The Sick Room
My doctor’s office is a gloomy place. The walls are a depressing institutional green, and
the one facing the entrance features the standard Norman Rockwell painting of a country
physician. The frame is chipped, and the faded print has a layer of dust on it. The furniture
looks like garage sale rejects, with torn vinyl and loose legs, and it’s not even as comfortable
as a park bench. The magazines, Readers Digest and Newsweek, are out of date and so badly
worn that reading them is nearly impossible. There used to be a pot of live flowers near the
door, but it’s gone now. All that remains is an ugly water stain that has left a smelly, moldy
ring in the corner. Adding the final touch is the usual, large group of sick people, coughing
and moaning. The whole place makes a patient wonder if being ill at home isn’t better than
being there.