Sitting here in the waiting room.
Hospitals always remind me of the time we visited my Nana when I was young, 8? 9 or 10? Maybe younger, probably older. I don’t remember why she was in the hospital, but we were all there to visit her so I guess it was pretty serious. My dad gave me some money and told me to take my little sister downstairs and get lunch. I guess I must have been old enough but I would have sworn I was just a kid. The times were different too. You could let a kid out of your sight for a few minutes back then.
We went downstairs but I didn’t know there was a cafeteria in the hospital. I went outside and couldn’t see a restaurant. I asked someone and they pointed me to place across the street called “The Recovery Room”. It was a bar but I didn’t know what that meant. I remember ordering a ruben sandwich and I think Tammy ordered a peanut-butter and jelly. We sat there forever drinking our sodas and the food never came. I played the ‘Galaga’ video game by the door a few times and sat down. I don’t know why/how/who called but dad found us. He yelled at me and took us back upstairs. I remember being mad it him for yelling at me. I only did what he asked me to… I guess he was upset because his mother was in the hospital and his kids were ‘missing’ but I had no idea about that at the time. I never got my sandwich.
Now I’m sitting here waiting on Teresa. She’s behind these dull green and grey walls and her life is in someone else’s hands. Trained professionals to be sure, but they don’t love her like I do. If they screw up, they have a lot of paperwork to fill out and will call it a bad day at the office but I’ll have lost everything I have in this world.
When T went in for (basically) the same procedure, she had a bad reaction and the doctor told me “we almost lost her.” I appreciate his honesty but WOW! A few months later, as Becca was being born, Teresa was having complications and they moved her to another room to do the C-section. I don’t think I was supposed to follow them into the room but no one stopped me. They were all focused on T and the machines she was hooked up to. I remember it made me nervous that everyone was running. Speed in a hospital meant danger. After getting into the room, I heard the beep go “flat-line”.
Could it have been the monitor slipping off? Sure. But by the reaction I saw in everyone’s faces and voices, I don’t think so. They immediately went into hyper-drive and I began to feel scared. I didn’t move and I didn’t say anything but I guess someone finally noticed me and in a huff, they kicked me out. On the way out I heard the beep return and the relieved voices of the doctors. Later, the nurse told me it was close to 15 seconds but I remember time stood still for me. It was an hour, it was an eternity. Of course, mother and child survived the ordeal but now I can’t help but feel stupid for allowing her to put herself back into this situation. I can’t help but be a little angry with her for scaring me like this and I can’t help but feel weak when I can’t protect her from herself. She wants another baby so badly that I believe that she’s willing to die for it.
So now here I sit in the waiting room with strangers. All I want to do is read my book and sip my coffee in peace. The coffee is keeping me company like it always does. It is silent but it sees and hears all. The two ladies by the windows have their own coffees but I know that theirs do not speak to them. They have trendy cups with the paper wrapping on them. Their coffee was polluted with cream, sugar, nutmeg, foam, espresso and unfortunately, they left the rat-poison out this time. The cups are probably empty and they’ve been carrying them around for days just so everyone knows that they are the kind of people that will spend $4 on a cup of coffee. I know. I saw that on their faces the minute I walked in. Everything about them, telegraphed ahead as if their only existence was for the purpose of providing us all with something to look at. Empty-heads and full bodies, Hollywood fuck-machine types. I wish I had my AK. My coffee is empty again. Time for another cup of hospital-brewed, Styrofoam cup coffee. No trendy StarSchmuck’s for me thank you very much….
The strangers over by the door are trying to make small-talk with me. I answer their questions politely but ask none of my own. I just want to sink my head in this book and forget what is going on beyond those dingy walls. I ignore the television the best I can. It was pretty easy to ignore when the bobble-heads were playing soap-operas but now they are gone and a man has the remote. He landed on ESPN for a minute but then he switched it to Fox-News and I am inundated with something they are pretending to call “news”.
“Terrell Owens”, T.O. to his millions of adoring fans, of which, I am not one, “has attempted suicide. No he hasn’t. We don’t know if he did or not. No, he did not. Oh yes he did.” Who cares? Do you know how many people a day attempt or commit suicide? I don’t know but I’m sure it’s a lot. Just because guy is a minor celebrity he gets news coverage. That sucks but the part that bothers me is that they report on it before they know what the hell is going on. At first they report that he attempted, then they badger the coach guy who says, “Why are you asking me? I don’t know shit!” Then they interview Owens who says it was an allergic reaction or something. Then some girl comes and says nothing happed and gets pissed when reporters remind her that she is contradicting what she told police and paramedics. All of this could have been prevented by just asking Owens himself instead of reporting unknowns like it was a national tragedy. The WTC collapse, that was news. I can understand people trying to get the story quickly. The assassination of Kennedy, same thing. I understand mistakes or premature reporting resulting in errors. A football player looking for attention? Not news. Personally, if I were a sports star or any other kind of minor celebrity and I wanted to kill myself, I’d do it with some flair. If I were Owens and I wanted to suicide, I’d wait until the 2 minute warning in some critical game (Super Bowl?) and when the spotlight was on me and all the hopes of the team winning was on me, I’d pull out the .45 and eat the bullet. Of course, I’d leave the helmet on and aim the gun so the exit wound goes through the team logo; leaving behind a very lucrative eBay situation for some lucky and morbid entrepreneur.
Another school shooting in Colorado. “By another student, nope, by an adult. 4 hostages, no wait, 5 hostages…” Another reporting error by jumping the gun but at least this one valid. Real news of a sort. This disappointment is a human disappointment in myself. I heard that there was a school shooting and I just shook my head and thought, “Happens all the time.” How sad is that? A gunman shoots up a school and people are more worried if T.O. is going to play on Sunday.
Hillary Clinton is defending her man on the “Who did more to find BinLaden game” the news channels are playing. Who the fuck cares? Join forces and let’s go find him together! Find him, kill him and eat him! Why are we fighting amongst ourselves about who gets more credit? You both tried, you both failed. What we need is to put this on a game show, or as we now call it, “Reality TV”. Something like ‘Survivor’ or ‘Fear Factor’. Get four teams, put them in the middle-east and tell them “Whoever returns (alive) with BinLaden’s head wins a big-screen-plasma TV and never has to pay taxes again.” Keep playing the game until someone wins. Film it and everyone tunes in. Let the people at home text message who they think will be the winner and flash the texts across the bottom of the screen like a news ticker. It worked with sillier ideas than this. The fact that the news people are reporting on something like this sandbox fight about who tried harder just shows how shallow our politicians have become and how pacified as a nation we are. At least the politicians of old pretended to care, now it is all too obvious how little they really care about their stated goals. As long as the cameras get a good angle of me “trying” to accomplish our goals, we don’t have to really “do” anything.
Something you may or may not know about me. I always romanticized about being a journalist. I wanted to report from the field, write my own copy, and cover my own stories. I remember learning about Woodward and Bernstein, Murrow, Cronkite and I wanted to do more. Not just be a talking-head anchor but to actually bring the untold stories to the screen by living them.
I always wanted to be a journalist but contrary to popular belief, I still have my soul and it’s not for sale just yet.
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