1
For quite a while, I was very sick. I went to see a doctor, who referred me to another doctor, who then referred me to another, and then yet another.
I ended up seeing Sarah Waszkiewicz, a tall woman with a rich, alto voice. Since her name was hard to pronounce, everyone at the clinic called her Sarah W. I asked her if she was Polish—turns out I guessed right. When she said yes, the name that immediately came to mind was Lech Wałęsa, President of Poland from 1990 to 1995 and winner of the Nobel Peace Prize.
After the appointment, just before leaving the room, as we were both getting up, I said to her, “Give me a minute—I’ll tell you a story.”
She looked down at me from her height and smiled, indulgently. “Sure,” she said. “I’m pretty tired today myself.”
“I was just fired from a job I’d held for twenty years,” I said, speaking quickly, worried that Dr. Sarah might cut me short. “And I was also going through a nasty divorce. The court case beat me to a pulp. The child was awarded to the other side. When it was all over, I felt like someone who had just been released from prison. There was a vast but unfamiliar world in front of me. I realized my best years were behind me, and I had no idea what the future held. So I decided to travel—to trace my roots, you know. People my age have this yearning…”
I basically told her the story I had written a year ago, in under a minute. Perhaps it was just the way I am—when I spoke, my eyes were wide open, maybe a little tearful, I don’t really know—but I must have looked very sincere. Even though I had warned her it was a story, she somehow took it to be my own life, and she felt genuinely sorry for me.
Then I reminded her that it was just a story.
Her face showed a hard-to-describe expression, as if saying, I can’t believe I fell for it. As we walked toward the door, she said, with a rueful smile, “You’ll have to do a much better job to fool me next time.”
2
Dr. Sarah W had everything set up for me. A month later, I returned for therapy.
I was led to a room. After a while, a petite girl with large eyes and black hair—Alexsandra—came in, followed by a tall doctor.
“I’m Lexi,” she said. “Today Paul and I will be taking care of you.”
“Hello, Lexi. Hello, Paul,” I said.
For the following week, I went every day. Every day it was Paul and Lexi. Then one day, Paul was gone. Only Lexi remained, along with a new nurse.
“My name is Brianna,” the new nurse said, helping me change. “What are we doing today?”
It wasn’t a greeting I heard often. I didn’t quite know how to respond. Usually people say, “How are we doing today?”
Brianna was Latina—she looked Argentinian to me—with shoulder-length curls. Open, warm, generous. When she spoke, her eyes were warm, fixed steadily on yours.
“Where’s Paul?” I asked.
“He was on loan from California,” Brianna said. “He went back yesterday.”
I thought Paul was a good doctor—the kind who looks stern but is actually very caring. I felt a little regret when I heard he was gone.
For the next three weeks, it was just Lexi and Brianna.
Lexi seemed to be in charge—somewhat cold. Brianna was the opposite: warm, smiling every day, full of enthusiasm.
“What are we doing today?”
At first I wasn’t used to her greeting, so I answered literally. If I was going to work that day, I’d say “work.” If I planned to write, I’d say “writing.” It made both of them laugh.
Her coworkers all called her Bri—sounds like “Bree.”
At the time, I was working on a story that eventually became Inventory of Small Affections, now a personal favorite. So when Brianna greeted me with her musical “What are we doing today?”, I told her I had just started a story. She asked what it was about.
“It’s about a path in the past that I didn’t take—and now regret,” I said. “I once dated a girl who was very controlling. Then we went to the beach and met two sisters, and the younger one and I got along so well it felt like we had known each other for a long time…”
The next day, she asked how the story was going. I told her I had already drafted most of it, and she said that was great.
Then one day I went in, and Brianna wasn’t there. Only Lexi, and another new nurse. I had wanted to tell Brianna I had finished the story, but it seemed I wouldn’t be able to—not that day.
“My name is Carly,” the new nurse said.
Carly was thin and small, perhaps in her forties or fifties, Italian-looking. Very brisk in the way she worked—she would whip the towel off you in one quick motion.
“Where’s Brianna?” I asked.
“Oh, Bree’s working at the Syracuse site today,” Carly said.
I felt a little disappointed.
Brianna didn’t come in for the next few days. One day Carly didn’t show up either, and a young nurse named Madeline came instead. Madeline looked like a recent college graduate—Irish, perhaps—with a face full of freckles. Her name reminded me of the beloved children’s book series by Ludwig Bemelmans.
Madeline came once or twice, then was replaced by yet another nurse—older this time—who introduced herself as Cindy. Cindy came once or twice and then disappeared as well.
By then, I had already completed Inventory of Small Affections and started another story that eventually became The Tears of the Dragon Girl. I hoped Brianna would return before my treatment course was over so I could tell her about dragons. But she never did.
In the end, they assigned a tall, thin male nurse named Joe. He was very reserved. Even by the end, he still hadn’t learned my name.
When I was discharged, I received a congratulatory card. Everyone in the department had signed it—even the pharmacist.
Brianna’s signature was in the lower right corner:
Bri.
Yego’s Chronicles 