In the third floor clinic in the Wangenstein Building at the
university, a woman with Parkinson's is raising her foot a few
inches and slamming it down, over and over, into the pedal of
her wheelchair. It is clear the foot is doing it, not her.
She is
about 80, and sick, and in her sickness she spins the chair
around and topples a large oxygen cylinder onto its side, and it
rolls away across the waiting room corridor, snapping breathing
tubes loose and dragging them after it.
A man with spiky black hair who had been sitting near her goes
to help. It's clear he is a stranger, just another patient in the
waiting room. He is wearing a burnoose, like Little Steven, and
he has an aggressive air about him. If I saw him on the street, I
think I would avoid him.
He stops the gas tank from tripping nurses and patients and
drags it back to the woman in the chair. He mumbles to her
about getting fixed right up. She mumbles back, but beats him
on the wrist with her fist to tell him thank you.
He tries to reattach the oversized tank but it just doesn't match
up to the chair. A nurse arrives with a portable pack which loops
neatly over the back of the chair. The man kneels by the
woman, and says, “I'm right here if you need help.”
He stands and returns to his seat, the eyes in her shaking head
fixed upon him. When he sits I can read his t-shirt. It says FISH
NAKED.
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Medical MJ? My doc laughed,... and laughed, and giggled...
A heartbreaking announcement 
