The doctor, when he came back in, hands full of a tablet’s lab reports etc.
sat spread legged on the stool, rolled a little closer, so his manner showed
concern. Looked down at the tablet again. His thinning hair made me
wonder why he didn’t just shave it. Why he didn’t care to, what that meant.  

The thin tablet in his hands’ supple offering. The smell of isopropyl
sturdy in the air like well-mounted shelving, sturdy but not enough
for me to climb, or hang onto, or hold, which is all I really wanted then.
He studied the screen in his immaculate hands, knuckles unwrinkled,  

fluorescent bulbs reflected on his moisturized wrists. He looked at me,
looked back at the tablet, back at the gallows of data entry and statistics.
I pictured my grave. Boring and eventual, as a paper wrapper housing
straws in the perverse heaven unity of a hallway’s blue recycling bin.  

Just then, he said, “I’m sorry to have to tell you this …”  Outside the room, 
a group of nurses started singing, Happy Birthday to You, Happy Birthday to you…