A moment comes when one’s existence can be summarized in two words — this and that; joy and sorrow; you and me; night and day; rise and fall.

For me, today, the two words which encapsulated my existence clashed against each other in the cold unfriendly exam room at the Cardiology Unit of North Kansas City Hospital.  I stood with my sweater dress bunched around my neck while a woman in Halloween scrubs jammed  sticky pads against my chest.

Careful, please, be careful:  I have a bruised rib.

She barely raised her eyes, flicked a hank of hair over her shoulder and grunted.  Honey, I’ve got to do what I’ve got to do whether your rib is bruised or not.

She shoved a plastic sleeve of instructions into my hand.  I could almost hear her shouting, Next! as she herded me through the door.  No need to stop at the desk, she droned, pointing to the exit.  I pushed my weight against it, falling into the waiting room, willing myself to stagger to the elevator and down to the coffee shop.

. . .Where, of course, I got herbal tea; and a plastic container filled with sectioned grapefruit.  I slumped into a chair, eyes unblinking, letting the noise wash over me.  I have been here before, I heard myself whispering.  No one stares in hospital cafeterias.  It is a place of tears.  Your grief goes unnoticed.

The tea cooled; I let my hand drift to the neckline of my dress, grazing over the bumps into which the leads feed, fingering  the smooth stones of my necklace.  I have been here before, I whisper, hand resting on the empty chair beside me.

Wires and sapphires.  My life in two words.