I was glad I brought my water bottle with me. I sipped every few seconds, swishing the water around before allowing it to pass down my scratchy throat. My mouth felt like I held cotton balls in it the entire sleepless night before.
It was still winter and she had recently been admitted to hospital for the flu. This past season the flu, which usually just kills sickly babies and old people, was killing healthy young adults. She was still in her twenties, but nowhere near healthy.
Another day. Another nonagenarian. Ninety-year-old Mr. V sat in his wheelchair, his son seated in the burgundy office chair beside him when I walked in the room.
I walked into the clinic chart room where the list of patients with appointments to see me that day was thumbtacked to the corkboard. I was both happy and sad to see his name. The last time I saw Mr. Brown was 2 years ago.