Wednesday, April 25, 2012

Bigger on the inside...

She sits in the same chair of her pediatrician's office that she's been sitting in since she was standing on it to see Dr. Snook better. And even before that. He smelled of pipe tobacco in a warm good way. That smell and the taste of tongue depressors and the smell of the leather chairs mixed together always, into the indelible image of him in her memory. Though maybe he didn't smell like that anymore. When you're 14, you've sort of passed beyond that sort of observation.

She sorts through the list in her head. Based on symptoms of diseases they'd studied in 8th grade Health Class, she figured it was either diabetes or cancer. Losing weight, losing her hair, tired all the time, unquenchable thirst,  having to pee all the time, and an insatiable appetite. Well, some of the time - sometimes just feeling too tired and yucky to eat.

But who knows? That Health teacher also told the class that women don't have orgasms (an anonymous question slipped by some student, probably one of those smelly, ridiculous, loud boys, in the Question Box). Even at 14, she knew that wasn't true.

Anyway, she was only here because her ski club buddy refused to ski with her after too many trips to the lodge to pee.  Her mother said it was probably a bladder infection.

And what the hell? Didn't she have enough with the back brace and frequent visits and x-rays for scoliosis? That wouldn't be fair.

The next 48 hours  is a complete blur (was it 48? maybe 24? maybe 72?). The colors and faces and scenes bleeding into each other like watercolor frames washed across from a spilled glass of water. Something about her urine...something about another doctor she should see...more waiting. Her mother terse lipped and not talking to her. The next day (or 2 or 3) she is sitting in another doctor's office, only much much different. This one was loud and bustling with so many people wearing white or blue (or both). Dr. Snook was just him and a nurse as far as she could remember. She sits in a chair watching people (women, mostly) taking tubes of blood and sticking them into this or that dishwasher looking machine. She sits a long time. Is her mother still there? She doesn't remember anymore. She's gotten used to waiting in exam rooms from having the back braces fitted and mended "while you wait". She wishes she'd brought a book (she often forgets). She doesn't remember whether she met a new doctor. Did she meet a new doctor? Sometime closer to evening than morning, a nurse comes to her with a syringe, takes her arm and gives her a shot. "Insulin." the nurse says to her. The girl feels very confused and says quietly " I have to keep taking shots?". The nurse replies cheerfully, almost laughing at the question, "I don't see anyway around it!"


Day 25 prompt: recreate a memory telling it from the 3rd person perspective.


  1. This comment has been removed by the author.

  2. Gee, I wish that mother could go back in third person and be just a bit more comforting. It seems even more unfair to that third person girl.


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