Waiting Room
By Lindsay Owen I had chosen the first appointment of the day so I wouldn’t have to be in the waiting room with a lot of other people, plus the chance of the doctor running late that early in the morning was minimal. Convincing myself my error in judgement could be ripped off like a Band-Aid, I thought my strategy would make the experience quick. The approximated three hours for this appointment would fly by, even if there was a quick sting. My wishful thinking was disrupted by being shuffled from room to room, answering endless questions from the doctors and nurses, getting an ultrasound, completing lab work, swallowing a handful of pills (on an empty stomach), waiting for the medications to kick in, being escorted to the procedure room, listening to the deafening whirring of suction, sitting in the recovery room, crying in the recovering room, and vomiting the pills I had taken earlier. And then it was over. None of what I had experienced could have prepared me for what I saw driving up to my dad’s home on Fowler Road. Seeing his car in the driveway, I rolled my eyes. I thought: 19 years and he chooses to be there for me today? 6,935 days of knowing me, 3,150 car rides to school, and he waits until I leave for college to take an opportunity to stay home from work to care? Maybe distance really does make the heart grow fonder. I looked at the clock on the dashboard, the distinct glow of AM glaring back at me. He hadn’t told me he was taking the day off from work. For the first time in my life, I did accurate fast math. Only 12 hours until it would be socially acceptable to go to sleep. As if what I just experienced did not give me the right to catch up on some sleep and let my body rest. What were we supposed to do for 12 hours? For 12 hours, we did not acknowledge my having just come back from Planned Parenthood. For 720 minutes, he did not joke 96
