Find Out Your Element
and meet this one-woman machine in D.C.
I work at a library at a local private high school, and I also drive students to their doctor’s appointments, mainly for mild sports-related injuries. We meet in the lobby of the campus health center, walk to a nearby van (where it’s always interesting to see if the student chooses to sit in the front seat with me or in the backseat), and I drive them to their appointment. Since I find the majority of human beings on planet Earth quite fascinating, I usually attempt to engage the teenager in conversation. Surprisingly, most of them want to talk, and anyone uninterested in chatting sends me the message by giving clipped responses. I respond by falling silent and turning up the radio so they can have music playing in the background while they scroll on their phone.
One morning, I took a young man to an orthopedic appointment. All of the students had just returned from the holiday break, and as we loaded into the van (he chose the back seat) I asked him if he was able to visit home. He said he did make it home to Hong Kong. I followed up by asking if it was nice to see his family in China and if he was still glad to be back at boarding school. It was and he was. Then he mentioned his ankle.
“Is that why we’re going to an appointment today? You hurt your ankle?”
“Yeah, but it’s feeling better,” he said. “I had treatments when I was back home that really seemed to help.”
We were only in the waiting room for a few minutes when they called his name. I followed him back, and the attendant checked his basic information before leading him to a separate room for an x-ray. I stood in the safe zone around the corner so I wouldn’t be blasted with radiation. It was over in three minutes, and we made our way back to an examination room. We were told the doctor would look at the x-rays and be back to talk with us.
“Wow,” said the doctor as he entered the room. “Your ankle is completely healed.”
“Great,” the student said.
“The surgery we discussed a few weeks ago is no longer necessary,” said the doctor. “I don’t see you needing to come back for another appointment. No further treatment is needed.”
We strolled past the front desk without scheduling a follow-up and headed back to the van. I started the engine.
“Can I ask you a question?” I said.
“Sure,” he said.
“Can I get this straight? When you left school two and a half weeks ago, you had an ankle fracture that they said would need surgery.”
“Yeah,” he said.
“And you went home to Hong Kong and received treatments.”
“Yeah.”
“And now after this appointment, they confirmed that you are completely healed and no longer need surgery.”
“Yeah, I guess so. I knew it was feeling better.”
I paused and looked around to make sure no one was watching or listening, no governmental representative ready to jump out of a nearby bush, waving a handout on HIPPA protocols.
“Can I ask what treatments they did?”
“Sure,” he said.
