With my annual physical coming up, along with the requisite semi-annual blood work, it seems appropriate. But even without these impending events on the near horizon, this is something that has stayed with me. I think about it often.
And further, I think about how we can be touched, and maybe even connected in some way, to people we've never met and will never know, all because of a chance, momentary overlapping of our lives at an otherwise insignificant moment in time.
Anyway, I hope the girl and her dad are doing ok.
From August 14, 2015:
I had to go in for a blood lab this morning. In the year and a half or so that I’ve been going to my new doctor, this is maybe the second time that I’ve had to go into this lab - maybe the third time, if I count the time I brought Sam.
The one good thing about my old doctor’s office- maybe the only good thing - was that their lab opened at 6:00 am. This meant that I could actually schedule an appointment early and then be off to work. And I guess that makes two good things, because the old lab would actually schedule appointments.
This new lab doesn’t schedule appointments. It’s a “walk-in” lab. “Walk-in” doesn’t mean “first come, first served”, it means “every man for himself” - at least that's the way it is when it comes to getting into the lab, when you happen to arrive before its open.
This time though, I remembered the new lab opened later than what I was used to. But in my mind, I thought “later” meant 7 AM. It doesn’t. It means 8 AM. So, I got to the new lab, not my usual fifteen minutes too early but rather, an abnormal hour and fifteen minutes too early.
With all of this time to kill, I went back outside, sat in the car, waited and returned when it got closer to my more normal fifteen minutes too early.
When I came back in, there was a father sitting on a bench with his obviously mentally challenged daughter. He looked to be about my age and I’m guessing she was in her late teens. She sat there stoically, showing no emotion, and the dad had his arm around her shoulder. I walked past them, just around the corner, where I leaned against the wall, and waited for the lab to open.
As I stood there in the quiet hallway, I could hear the daughter occasionally talking to her dad, but I couldn’t understand what she was saying. It was the kind of speaking where you really have to live with someone, and love someone, to understand what they’re trying to tell you. It was clear that the father understood. You could hear it in the tone of her dad’s voice, if not the words, that he was trying to comfort her and reassure her. I figured they were there for lab work, as well.
As I waited in the hall, more and more people showed up and waited along with me. Finally, when there were about a dozen of us, the lab door opened and we all filed in, gave our information at the window and found a seat in the small waiting room.
I sat along one wall, directly across from the door-less doorway that leads into the lab. The father and his daughter sat across from me. She still had the same stoic, emotionless expression on her face. He still had his arm around her, still rubbing her shoulder the entire time.
Eventually, when they finally started calling names, it was the girl and her dad who were called in first.
So the girl gets up and goes around the corner into the lab with her dad, and I can hear the hushed tones of the nurse talking to her and I can feel myself getting tense because I know what’s coming. Sure enough, seconds later, the girl starts crying, suddenly and loudly - and even though she appeared to be in her late teens, her cry sounds as if it's coming from someone much, much younger.
And her cry is a little bit like her speech - and a little bit not like her speech. Mostly it’s like the cry of any kid where, yeah, it hurts a little, but they’re scared a lot, and all of the fear that's been building up, all of the fear they've holding onto, for however long they’ve known about this, comes out with the prick of the needle.
She cried a good bit and over her cries, I could hear the nurse and her dad trying to encourage her and I could hear them trying to comfort her with words like, ”Almost done” and “Good job” and “It’s almost over”.
And while all of this is going on, some of the people in the waiting room start saying things like, “Wow, must be taking her whole arm off!” and “Sounds like she’s not going to have any blood left!”. And it gets louder and louder as each person tries to outdo the other.
And I’m looking at these people, some of which look like they could be grandparents - and they're all smiling -and it’s like it’s a big joke to them. And I’m just glaring at them.
Finally, almost as suddenly as it began, the crying stops. And then, the clever remarks in the waiting room stop as the girl and her dad come out of the lab and walk through the waiting room, and head to the exit.
The girl's face is back to her stoic expression and her dad, acting like he didn't hear a word of this, walks alongside his daughter - his arm still around her, still patting her shoulder. And as they leave, he offers the same comforting words of “good job” and “it’s all over”.
And I’m left thinking, My God, what is the matter with these people? How can you find any humor in this?
Every kid deserves to have their fears respected. And this poor girl - and even this dad, face more challenges than anyone in this room could ever dream of. And if you can’t muster even the smallest bit of respect - or what used to be called “common” decency - or, God forbid, have some small scrap of empathy for her, then at least have the good sense to shut the hell up.
This has been bothering me all day. I feel bad for that girl. And I feel bad for that dad. But I’m glad they have each other, and I'm glad she has someone who comforts her and understands her.
And I find myself hoping that she sleeps well tonight. I hope that when her dad tucks her in and kisses her goodnight, I hope she goes to bed feeling safe, and feeling loved.
And I hope that after she falls asleep - I hope that her dad doesn’t go downstairs and begin to cry.
1 comment:
i love you Dad.
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