Today when I was next in line in the waiting room to see my psychiatrist Dr. Singh, this woman with a Harley Davidson jacket, a neck tattoo that said ‘little shooter’, and a face mask that said ‘fuck off’ stormed in the waiting room, burst out in tears. Everyone sitting around acted awkward from her bellowing and waterworks, I mean, they were really flowing. She put her folder in the tray and sat a few seats away from me.
I turned to her without hesitation: “what’s wrong there, sister friend?”
“Oh honey, I got a phone call on my way in and…” she cringed out a few hot tears out of scrunched-up wrinkled eyes out of grief, interrupting herself.
“My brother died”
“Oh no,” I started, heading to the front counter for a box of tissues. “Were you close to your brother?”
I stood above her while she nodded and sobbed, taking about five from the box. The door opened and a nurse called my name to be seen then.
“Be strong sister friend”
After my talk with Singh, I came back out to find her still in distress, eyes flowing like leaky faucets. I really felt for her- while I didn’t have the same reaction when I found out about my own brothers death, there isn’t anybody out there immune to the initial shock and pain of grief. And I knew it so well.
I came back out and hovered over her, kind eyes with heavy cat-eye eyeliner and held out my magical healing left hand for her right. I had the energy, the currency, the mana, and what did she do? She grabbed it. And held onto it tight. I didn’t let go while she closed her eyes and breathed in my life through my palm. I was impressed by how she calmed down after that 20 second moment.
“I lost my brother too- he was 27. It seems like the universe has a plan for everyone. Time makes the grief ache less” my advice reverberated throughout the silence of the waiting room.
“Thank you, sister friend”
And I walked out.