles."

"Please, call me Becky." I shake her hand.

"Becky. I'm Kerry."

We exchange a few more pleasantries, and then we go our ways. I turn towards the 'el' station, feeling a hundred times better. Any day you make a new friend is a good one.

Ow.  Ow.  Ow.  Ow.