Meg Winslow
Her wound isn’t suppurating, doesn’t demand your attention with foul-smelling pus. There is no need for sterile gauze pads, adhesive bandages or antibiotic ointments. It is stealthy, and during initial intake you’ll probably overlook it entirely. There is much to distract you. Her geriatric eyelids are red-rimmed, tear-stained. A thin, salty crust dusts crow’s feet, that crinkly skin where echoes of laughter are seen, not heard. Stethoscope in place, you focus on her racing heart, her shallow breathing. The patient hasn’t been eating much lately. The scale confirms the dramatic, unintentional weight loss her baggy clothes imply. She’s become a shadow of her former self, but you didn’t know that person. There are lots of options available. Blood work will confirm vitamin levels, thyroid function, and point to further testing.
It’s not until the follow-up visit, when tests reveal “normal” results, that you see her. You grasp what’s missing and make an effort to connect, the first step to her healing. Today you look away from the interpreter, slide your mask down past your chin, and mouth your question slowly. “Are you lonely?”
About the Author
Meg Winslow, BA, is a writer living in New York City. She is presently collaborating with her Deaf sister on their joint memoir. Meg retired from a lengthy career in HIV research in Stanford University’s School of Medicine. Her piece, “I Often Wish the Morning Hour Would Last Longer,” was published in The New York Times in August 2022.