This was the culmination of the essay unit, but I don't like it that much. Again, in the memoir style. All of these details are embellished, I'll say that up front to keep my parents from worrying. True facts of this story: I stayed overnight in a hospital. I really did think the lady with the broken collarbone should've gone in before me. Everything did seem grey and green and dull. It was cold when the doors opened in the waiting room. There was a single bed sitting the middle of the room, that did seem pretty lonely. My mom really did insist that I go back to bed while she collected my stool sample. Mom's are the best, ever, period.
I overheard the only other person in the room say she had a broken collarbone. I was in front of her in priority to get a room, it seemed like I should talk to a nurse to let her go first. I only had knives in my stomach, which hadn’t been that big of a deal for the past six weeks. Neither had the vomiting, thirty pound weight loss, or extreme fatigue. I couldn’t imagine breaking a bone; I still wince when I think about it. But there she was, sitting cool as a cucumber, I couldn’t believe it. Regardless, my parents wouldn’t have let her go first anyway. I suppose every parent imagines their child should be the first in line in every hospital waiting room, but I wouldn’t know that, seeing as I don’t have any children. Overall, I did feel pretty terrible.
Fluorescent lights always seem to make dismal places worse off. The waiting room looked white washed even though parts of the wall had green in them. Soft drones from the lights made me feel like I was in some sort of honey factory, but without the sweet result. Disinfectant filled my nostrils no matter how concentrated I was on breathing through my mouth. The nurse at the front desk was there for secretarial purposes, but I’m sure it was part of her job description to be warm and inviting. She did an alright job but when automatic doors let cold air in with every entrance, the cold could not be dispelled by just one halfhearted smile at nine in the evening. I highly doubt whoever ordered the chairs for that room had ever sat in one for any length of time. Probably for the best, or they would be aware of how much money they wasted, and that it would have been more polite to force people to stand instead of sit on those numbing plastic chairs.
A nurse came, but no wheelchair. I snailed along behind the nurse, my parents cautiously stepping forward only if I stepped forward. I finally made it, nervous to see a bed in the middle of the room. The bed itself seemed like a great idea, I wanted to pretend the whole day was a dream, but its location troubled me. Like an outcropping in a sea of white tile, it looked so lonely. I knew I would be too, undoubtedly I was staying overnight and undoubtedly, my parents had to go sleep somewhere of their own, presumably our house. I would be huddled on the outcropping, waiting for dawn and the arrival of a rescue crew. The grey plastic rails on either side were there to keep me from falling into the ocean, but they looked like a barrier to any kind of comfort. I was getting ahead of myself, they still had the regiment of tests to run while the night was young, and my parents were still here, waiting.
The bathroom attached to the room was supposed to be a polite convenience, but there wasn’t a seashell picture to be seen, as every really comfortable bathroom has, so it seemed just one more unknown to deal with. More white and green walls and more white tile floors, more fluorescent lights and more bees hovering just out of sight, but I could hear them so I knew they were there. The overall grey was marred by sweeping black curtains every so often; I just couldn’t keep my eyes open. Intravenous this and that started, they told me like it would make a difference to me. I felt like cooked pasta so it could have been cocaine, and I would’ve taken it for lack of strength to do otherwise.
I can still see my mom’s poor face, covered with enough worry to care for a family of diseased children instead of just one. It often gets like that, but this was one of the few times it actually seemed warranted, I mean I was in a hospital. Six weeks of symptoms and I hadn’t said a word to anyone, and I’m sure one day my reward will be my own child doing the same to me. I knew she loved me, but I couldn’t ever interrupt the silence to share something important, it had sat there too long. Like a comfortable house guest, I started to feel it would be an imposition to let him know what an imposition he was. My body was eating away at my small intestine and I really ought to tell my mother, so please just excuse yourself for a minute so I can feel comfortable about saying these things out loud, thank you very much. As I said, it didn’t happen until a few days before Memorial Day weekend, a little late, but better than never.
The last thing they needed was a sample, and then everything would be discussed in the morning. The final hurdle seemed the most daunting of all. I think they all felt very sorry for me, a seventeen year old, going through the rounds of most middle-age colon health tests. Regardless, it had to be done. As previously stated, I knew my mother loved me, but when she helped me across that finish line, small plastic cup in hand because I couldn’t even go to the bathroom by myself, I knew in my cocaine induced stupor, what true love really looked like. Love is helping your spread-too-thin child to the bathroom at midnight in a hospital, and upon realizing that her legs are as strong as jelly, insisting that she go back to the room to lie down while you stay behind to retrieve what the doctor ordered. Odd, a bit disgusting, and thoroughly exhausting, but only mothers are strong enough to wield that kind of love.
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