Morning Glory

“Good morning, my name is Melinda.”

I nodded and returned the greeting, or at least I think I did.

I was still kind of bleary-eyed, having hauled my keester out of bed at 5AM on Saturday, made a predawn, five-block walk through the nearly empty streets, so I could get a transthoracic echocardiogram, yet another one of my cardiologist’s recommended tests.

What made it even funkier was that, upon my arrival, the facility at Fourth Avenue and Senator Street, a century-old structure that once housed a city welfare department office, was completely empty.

There was no security guard in the lobby, no receptionists on the second floor, no other patients sitting in the waiting area—the damn lights weren’t even switched on.

I had full run of the place, as I walked up and down the hallways, shouitng “is anybody here?” while the lights in various rooms automatically lit up as I passed by.

I heard voices and for a moment I thought I’d found a fellow human, but it turned out to be coming from a TV playing to an empty waiting room.

This was getting eerie. I wrote a post a few years ago about how “The Walking Dead”, “28 Days Later” and “The Day of the Triffids” all begin with a guy waking up and wandering around an empty hospital.

I had agreed to the appointment to avoid the crowd, but now I thought I was being pranked.

I was just dialing the main office when the elevators doors opened up and humans started filing in—including Melinda, the technician—a sonographer, according to the Cleveland Clinic--who would be giving me the echocardiogram and who turned out to be an absolutely wonderful human being.

She took to an empty room, wired me up and had me stretch out on my left side, while she probed my chest with this device that send high-frequency sound waves through my body.

I told her that I was nervous about the test, and my heart, in general, and she assured me that the point of the tests was to make sure that I was okay.

And then…we just started talking.

Talk therapy

I noticed she had an Eastern European accent, and it turned out she was born in Albania, where my grandparents’ families had come from before they settled in Calabria.

She told me many Albanian people had moved to Calabria and Sicily centuries ago when Skanderbeg, Albania’s leader, died and the Turks rolled in.

“I’m talking too much,” she said at one point.

“No, no,” I said, “I’m happy to listen.”

She told me about her husband, whom she had known since she was 14 years old, how they had dated for a while, then separated for five years, before reuniting and tying the knot.

The poor man, who is 10 years younger than I am, had to have a double lung transplant a few years ago and Melinda said that her new work schedule—four 10-hour days—gives her more time to spend with him.

“He’s a very lucky man to have you,” I said.

They have one son in high school and Melinda is making him take Spanish in school and teaching him Albanian at home.

“I’m taking him over there,” she said, “because I don’t want him to forget his roots.”

She was so kind and thoughtful that I stopped worrying about my health—at least for a little while.

“I’m so glad I met you,” I told her.

I told her straight up, no wise cracks, no backhand compliments. Now that I’m older, I realize how important it is to tell people that they’re appreciated.

Melinda told me that she wants to go back to Albania. We could use more like her in this country, but I understand how she feels.

The test took about 40 minutes, I told Melinda that the next scheduled test is a cardiac catheterization procedure, which is set for Thursday.

“If there any problems,” she said, “they’ll put in a stent and your life will better.”

Obviously, I’m hoping it doesn’t get that serious. And having met Melinda, I can safely say my life is much better already.