I sat yesterday in your office,
the one on the top floor, at the corner.
You were talking in that calm voice;
did you notice I was watching the cars
running the light at the intersection below?
And I was tracing a line where sun drifted
through onto the table, and noticing
my shoe was almost untied. And then
your phone buzzed and she said that your next
patient was waiting, so I got up to grab my purse.
You stopped me at the door to ask if I was ok,
and I nodded, but the elevator door was already
opening so I didn’t catch your eye. But now I am
home, and I remember that I should have told you
some things. You see, I’ve been having double
vision again, and the right side of my face is numb.
Oh, and I fell down the stairs the other day. Twice.
And my hands shake now all the time, and I hear only
ringing in my right ear. I know I was supposed to tell
you all this yesterday, but I was looking at the cars,
and the sun, and my shoe. But I thought I’d write
you an email, anyway, so I don’t have to see
your face when you tell me what this means.
Remember when you said you couldn’t do
anything more for me if the tumor grew back?
I remember, Doctor, I remember. So, I thought
I’d enjoy the sunshine in your office yesterday,
and you can just print out this email for my records.