Father had to have a check up today and we went to the hospital at about the crack of dawn…or perhaps even before dawn had thought of cracking. Still vaguely bleary, we walked into the pathology section of the vast complex and took a number, then sat down on excruciatingly uncomfortable chairs to wait our turn. Of course, typically in this father-daughter relationship, we did a little arguing, a wee bit of to-ing and fro-ing about whether it was really necessary for me to be there and whether some people who do not cheat would actually cheat and say something was checked when it really wasn’t. I was told not to fuss and I said not to be so stoic; all in all, a fairly satisfactory little series of spats, all before dawn had had the chance to crack, too.
And when Father was finally ushered in to the sanctum where needles were slid into veins and little bottles were discretely handed out for people to fill, I was told sternly that he could manage on his own and I was to stay out. OUT, Father said firmly, knowing full well that I was quite capable of going in with him and slugging the technician if she didn’t get the first stab right. So I stood just outside, peering in through the glass window set into the door, ready to go barging in to do the slugging if I needed to. I shifted my weight from one hip to the other, doing little four-step walkabout rounds between wall and door and trying my best to avoid looking at anyone en route. But I was being looked at, I knew, I could feel it, and went pink around the edges as I shuffled around, waiting.
As soon as Father emerged, only to go through another door into another set of laboratories, I shot off after him. This time, I stuck with him through the glowers and growls, insisting that I would not – repeat, NOT – stand there to be stared at again. But we had to walk back out through that same crowd, Father muttered rude things under his breath, while I followed a meek few paces behind him, doing my own share of a little mutter-glower. And I kept my eyes glued to my feet (metaphorically speaking, of course) as I walked past the various people still waiting to be tested in various ways.
There was the gentleman who was having a very bad hair day. He sat there, his knees wide apart, his head leaning back against the wall, obviously catching up with a sleep-time that must have been so cavalierly interrupted at the crack of dawn or before to make it to the clinic on time. His greying locks stood on end, pointing in many directions at one time, each hair seemingly unconnected to the rest. There was the lady who kept losing her husband – every time she went with him to the counter, their seats would be occupied and they would have to move to two new ones when they got back, never side by side. So at one stage she even turned and addressed some evidently trenchant comments to me, startling herself when she found it was not the person show as trying to talk to. And there was the gentleman who sat himself next to me and had wandering elbows, every now and again prodding me in the side or against the side of my leg, every time making me edge closer to Father, on my other side.
And there were all those eyes following me as I scurried behind Father. Finally, I refused to go into that waiting area any more and stood in a puddle of sunshine near the main staircase, ready to leave whenever my male parent was done with his check up. And when that time came, I shot off to the car, fed up with being checked out and all set to check myself back into my own comfort levels.
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