The Belongings

While busy with my morning rounds, I saw a young man in the hallway walking toward the nurses' station. He wore shaggy, muddy blue jeans that hung loosely down his waist and a worn-out black shirt under his hooded Red Sox jacket. The young man obviously looked worried and disturbed. He hurriedly approached the nurses' station and made some inquiries with the secretary. Soon, the roughly 5'10” boy of age 16 interrupted me.

“Good morning, doctor.”

Still busy finalizing the plans for the previous patient, I indifferently smiled back at him, responding to his greeting. The boy stood there as I completed the progress note.

“I'm Anthony, Patricia's son, doctor,” he said as he shook hands with me.

“Hi, Tony. How are you?” I asked him, exchanging my indifference for familiarity.

“I'm good. How is my mom doing?” he asked.

“She is stable.” I gave …