by Donna Poole
Debbie fell asleep in the dentist’s chair waiting for Dr. Miller. That wasn’t surprising; she fell asleep everywhere these days, even in church, and that was embarrassing. She jumped awake to an entirely too cheerful voice.
“Good morning!”
Debbie stared up at the tall, white-haired man holding a mirror and a probe.
“I believe it’s afternoon, and you aren’t Dr. Miller.”
The elderly man’s face creased into what her granddaughter called stripes when he smiled. “I said good morning because I had to wake you, and I believe I am Dr. Miller.” He glanced down at the name badge pinned to his white coat.
She rubbed her eyes, trying to focus. “Oh, are you Dr. Miller’s father?”
He chuckled. “Close, but no cigar.”
That chuckle sounds so familiar, but I’m sure I’ve never seen this man before.
“That’s okay, a cigar is the last thing my lungs need at this point. And then, to her horror, she was crying. Crying for the first time since she’d gotten her diagnosis four years ago. Crying for so many reasons.
Dr. Miller put his instruments on the table and sat down on the stool. “How can I help?”
She shook her head and struggled unsuccessfully to stop the tears that had been years in the making. “You can’t help. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
“I suppose you’re a therapist in your spare time.” Instantly she regretted her sarcastic tone. What is wrong with me today?
But Dr. Miller wasn’t offended. Again, he chuckled. And again, her mind searched for where she’d heard that distinctive laugh.
“Actually, I’m a licensed counsellor and donate my time at a church. And I don’t usually practice here as a dentist; I’m just here today to help out. I work at free clinics for people who can’t afford dental care. And I’m also a farmer. I’ve lived long enough to have more than one career. What did you do before you retired?”
Debbie knew he was trying to put her at ease by discussing a neutral topic; she’d done that enough times herself counselling people. How was he to know that word, “retire,” was half of her problem, and cancer was the other half?
More tears came. She choked out, “I’m not usually a sobbin’, sobbin’, sobbin’ woman; I promise.”
“‘Sobbin’ Women!’ My favorite song from ‘Seven Brides for Seven Brothers!’” He laughed.
Debbie smiled through tears. “It’s my favorite song from that musical too, but I haven’t thought of it for years. My brain seems to be taking its own walk and thinking its own thoughts today.”
“Do you want to tell me which thoughts are making you cry?”
She sighed. “I’m a bookie’s wife.”
His white eyebrows raised just a bit.
Debbie shook her head. “Not that kind of bookie. People call him Bookie because he reads so much and loves books. We own a small bookshop. Customers hang out to talk more than to buy books. I’m used to listening to other people’s troubles, not sharing mine.”
“Well, maybe that’s why God sent me here today, just for you. I’m a good listener, and I’ve got time. You’re my only patient this afternoon. Why don’t you give me a try?”
Once she started talking there was no stopping. It all tumbled out. She didn’t know if she was even making sense, but he nodded at the right times and looked sympathetic. After she finished and took a deep breath, he summarized with questions, just as she often did after an impromptu counseling session.
“So let me see if I get it. You’ve been a bookie’s wife for fifty years, and your husband doesn’t want to retire. He feels his work is a calling from God. You don’t want to discourage him or be the reason he sells the bookstore before God wants him to, but you’re exhausted from fighting cancer and working at the shop, and once in a while, life seems too much. You’ve run out of everything and have nothing left to give to people. You wish the two of you could retire to a cabin by a beautiful lake and rock away your time until God calls you home to heaven.”
She shrugged. “It sounds so selfish when you say it like that.”
He shook his head. “You don’t sound selfish. You sound tired. You’ve run out of your own strength, and that’s a wonderful thing. Maybe you know where I’m going with this?”
She shook her head.
“I’m not sure where I’m going either. I have to talk to God a minute.”
She waited in surprised silence while the old man sat with gnarled hands folded and white head bowed. She wondered if he’d fallen asleep. Then he spoke.
“Okay, I had to ask God to do a thing of two about this. And I want to say this to you. We run dry, but God never does. He’ll love and help people through us until he says it’s time to quit. And young lady, you need more naps. Lots more naps. And maybe only work at the bookstore a day or two a week instead of six days like you have been.”
A smiling young woman knocked and came into the room. “You ready, Grandpa? You’re going to be late if we don’t leave soon.”
“I’m so sorry,” the dentist said to Debbie. “I have to leave for my cancer treatment. I guess you’ll have to come back when your usual dentist is here. You asked if he’s my son. No, he’s not. My son is retired. He’s my grandson.”
“Grandson! How old are you?” Debbie blurted out the question before she had a chance to think it might sound rude.
“Ninety-seven. I hope to keep practicing as a dentist until I’m 100, if this confounded cancer doesn’t take me to heaven first. I’m one of the guinea pigs at the hospital. Like you, I’m in a clinical trial. I’ll tell the nurses at the cancer center you said hi.”
Debbie’s mouth dropped open. “How did you know I’m in a clinical trial?”
“I’ve seen you and your husband in the waiting room. You two always have your noses in your books.”
She heard the familiar chuckle again as the door closed. That’s where she’d heard it—the cancer center.
This guy had cancer, was twenty years older than she was, and wanted to keep working until he was 100?
Thoughts turned to prayer as Debbie put on her coat and headed out of the office. Lord, I can’t promise I’ll want to keep working until I’m 100. Those rocking chairs and a cabin at a lake still sound good to me, but I promise you this. I’ll do a better job of trusting you until you say it’s time to quit. And I’ll take more naps.
Debbie tried to open the passenger door of the car, but it was locked. Her bookie was leaned on the headrest with his book over his face. She could hear him snoring through the closed window. He jumped when she knocked, got out, and hurried around to open her door.
“All done, honey?”
“Not quite. More like I’m ready to start again, but I want you to think about something. How about if we only open the bookstore five days a week instead of six? I don’t think I’m the only one getting tired.”
He shook his head. “Absolutely not.”
She sighed, and her bookie laughed.
“We aren’t going to open it anymore than three days a week. God and I had a chat about it when you were seeing Dr. Miller. How is the young whippersnapper?”
She laughed, happier than she’d been in years. “The young whippersnapper isn’t as young as you think. And when he asks God to do a thing or two, I guess God answers! I’ll tell you about it on the way back to the bookstore.”
“On the way home,” he said. “I closed the shop for the rest of today.”
But she didn’t say anything. He glanced over at her. She was sleeping already, leaned up against her car window, with a smile on her face.
The end
***
These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:
Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
Backroad Ramblings Volume Four: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer