posted on Aug, 20 2009 @ 10:49 AM
I’ve found a spot of Hell right here on earth. Actually, I must admit, this spot also contains a bit of Heaven also. Lightness and Dark dance around
each other trying to gain footing over the occupants. Don’t let the decor fool you. Brightly colored murals with sickly sweet images trying to
distract you from the bile threatening to engulf your throat. I am fixated on the mural at the moment. I suppress the urge to dig the black Sharpie
out of my purse and write “THIS IS NOT A HAPPY PLACE!!” all over it.
I look around at the individuals who have the misfortune of sharing the air with me in this space. I don’t find any comfort that I’m not alone
here. They only heighten my nausea with their pacing, nail biting and greasy hair strands dangling in their eyes. The odor of fear wafting from our
pores. Some have been here longer than me. One minute here is too long.
Sure, as if it’s any consolation, they give you some supplies to weather this place. Some tissues, a clean bathroom, complimentary phones with which
to update your loved ones on the gut wrenching saga your experiencing.
If I wanted to, I could run away from here. I feel like it at the moment. I feel like smoking a whole carton of Red Marlboros until my lungs crack and
bleed. Any other type of physical pain would be satisfactory at this moment instead of my soul falling to pieces. Alas, the “No Smoking” signs are
posted at every turn of my eyeball. That makes no sense to me. If anyone ever needed to light up and let the nicotine course through their veins, it
would be me. Right now. Right here. The fact that I quit many years ago is entirely irrelevant. Under this pressure, vices you thought you
extinguished rise again to the surface like an old friend from college that got you into trouble.
When your here, you tend to reflect on some off-the-wall thoughts just to give your brain a partition from what is actually happening. Such is the
case for me at the moment. For some odd reason, I’m pondering that crock pot recipe my sister gave me a week ago. I recite the list of ingredients,
exact measurements, the cut of meat, what I would serve with it.......dammit, dammit, I just want to go home - to my home, with my family and cook
that friggin’ recipe. I want a normal, boring day back in my bubble of life. Until now, I didn’t realize how that bubble sustained me. In our
individual bubbles, we pretend that this place doesn’t exist. We fool ourselves into thinking that we’ll never be here. My bubble has burst.
I’m not going to let all these people see me cry in Hell. Not going to let the Dark outstep the Light.
You make promises to yourself too. Make bargains with the universe. If I get out of here unscathed, without going totally out of my mind, I’ll be a
better person, a better mother, a better wife. This notion is is certainly ridiculous since I’ve done nothing to deserve this torture in the first
place. Questioning whatever faith you have is completely normal in these situations. However, the possibility that we are all just carelessly tossed
to the winds of chance without any divine guide or purpose is just as scary.
Whatever. I’m getting pissed now. Pissed at that receptionist with her desk so orderly and her haircut so perky. Pissed that the coffee tastes like
absolute water. Pissed that I forgot my sunglasses in my car parked two blocks away and the sun is glaring through those huge windows. Pissed that the
whole damn world isn’t stopping because I’m here in Hell. Pissed that my child is back there where I can’t be. Pissed that a skilled stranger
will cut his beautiful, precious flesh.
Indeed, Hell on earth resides in the surgery waiting room of St. Ignatius Children’s Hospital.