Bitten by Disease

This is an original flash fiction I wrote for my elective literature class, which was inspired by Meredith Grey's mother in Grey's Anatomy. It was something random that came into my head whilst thinking of a topic that would suffice with just 500-700 words (since it is a flash fiction), and I knew that this specific issue is incredibly close to people's hearts all over the world.

So, without further ado, this is "Bitten by Disease":

It was a cold day—icy breeze nipped at my naked ears. I adjusted the collar on my winter parka and raised it until it reached my chin. I shivered in the white wicker chair I sat on in the waiting room. The windows were open, exposing the bright, brilliant sun that rose high in the sky. I longed for its warmth but, being in wintertime, knew I’d receive none of it whatsoever.

The receptionist was an old, African-American lady with graying hair pinned in layers up on top of her head. She wore copper-colored reading glasses and was too busy writing on papers at her desk to notice me, bitten to a frost. I looked at the wall clock that hung on the wall across from where I sat. It was almost noontime, and I had been waiting for my mother for almost an hour.

Finally, a petite blonde woman in white uniform appeared from the doorway beside the receptionist’s desk and motioned me in. I stood up and walked inside a large, brightly lit common room with walls painted yellow. A few people milled about in wheelchairs or walkers, playing checkers or reading a book. I saw my mother sitting calmly by a big picture window on a long, white wicker chair laden with floral-printed cushions. Her long, light brown hair cascaded thinly down one shoulder, her gold-rimmed reading glasses on the bridge of her nose.

When the woman in white uniform and I had approached her, the woman whispered loudly to my mother, “Rita. Your daughter’s here for a visit.” My mother looked at her nurse, then at me. Her eyes lit up and she laughed gaily, her arms outstretched towards me. “My daughter is here!” she proclaimed, and I neared her, leaning in for a hug.

The nurse left us, and I sat down next to my mother. She looked at me and smiled. “My, how you’ve grown!” she exclaimed. I just smiled at her, wishing I could tell her more. She began to ask me questions—how my grades were in school and how the boy I was dating was doing. I answered each question carefully but reluctantly, my heart growing heavier with every question.

After five minutes of polite conversation, my mother’s eyes glazed over. She frowned at me, and I knew it was time for me to leave.

As I closed the door of the home behind me, I zipped up my parka and breathed in the crisp winter breeze, wishing with my whole heart that I had told my mother more—that I had graduated from college years before, and that the boy I had been dating was now the man with whom I shared a home. I wished to tell her that she had been at my graduation and my wedding and how she had enjoyed every minute of it.

But I knew that there was nothing more I could do but keep my thoughts to myself, and my visits regular.