Seems like I've got an appointment in radiology every day. When it's getting close to the time to head down, an orderly brings a wheelchair to my room. The knock on my door is tentative. Dad follows alongside for the first couple of trips, helping steer my "little buddy," remembering the many twists and turns through wide, mostly empty hallways. After awhile he takes over. When the orderlies show up we tell them that we can handle it from here. They don't protest much, hurrying back to wherever it is that orderlies congregate.
We're on our way out when we pass a larger-than-usual crowd in front of Susan's room. Red, yellow, and blue streamers have been taped outside her door. A cluster of helium-free balloons hang on the corners. Unfamiliar faces wait quietly outside, whispering, some still holding brightly-wrapped presents.
They move out of our way. They line up against the wall to my right, smiling, nodding, waving courteously.
"What's the occasion?" I ask.
A middle-aged man answers. Must be her father. Hair thinning at the top, turning silvery-gray at the sides. He looks vaguely familiar. He makes eye contact, which is nice, because sometimes wheelchairs make people uncomfortable.
"It's Susan's birthday," he says. "We're having a party. You're more than welcome to stop by later, if you want. We've got tons of cake. Please stop by later. Help yourself."
"Thanks. Will do. We're just heading out for some X-rays."
"Good luck," he says. "See you when you get back."
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