Today, my diaries, I have my health health check up and a sports physical. This takes place at a hospital, of course, and so here I am, sitting in a waiting room that smells faintly of sweat and sickness, and strongly of the cleaner that every hospital in the entire world seems to use.
Being in hospitals is about the worst thing that I can imagine. After my scary run-in with death back in my Freshman year, I don’t feel as if being in a hospital is something that I ever want to do, even if it’s for something as minor as a physical. Nothing good ever happens in hospitals for me.
We’re moved from, the waiting room into one of those tiny exam rooms where you feel as if they’re trying to make you have a claustrophobic panic attack. Something I don’t understand is why the urgent cares rooms in this hospital are at least five times the size. I guess you deserve luxury if you think you might be dying.
There is a woman in the next room laughing very loudly. Because that’s just what I want to hear, the sounds of someone either enjoying torturing people, or someone being tortured. Now, I understand that my viewpoints on this are a little extreme, but hospitals are a place for misplaced and hopeful optimism and for dying. You’re either told that you’re healthy, or that something is wrong with you. This is a place where people you don’t know get to know everything about you, and also where they have the right to tell you: Hey, eat less, exercise more, and take these pretty little pills so you don’t die.
That’s why it’s so awkward to be posting a blog here. It’s like, oh, yeah, maybe I’ll just slip in a little bit of pursuing one of my passions right in the middle of my panic attack and worst nightmare. That seems like an excellent idea.
As I was laying on my back allowing a nice female doctor to probe my stomach, I noticed that someone had torn out a picture of a sandy beach scene from a magazine and taped it to the ceiling. Because, of course, on a basics level, the idea that someone would want to see something pretty should seem rather calming to a patient.
But really, that’s silly. Because when I look at that picture, I think: I’m going to die in this hospital before I ever see that sandy beach in Fiji or Morocco or wherever the hell it happens to be.
I am now awaiting my very last hoop to jump through, the shots. Ohhh,needles piercing my skin, and now that I’m 18, I was the one to sign that slip of paper saying that was okay with me. See? Hell in a health facility.
I must go now, we are leaving this terrible place and going for food and less terrifying things.