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

about how many super maxi pads were adding up in the bathroom trash can, or that I should be wrapping them in toilet paper better because “no one should have to see that.” I don’t remember what we ate that day or what we watched on TV. I felt the weight of each hour as the lack of conversation carried on.

And then it was the next day, a Saturday. I woke up to the smell of waffle mix and couldn’t stop myself from crying before shuffling out of my bedroom. Pulling out a chair from the kitchen table, I silently sat down. A white plate appeared with a Mickey Mouse waffle staring up at me, two pieces of turkey bacon next to it.

I silently swallowed back sobs. Feeling twelve years old again: blasting Fearless by Taylor Swift and sitting in the passenger seat of my dad’s CR-V as he drove us to Dairy Queen after a long night of homework and a rough day of middle school. The day before confirmed I was not twelve anymore, not that either of us needed this confirmation. We ate our waffles in silence and when I was finished, I stood up from my creaky wooden chair. Putting my plate in the sink, I turned on the faucet and looked out of the snowy window. I asked my dad, “When did you buy a Mickey waffle maker? Why haven’t you made me these before?” He coughed and cleared his throat. I could feel him look up from his plate, rolling his eyes as he muttered an unintelligible something. The hours didn’t feel as heavy after that.