Confessions Part I
Reflecting the energy-efficient lighting from the ceiling above, the sweat dripping down my forehead radiated a sustainable, yet unflattering glow. With a medical bracelet adorning my wrist, I stared at the beige wall ahead of me. Patiently, I waited for the chain of events to begin with the rotation of a doorknob and end with the insertion of a nasal swab.
After taking measurements for both my body temperature and blood pressure, the nurse insisted that I meet with a doctor.
“That won’t be necessary,” I politely declined her offer, fearing my stay in this clinic may be extended. “I am here for the express test and not the full works.”
If a single look could encapsulate genuine disappointment in the entirety of humanity, I received it in that moment.
“I would be honored to meet with a medical professional … is what I meant to say,” not only changing my tune, but re-writing the whole song.
Inside Room 2, my legs dangled over the edge of the hospital bed, ankles crossed. Pinching my mask to the bridge of my nose, I wiped the fog off my glasses and looked over at the door to my right. For a moment, I entertained the thought that maybe, just maybe, the MD about to walk through would be my first husband.
It is remarkable under what circumstances a person can still find themselves struck with the propensity to fall in love at the drop of a hat.
When the door did open, I closed my eyes and opened them once I heard it shut. Standing before me appeared a masked man with medical goggles, a disposable blue gown, and Adidas Stan Smith tennis shoes. Completing a full body scan, I thought to myself, I do like a man who wears protection. And then, placing my Dream Phone on hold, I snapped back to reality. This was no time to be picking up.
Extending my spine upright and adjusting both feet shoulder length apart, I listened attentively as the Doctor reviewed my chart.
“It is remarkable under what circumstances a person can still find themselves struck with the propensity to fall in love at the drop of a hat.”
“It looks like you were tested here three weeks ago…” he noted, scrolling his finger down the print-out.
Side note: Did I fail to mention this was my second time at the COVID clinic in less than a month? Whoops! Surely there must be an explanation in the next paragraph.
Explanation: 21 days ago, I called in sick to the restaurant after waking up with a mild fever and scratchy throat. Pre-COVID (PC) times, I would have never dared to make such a call. It is was an unspoken rule in the industry that you never miss a shift at work unless you are locked up in jail or attached to an IV machine. And even under those circumstances, it is was still debatable.
“Are you experiencing the same symptoms as before?” the Doctor asked.
Ignoring his question completely, I was surprised to hear myself exclaim “I am a server in a restaurant!”
The words spewed forth like a loaded confession poorly disguised as non-sequitur and before I knew it, my face was redder than my hair.
Feeling my grip on the present begin to loosen, it must have been the fever dreaming; because the ceiling lights dimmed, and the beige wall turned into a projection screen. As the picture came into focus, I watched a video start to play of my 21-year-old self. I was sitting in a hospital bed in Winnipeg, in an office just like this.
To be continued.
