Not Broken, Just Bent I stood in front of a mirror; not an unusual action for a young girl. I waited on my grandmother, waited for what now escapes me, and decided to take advantage of her full length mirror––I did not have one of those at home. I remember this particular mirror, as it had collected many years of experience and had, no doubt, seen many reflections and curious onlookers. It leaned up against the wall in her dining room, waiting for the next observer that happened to chance by. It stood the test of time––it survived many decades since its creation in the early 19th century––and parts of the intricate patterns in the dark wood showed signs of abrasion to confirm this. Not only the mirror fascinated me, but so did the image of the young girl displayed within the beaded interior.
The girl, a thin girl with a small build, bore a pale complexion that stood in contrast to …show more content…
Shortly after, another nurse entered the room and began to record my vital signs: blood pressure, temperature, pulse rate, and respiration rate. She told me numbers that I did not understand and then left the room with the promise that the doctor would be in shortly. The paper covering the bed crinkled as I resumed fidgeting. The doctor entered the room a short time later and saved my father from my incessant movements. The doctor, a rotund man with a round abdomen and an even rounder face, had greying hair, speckled with brown that had not yet been overtaken by the grey. As he entered the room, his gaze flitted over me and settled on my father. I noticed a woman behind him in what little space was left unfilled by his frame in the doorway. “Hello, I’m Dr. Kean and this is my Physician Assistant Ms. Wyss,” he said in a matter-of-fact, adenoidal voice. He did not seem to want to acknowledge that I was, in fact, in the room; rather, he addressed my father exclusively and sat with his back turned to
The girl, a thin girl with a small build, bore a pale complexion that stood in contrast to …show more content…
Shortly after, another nurse entered the room and began to record my vital signs: blood pressure, temperature, pulse rate, and respiration rate. She told me numbers that I did not understand and then left the room with the promise that the doctor would be in shortly. The paper covering the bed crinkled as I resumed fidgeting. The doctor entered the room a short time later and saved my father from my incessant movements. The doctor, a rotund man with a round abdomen and an even rounder face, had greying hair, speckled with brown that had not yet been overtaken by the grey. As he entered the room, his gaze flitted over me and settled on my father. I noticed a woman behind him in what little space was left unfilled by his frame in the doorway. “Hello, I’m Dr. Kean and this is my Physician Assistant Ms. Wyss,” he said in a matter-of-fact, adenoidal voice. He did not seem to want to acknowledge that I was, in fact, in the room; rather, he addressed my father exclusively and sat with his back turned to