Infectious things at the doc's office

We took Michael to the doctor again yesterday. No fever this time, which is strange for him, but he started with a cough and runny nose while we were in Florida 3.5 weeks ago. This week, the runny nose became a little more colorful and disgusting, so we took him in. Sure enough, he came home with a diagnosis of a sinus infection from a prolonged cold, antibiotics, and a steroid for the cough (but I haven't given him that yet because she said I didn't have to if I saw improvement).

While he played with the toys that I can all but see dripping with germs and I said a quick prayer that he wouldn't get others sick and he wouldn't become sicker from our visit to the cesspool, a family of three walked in.

The mother was probably 40s, the father maybe a little older, and the boy I would guess to be between 12 and 16 (mind you, I usually fail at the age guessing game, so my accuracy here is probably dubious at best). He was clearly mentally handicapped and used his parents as support for walking. I don't think he could speak, but his smile covered his whole face.

I shamefully admit that I usually look away when a handicapped person enters the room and focus on my children to make sure they are not staring or acting rudely. Another part of this confession, if I'm being completely honest, is that I am worried I will say or do something wrong or offensive. I haven't had an excessive amount of one-on-one contact with mentally handicapped people, and it's more of an insecurity on my part than anything else. But something about this family kept me from looking away.

You could see how happy they were just by looking at them. Each of them were smiling and seemed that there was an energy vibrating in the air around them. It was no less than beautiful. As they looked for a place to sit, I heard the mom say, "there's three seats together. He can sit between us and lean."

Something about this beautiful, cheerful family was so humbling. They have so many worries and concerns that I never even have to think about. My eyes were watering as they sat in the three seats next to me and I silently berated myself for the foolish worries I had recently stressed over. The boy looked around his dad and smiled at me. I smiled back and offered a lame, "hi." I couldn't help it. It was as if their proximity had pushed the happiness toward me and there was no stopping it.

I wasn't the only one. Michael started playing peekaboo with him, and the boy's laughter filled the room. After some prodding on my part, Michael said hi too. The boy's dad said, "That's a great word, isn't it? Hi."

I had never really thought about it before, but it is. It's the beginning to conversations and even relationships. It's an opening that allows people to communicate and be connected.

They were called back to see the doctor and our days went on as separately as they had started. But I walked away with more than I came in with, and it wasn't (or at least wasn't only) the germs I had feared. It was the knowledge that such good people exist in the world. I can't imagine their hardships or how much more difficult day to day life might be, but judging from their smiles, they didn't only see through that, they found beauty in it. And yesterday, I was blessed to witness that beauty. It was very humbling indeed. My only regret is that I didn't tell them what a wonderful family they had, and my only consolation is that they surely already feel that they do.