The Wait
The pain Dave felt was almost unspeakable.
He sat there in the waiting room, the nail
still in his foot. It had gone through his boot
and foot both. And that is how he had left it.
It was lodged in there good, he'd give it that.
When he had tried to pry it loose, it only
took the first tug before he’d given up,
the shock of pain too much for him to handle.
The slightest movement and the nail would tweak,
and, each time it did, it caused him to wince,
curl up his toes and grit his teeth and groan.
And not only was he dealing with the pain,
but his sock was thoroughly soaked with blood,
making him feel that much more miserable.
"Sir," the receptionist spoke from the window,
"I'm so sorry you had to wait so long.
They're getting you a wheelchair, as we speak."
"It's okay," Dave replied, with a pained smile,
"It’s really not that bad. I’ve been through worse."
He lied. It was nearly unbearable.
In fact, at times, he wanted to holler.
He was too proud for that. He could bear it.
A man could take a lot, even something
like a six-inch nail skewering his foot.
Even the thought of him needing a wheelchair
was a little embarrassing, and he
considered walking back there on his own,
once they finally brought the chair to him.
At last, the door opened with his wheelchair,
followed by a rather good-looking nurse
in floral scrubs and her hair in a bun.
"Hello, Mr. Johannsson," she announced,
"I'm here to take you back into the unit.
You've been so patient. I apologize.
I bet you're ready for it to be over."
"Ah," he answered, shaking his head and shrugging,
"it's nothing more than a little flesh wound."
Despite the nagging pain, he smiled at her,
though, secretly, he wanted to tell her
that he was at the point where he was ready
for them to put him out of his misery.
"I'm just glad that there are people like you
who know what they are doing," he put out there.
"I just couldn't do it myself, you know."
"Oh, my!" the nurse replied, hand to her chest.
"I would advise against such things like that.
Not only would it be painful, but you could
hurt yourself worse than you already are."
While she helped him into the chair, he tried
his best not to show her that it bothered him,
but he couldn't stifle the whimper he gave.
"Stupid nail, got me good!" he said, a pitch
higher than he would have liked it to be.
As the nurse wheeled him on into the back,
he bit down on his knuckle, while the wheelchair
bounced and jostled his foot ever so slightly.