'To the Doctor Who Called My Son ‘The Overdose’' by Dawn Miller

Did you ever stop to think maybe I’m exhausted too, and the incessant beep beep beep of machines makes me want to rip the hair from my skull or scream at the nurse for bruising his tender arm yet again only someone has to be the strong one, and no one likes a madwoman who can’t hold her tongue or asks too many questions, and so I slump in a cracked vinyl chair—praying he’ll come to and realize his mistake—or shuffle down halls to buy egg salad sandwiches because they have protein and drink stale coffee to keep myself awake until you slide by all starched-coat and Reebok runners to give me two minutes of your time because really, there’s only one of you and so many of us.