Friday, March 09, 2007


today, in loving support of my husband who is undergoing a rather unfun procedure, i am about to have an anxiety attack. i am sitting in a very small, crowded waiting room at the hospital with a television. what's on? frigging "home improvement". it doesn't really matter what is on; since when do tvs belong in these oases of peace? what happened to reading? i brought two dwells and an angie's list, eager for quietude. the phone keeps ringing, only ten feet away, every time the receptionist gets up. the temperature is rising. if i hear that hot effing pockets commercial one more time, i'm gonna crack. i feel like i'm having a nic fit only it's not a square that'll soothe me. i just can't focus. it is so polluted in here. hospital sterility is overrated.

after leaving casey's coat with the receptionist, i broke out. i have no idea where i am going. i locked myself in a single bathroom, propped my lovely reads on the slick metal shelf over the toilet and ran my hands under ice cold water. ahhhh... cool quiet. i take a second to wrangle my new bad haircut. my scalp is sore from my constant yanking on it. i feel like i can finally breathe until... schllllip, my fucking magazines fall into the crapper. goddamn it.

with paper towels in hand, i head for another large lino-floored waiting room. the omnipresent tv is suspended overhead but, relief, it's off. only two little old people share the space, so i sit, sure i will find peace. not. the woman is an unstoppable small-talker. the man she is sharing her life story with seems to keep finding a good endpoint to then turn away and enjoy the silence, but she keeps talking and talking. out comes her brash, flashily dressed daughter in grapeskin-tight pink jeans and a black lace shrug. "i got my tips and some sangwiches, ma. i either don't eat nothin' or i eat all day." sigh. i check my watch; he's been in for an hour now. i think i'll go take another stroll.

with moist mags in hand, i go find the soda machine, ensconced in a little glass room like the smoking lounge at lambert airport. makes sense to allot such an activity to a small, mocking fishbowl since signs hang everywhere reminding all that no food or drink is permitted. the room is also equipped with four chairs, placed there for those indulging in illicit pepsi drinking.

i am phototropically driven to the one area of cleansing natural light: the bright skybridge over wood street. i park ass on the cold metal white metal railing and watch a man riding a runaway wheelchair, jackass-style, below toward taylor street. it's been an hour and a half. time to head back to the dreaded waiting room.

i gobble down a lemon lunabar, grab the piss magazines and tuck my contraband diet cola in my purse. i return to the room, which smells more like stale cigarettes and dirty hair than ever. please be done violating my hungry honey. i wanna go to golden nugget and feed him maple-soaked pancake mush until he lapses into a food coma.

it's 2:30. what is going on? it's been three hours. rachael ray's constant yelling is like a cheese grater on my nerves. my mind begins to traverse into the dark zone. what's the rate of complication for this procedure again? why isn't anyone coming out to give me the scoop? people have come and gone, and here i am, still listening to personal injury attorney commercials in the no-pepsi zone.

casey comes out at 3. he's groggy, holding pictures of his colon. good god. still no verdict. ugh. off to get some greasy breakfast.

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