Less than 5 minutes

Leaving the dermatologist's office on Monday, I wandered into the quiet hallway. Not many people going to doctor's appointments during the last week of the year. As I approached the elevator I crossed paths with a short blond woman.

"I'm trying to figure out where I'm going!" she said.

"I think the elevator is right here,"I said pointing ahead of us.

The light streamed in from the wall of windows. The building was quiet except for our conversation. I pushed the button.

"Hospitals are so confusing!" she said. "I can never figure out where I'm going. They all look the same. I've been in so many at this point."

"They are confusing," I agreed. "I think that's why they pick the art they do, so you can navigate by telling yourself you're in the hall with flower pictures or kids' artwork."

The doors opened and we stepped in together. I pushed L. The doors closed.

"My husband just passed away, He was fifty-six" she said.

"I'm so sorry," I told her.

"We were in so many hospitals. Up in Santa Rosa. At John Muir. At County. The one in Santa Rosa wasn't so good."

I asked her which hospital. My work has me thinking in hospitals--where they are, how often we go there, what its personality is like, whether I've been there.

She told me. It wasn't one of ours. We share Santa Rosa with the OPO* in Sacramento.

The doors opened in the lobby, we walked out together.

"I'll tell you, of all the places we went County was the best."

"Oh good," I said. "In Martinez? That's good to hear."

"He died of cirrhosis. He bled out everywhere."

"Oh man. I'm so sorry." I said.

"I had a liver transplant myself."

Why did I tell her that? Because cirrhosis is a liver thing. Even though I thought there was a chance that knowing I'd been transplanted might make her sad or mad or bitter because it was likely that the possibility of transplant had come up for her husband at some point.

"Oh! So you know," she said.

"Yeah. And I work in transplant so I really know."

"Oh! So it must have been easier for you."

"I got my transplant before I started working in the field."

"Well, I have hepatitis C myself so I will probably need one myself someday," she said.

We walked out the front door together, into the cold sunshine. The parking lot was a third full of cars but there were no other people around.

"Maybe not," I said. "Have they said anything about it?"

"They say my liver looks good."

"Have you done interferon?" I asked.

"Nope! Haven't needed to."

"Well that's good. Maybe your liver will just stay fine. You never know. Good luck!"

We'd walked a few rows of cars in together and were coming to a point of going different ways.

"I can't believe you had a liver transplant! How long ago?" she asked.

"Fourteen years," I said. I pulled up my shirt to show her my scar and she leaned in to look closer. It was the first time we'd stopped walking outside of waiting for the elevator.

"Wow!" she exclaimed. "Good for you! Good luck!"

"Thank you," I said. "I'm really sorry about your husband."

She walked left, I walked right.

"We were married thirty years!" she yelled back. Smiling. I was smiling too.