they came to my house every day and asked me to ride with them. After I got sick, their parents told them not to visit me anymore because I could be contagious. I missed out on playing basketball with them and even Melody’s birthday party. Sometimes they’d call to check on me, but lately, they hadn’t for a while. Mom and Dad didn’t mind being close to me. Grandma Raquel still kissed my forehead every single day.
I went back to Dr. Feldman’s office on a Tuesday afternoon. Ted was there with his dad, Mr. Esquivel. He started walking to me, but Mr. Esquivel pulled him by the shirt collar. Mr. Esquivel mumbled something to him in Spanish. Mom and Dad never taught me Spanish, but I could tell whatever he said was bad by his tone. The nurse called my name and Mom and I sat in another room, waiting for Dr. Feldman. When you’re sick, most of your time is spent waiting – waiting for an appointment, waiting in a waiting room, waiting for the doctor to come, waiting for test results, and waiting to get better.
“Good morning, Lyndon B. Juan-son,” Dr. Feldman said as he walked in the room.
“He’s having trouble going to the potty,” Mom whispered to him.
“Mom!”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Lyndon, what’s going on?” Dr. Feldman asked.
“I can go potty, I mean, to the bathroom. I’m thirteen, not two. I have trouble getting to the bathroom, not using it.”
“Last night, he peed on his rug!” Mom said, way too loud.
“Mom!” I said. “My legs felt wobbly and I couldn’t walk. I just wanna feel better.”
Dr. Feldman checked my heartbeat, my ears, my nose, my throat, and my lungs. He took my temperature and made me count to fifty to test my brain.