The beginning of a day not without pretty things - A [well-lit] patient encounter

Upon arriving to work, I enter through the waiting room, for there is no other way to enter. That is just as well, for walking through a labyrinth of knee, waist and chest-high children reminds me why I showed up to work in the first place.

Usually, I just wave to whoever is noticing my entrance as I walk through. There is usually a lot of commotion in the waiting room, and so few notice. I then stop at the reception desk and say good morning. Then, I walk upstairs to take care of administrative duties. Some days I come back down to see patients. Many days I do not.

Today, I arrived a little early and, to my surprise, there was singing. This was not surprising in and of itself, but rather because the singing was fifteen minutes earlier than the usual time, which is 7:30am.

I sat down to listen, wishing that I knew the words and what they meant. Well, in a sense I knew the meaning. The song meant that I was in Africa, where a day is started with a song…as are most meetings or other important gatherings. The song meant that I was not in the United States, where the day starts with, let’s see, coffee…and maybe some email. The song meant that, though many in the room had HIV and would wait in cramped quarters for much of the day to have their life-preserving medications refilled, the day would not be without pretty things.

I sat in the back row of the lined chairs of the waiting room, listening. To my left, a baby of about eighteen months was clapping. His performance was spotlighted by a patch of sunlight entering through the high windows of the clinic lobby. The beam of light, no more than eight inches squared, gave the child a peculiar but striking golden glow. When the music stopped, the illuminated baby said “aaah, aaah, aaah…” to the previous beat, stopped suddenly, looked around, and giggled.

He did not know the words either.