What can YOU say in six sentences?
He was as tall as me when he stood up straight, which he rarely did, only when he was told.
He had long blonde hair that fell in golden waves all the way down his back and he would often take a small clump and twirl it in his fingers, sometimes so intensely I thought he would tear it right out of his head.
When I got in close to take his vitals he looked away, using his mass of hair to cover his face, and when I had to make him move it back to take his temperature via the ear, he did so with a trembling hand, like he was pulling back a curtain behind which lurked something dark and terrible.
His arms, always crossed, were thin and sinewy, covered sparsely with very fine golden hairs, and he would rub them with his hands as if trying to warm himself against a cold front, perhaps coming off of me.
I opened his chart, checked out his name, looked at his medical history, and something in me felt if I didn’t address the elephant in the room he would never be comfortable, never be open with the doctors, never get the medical care he deserved, so I took a chance and said, “It says here your name is John, but honey, what’s your real name?”
The corners of his mouth curled up, only slightly, and his arms dropped to his lap and he said in a soft voice, “My name is Jennifer.”