I'm sitting in the atrium waiting room with my mom and sister, the sun streaming down. We are waiting, anxiously, for the surgeon to tell us the news. Suddenly they perk up and look at the back of a doctor. She's wearing a white coat, and her fluffy hair is pulled back into a barely-contained ponytail.
"I think that's her," my mom says.
"Dr. K.?" my sister asks.
"Don't you think?"
I look over. I have no recollection of what Dr. K. looks like. None at all. I remember her having a youthful face, but that's about it. That time period is so blurry to me now, although the anxious feelings are not.
My sister starts to say something about how she thinks it would be nice to go over and say hello, thank her for the surgery she successfully completed six years ago, when she removed the cancerous half of my dad's lung. Then she gets that look on her face, and I know she's going to cry.
"You go do it," my mom says. I start to get choked up as I watch her talk to another grave-faced family. Those feelings come rushing back and I hope she is not telling them the opposite of what we heard that day. I hope they are hearing "It all went well; he is in recovery; we got everything." But none of them smile, no waves of relief pass over their faces.
I try to divorce myself from the profound gratitude I have, because if I don't, I won't be able to talk to her. She turns toward us, and I know I have just a small window of time to reach her. I get up.
"Excuse me, are you Dr. K.?"
She looks surprised.
"I am."
"Um, hi. I'm K. D., and--" I used my maiden name.
"D? I recognize that name," she says, looking upward as she scans her memory for the patient. I fill in the blanks.
"Mr. D. is my dad, and six years ago you took out half his lung."
"Oh?" Then she looks around, nervously. "Why are you here?"
I laugh. She laughs.
I point over to my mom and my sister. "We're here waiting for him to come out of a hip replacement surgery."
She is visibly relieved, putting a hand to her heart.
"We just wanted you to know how grateful we are to you for the surgery that day, and what it did for our family. We just wanted to say thank you."
She has a wide grin that lights up her whole face, hand still to her heart.
"Wow, that makes me feel so good," she says. "When was his lung surgery, again?"
"Six years ago this month," I tell her, and that is when I start to feel like I might cry, but I hang on.
"Six years? Well, you know what they say about that, don't you?"
"No..."
"They call that a cure."
And just like that, six years later, she delivers one of the most powerful gifts I have ever received, just five small words. Thank you, Dr. K. Again.
