What Do You Think It Is?

She steps out of the examining room to make the phone call. I'm too tired to think. When she returns, she relaxes in the chair and asks me if I've been enjoying my stay in Lancaster? How long have I been here? Where are some of the places I've been able to visit? Where do I live in the States?

We talk for five or maybe ten minutes without saying a word about my health.

The doctor comes blustering in from the cold. His cheeks are red. He smiles and shakes my hand. His gloveless hand is cold against mine. The sister stands up and offers him her chair; he shakes his head no, then leans up against the edge of the desk close to me. He is fairly young, maybe forty-five, fifty, with a salt and pepper beard. His eyes are dark and questioning. More of the same questions as before, with more of the same answers. He uses a cotton swab to dab at the numerous sores inside my mouth. He shines a pocket light into my eyes, down my throat.

"Tell you what," he says after only a cursory examination. "I have a colleague at the Royal Lancaster Infirmary. It's the hospital in town. He's a specialist. I'd like for him to take a look at you."

"That's fine," I say, not thinking to ask what kind of specialist. "But I don't have a car or anything. I'm not sure how I'd get there."

He laughs.

"Definitely not a problem. The sister here will take you. He might want you to stay overnight -- my colleague, that is -- so you should probably pick up a few things from your room. Toothbrush and toothpaste. A change of clothes. You can stop by your room and pick up whatever you need."

"What do you think it is?" I ask.

"Impossible to say, really," the doctor says.

"Will I be at the hospital very long? I mean, should I tell somebody?"

The doctor shrugs. "Good luck to you," he says.