Esther sat quietly in the waiting room, holding her husband’s hand. Every now and again she would pat it gently, a small token of reassurance. At this point, it was all she could provide. And though she knew it did little for John, she felt the need to do something more than nothing at all.
Finally, a doctor walked towards them holding a clipboard. He looked vaguely European, but at this point, Esther was less concerned about the doctor’s ethnicity so much as his quizzical swagger.
“I am ze doctor,” he said with a coy smile. He pulled away his clipboard to reveal a big pink paper heart pinned to his white jacket. There was also a novelty pen in his pocket with a giant red heart on it.
“What kind of doctor are you supposed to be?” Esther asked in astonishment. “The doctor of love?”
“No,” he said quietly. “I am ze doctor of cardiology. I am to be looking at his heart.”
As he went to make the preparations for John’s angiogram, Esther thought she heard the doctor mutter something about “old people.”
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