Black Fingernail Polish

Today, I'm a bit pensive. Just over a year after Karen completed her adventure and three of the people reading this are having adventures of their own, one today, two tomorrow.

Which has me thinking about waiting in various hospitals during Karen's surgeries last year. Of all the things I remember from those hours, black fingernail polish is the one that stands out most.

It was the day of Karen's primary surgery. I'd been sitting in the fourth floor waiting room since they wheeled her through the maze of corridors on the ground floor of the hospital, you know, the one where the minotaurs like to hang out and have a smoke with their axes propping open the emergency doors. I'd just done a drive-by of the Starbucks clone in the lobby, wondering that if "whiskey" translates to "water of life" from Gaelic, what "coffee" means in Arabic. Probably the same thing.

Waiting is not my forte. I had a book and a pair of earplugs, two essentials in my hospital survival kit. An older volunteer had taken my name and handed me a pager. The first buzz would be notification that the surgery was over, the second that the surgeon was on her way out. The TV's were loud, the chairs uncomfortable. My cohorts in the holding cell were each wrapped in their own individual crises, some major, some minor, some as yet unknown. I'd found an alcove by the elevators where I could hide out with my book and my own thoughts. I was tired and nervous though I tried not to show it. Karen had been more of each when I'd last seen her disappearing into the inner sanctum where the surgeons perform their rites. I still had my game face on. I read but the lines of my book refused to make any fundamental sense.

The first buzz of the pager shocked me alert, the second had me edgy with anticipation. A few minutes later, the surgeon emerged through the backstage doors marked "Doctors Only." She began telling me the details of what she had found.

My mind entered a schizophrenic mode, the one I found so handy in compartmentalizing secure information from unclassified impressions back when I had a clearance so many years ago. The logical segment of my brain listened and absorbed what it was hearing. The emotional portion drifted inward, as it is often wont to do. On one level I noted the information the surgeon related, while on another a memory surfaced of her in an examination room during one of Karen's appointments. It was Monday morning, early. Not 5 a.m., hospital early, more like 8 a.m. first appointment. I remember looking at her hands as she was talking to Karen and noticing her fingernails. Being that she was a surgeon, they were neat and short, shorter than mine generally. They were also painted a deep and glossy black. I remember thinking, there's something you don't see every day, a surgeon with black nail polish. Perhaps that revealed more about her weekend than I really wanted to know.

Oddly, I drew comfort from that nail polish. From that moment on, I trusted her, I'm not sure why. Perhaps because she went from being just an abstract title, a doctor, a surgeon, an archetype or a caricature, to being a complete human being, one with unique tastes not usually associated with her profession. That black fingernail polish was like the device on a knight's shield, a declaration of who she was for all the world to see. Tiny, black enameled bucklers on the end of each finger that would protect Karen while she excised the beast within.

All that flashed through one of my segmented minds as another glanced down at her nails to see that they were still black then back up to meet her eyes while the lowest portion searched them to see if I could trust her, if she was telling me the truth. Of course she was. But the animal mind is always hungry for that confirmation in whatever form it comes. With that need sated, all three of my minds merged back into a unified whole. I smiled and shook her hand as she said goodbye and not to worry. I knew that I could trust her.

So, S. and J. and H., I hope you each find some black fingernail polish of your own to comfort you and shield you through your day. Know that Karen and I will stand beside you each in spirit.


© 2008 Edward P. Morgan III