I sat in the cold office and stared at the posters on the wall across from me. I could feel wisps of cool air on my shoulders, ivory skin poking through the open-backed gown as I waited for an ordinary nurse to come and do an ordinary procedure.
A knock at the door brought my eyes back into focus and I traced my toes, still in socks, across the tile floor.
In walked a tall woman with kind eyes, her blond hair gathered tall on top of her elegant head.
She started asking me ordinary questions and then it happened again.
“Does this run in your family?” she asked with open eyes, her chin tilted up towards me.
“Yes,” I responded “but I can’t remember which kind.”
“Mhmm,” murmured the nurse “Well, it’s pretty common for dad’s not to share their medical histories with their kids.”
I paused. I had choices in this moment.
“More common for the dead ones not to share,” I thought to myself as I dug my gripping hands into my plastic chair.
“Yup, probably true,” I said, looking the nurse straight in the eyes.
Mouth shut, I could feel my jaw clench.
Poor girl – she doesn’t know. Better keep this one to myself. Breathe.
Another grief bomb exploded at my feet and I gathered scratchy fabric around my thighs as I turned my face back towards the wall.
“Ready?” she asked.
I said yes and she began.
Shouldn’t they put this kind of information in your charts?
Dad dead. No father references please.
But that’s not how the medical system works and his blood and his health history influences mine.
So we move on. We go about our days.
This last week was full of birthday celebrations. The month of August is a big one for Huey men.
I planned dinners and boiled big pots of salted water to cook refrigerated ravioli.
Mom put candles in cannoli dribbled with chocolate chips and we sang along.
I hid gifts and revealed surprises inviting beautiful smiles of delight and excitement.
We walked through plazas holding hands and wiped at strawberry ice cream dribbling out of their cones and onto our chins.
We took in a baseball game and bought new fan gear.
Ducked our heads into bars and sat to listen to the woman with radical hair and high-wasted pants sing tunes with soul.
We celebrated and we kept going about our days.
This is how it is now.
A beautiful mix of joy and celebration and plenty of encounters with clueless people who say seemingly innocent things because they don’t know.
I’m still exposed.
I may never have it any other way.
Is that a beautiful thing?