The Prognosis.

Some are drinking coffee, others pace, we all wait.
There are signs on the walls warning us of the perils of life expectancy, the dangers of neglect and recouperative measures to get mobile again.
The receptionist taps away oblivious to our worry, no doubt she has seen it all before.
The fish tank does nothing to dispel our fears, our concerns.
People pop in through a door way and we all look to gauge their faces. Will it be terminal, is recovery possible or maybe the big one this time.
There isn’t much talk at first, then people start to open up as time ticks by. Confessions of neglect are offered.
"I didn’t see the signs,"
" I should have booked in earlier," and one they must hear all the time,
"They sent me a reminder but well, I just let it slip".
We all sit, read stale magazines and wait for our turn.
It is no consolation there are young and old, male and female, when things begin to go wonky it’s a leveler of the whole race.
I only came in for a quick check up, but now I have to wait. They will see what can be done once the tests are through. Coffee is offered and taken as we anxiously try to occupy our time.
Snatches of conversation on the phone are overheard, and we try to make sense of the jargon, valves, high temperatures and ball joints are discussed in hushed tones.
Then with a small gesture I’m called to the counter. All eyes are on me as I listen to the prognosis.
"It’s not looking good as he explains the intricacies of the operation.
If only I had come sooner –
"How much will it cost?" I hear myself say, not wanting to hear the answer.
"These things don’t come cheap," he replies.
What choice do I have in these circumstances?
I acquiesce, knowing I can’t live without my car.