The Waiting Room

She seems like a marble statue
cold, so hard to the touch.
If you did so, she would crumble,
her facade becoming dust.

Her eyes stare straight ahead.
If she cannot see anyone
no one can see her.
She is a ghost in the waiting room.

The quiet ends at her waist.
Her right leg demands our attention.
It dances to a silent drummer,
with no rhythm or percussion.

Her hand pushes on the leg so hard
it is white with wasted strength.
Her leg belongs to dystonia
the master of no restraint.

We watch without thinking,
not being cruel or unfriendly.
Then from her eye, one tear drop falls,
escaping from the pool of many.

Kathie Stehr
May 23,1999

I was sitting in my neurologist's waiting
room one morning.  I was wrapped up in
my own misery, dealing with my tremors, when I noticed this beautiful young girl.

She reminded me of an alabaster statue.
Yet she seemed so fragile.  How could I be so self involved when this lovely girl
had this horrible monster, dystonia, in her life?

She should be the belle of the prom,
loving her life, teasing the boys as I had done.  Here she sat with tears in her eyes from this painful disorder.

Oh, I feel her pain.  I reached out to her and touched her hand-we made that precious connection. One dystonic to another that says, "I know".