In the waiting room of the hospital, I thought I was in purgatory. All of the angels were there with me, waiting to face judgement. A man asked a nurse if he could use the bathroom. The nurse replied, “Number one, or number two?” And the man said, “Number one,” With a smile.
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“Good,” Spoke the nurse with something else in his gaze, “Because if it’s a number two, they won’t let you back out.”
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The man walked away, escorted by the nurse, and I felt at ease. I remembered the drive to the hospital. When they came to collect me, I thought I was being taken back to America. My dog was barking when the two medics stepped inside. I think he knew. He knew that when I was a little girl, I called triple zero because my mum had been acting strange, and when the two white medics approached the situation, they did so with humorous intent. They laughed and nudged each other while I sat shaking in the corner. They thought my mother and I were a source of entertainment. A television show. A five minute relief from their usual duties.
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They scared me.
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But these medics were different. They reassured me that everything was okay, that they just needed me to calm down. When I calmed down, my dog did as well.
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In the ambulance truck, I felt safe, warm, whole again. One of the medics asked me what I did to relax and I told him that I used cannabis. I said that in a perfect world, everybody would smoke weed and live in harmony. He looked at the other medic and they both smiled, holding back their laughter. Entertainment. But this time, the good kind.
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When we arrived at the hospital, the man named ‘Joel’ stepped out of the truck, lifted his lips into a tight smile, and said goodbye.
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And now I wait for him to come back, in my little house, on my little stool. I make myself cups of tea and play The Doors to pass the time. I pretend that we’re okay. I read over the book I tried to write about him a few years ago and pretend that it’s real. Pretend that he’s real.
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When will he be real?
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