EPTIf you're unsure of what this blog is about, it's just generally food for thought [of my day] so 1. ease back and get out your utensils, 2. don't fill up on bread and 3. tip your waiter with your own thoughts or sentiments.
Thanks
Winter Parmesan and Myself, Tortellini
On the other side of the hospital (Part 2).
Where we left off...
I miss those times where the moments didn't matter, because it was just the boys dicking around. I looked back at those times as I sat on this blue chair. Wreaking of a liquid not so clear in coloring or in H20 specifically, eyes tightened shut and luggage of memories unraveling to the front of my thoughts...
*Source: http://www.teamliquid.net/blogs/viewblog.php?id=212633
While minding my blind business, a palm sloppily fell on my shoulder: "Monsieur Cohen?". I looked up to acknowledge the call from a rather hoarse and raspberry voice. Told me that he was simply going to be my escort for when they called me. I nodded, smiled and said my thanks. I extended my hand to shake another, but was left as cold as the weather outside. The wind has picked up and it brought chills during its travels. I dressed well, suitably given my predicament, yet I forgot the most quintessential piece of them all: my scarf and coat. The coat isn't important in terms of sentimentality. In fact, when you see my coat you easily think of synonymous words: ragged and try "piece of shit", because in all honesty, it's garbage and has many holes (below the armpit, on the shoulder and the lining of my pockets have long been divided). However the scarf is important for me because of my relationship with my father, or rather the lack of knowledge of my father as a person. The scarf is about... perhaps 30 to 40-years old if that is conceivable. It was my father's during his years of schooling in Belgium (medical school?) and apparently he never liked it. Yeah... that's it. That's the entire story of the scarf and believe it or not, it radiates this emotional value for me despite only the basics being outlined of its origin, use and adventures. I never understood why, is it because I never knew and never inquired much about my father's past, never a tabooed topic, just never a checkpoint of interest in our marching towards a kindled relationship?
With my eyes shut, the pain slowly losing its grip and glare on my mind, I began to hear an emphasis slowly seeping into my attention. All originally seemed quiet, the wind bellowing what voice it had left, blathering wet heavy rain onto the entrance of this dingy hospital. To my right was an officer, a guard perhaps? His authoritative voice, clear and crisp as it may be, boomed more loudly than the sudden rise of bustling noise that emerged from all directions. I began to feel overwhelmed: who is that coughing up tumbleweeds to my right? Why is the officer trying to project sternness to that presumed girl who is apparently sitting improperly. He asks her if she's really sick, how appalling, yet she begins to plead, begs to be allowed to stay. Her voice shriveled more and more as she was moved, perhaps against her own will, perhaps knowing the answer without anything to be said. How I wish to open my eyes, yet... appreciative a physical pain could censor me from the emotional pain of seeing one denied hospitality for whatever the reason (homeless refugee?). Behind was the monotone call of the intercom, stale with each pronunciation of syllables of one's name: My-Cole Co-Hen, salle [room] 6, My-Cole Co-Hen, salle [room] 6.
Up I rose, faster than Steve McQueen himself, ready to get this over with after a good 3 hours waiting to be serviced. For an emergency room, the service was immensely long. Is this normal, typical? As I said before, I've never been on this side of the hospital, a side that needs treatment, that needs the expertise of another. Yet... I realize only know that the expertise from my father was the one treatment I yearned for as a child.
The issue with the delay of treatment is that by the time I got there, I was no longer in pain. The doctor came in, sat me down. Tossed around a few general questions and then just had me open my eyes. I did, simply put, I cracked the shutters and took a quick analysis of my doctor: late 40s, 235 pounds, 5'10 and uncomfortable with work shoes. Unmarried, but is likely or should be in a serious relationship due to his age as well as the start of his receding hairline, both points of worries he's considered if you gander at the choice of clothes he wears (unbuttoned polo shirt, casual pants and yet... leather black work shoes, curving upward with finesse). He granted me a smile, crooked with numerous dental work he's had (back molars are black, similar to my father's dental work who was in his early 50s) and complimented the three ridges of wrinkles paving a path on his forehead and appraised by his bushy brows, slowly losing grasp of their rich black color.
I told him that this problem I've been having has happened twice, that it would hurt for hours on end. I explained this in french considering the last time I tried English, I was toyed into accepting that I'm good enough in french anyways. He nodded, maybe half-listening while he fills the blank on my chart. He gives me the "mhm", has me read a chart to test my eyesight (which I don't understand why considering it's more of a pain issue than a visual impairment issue) and sends me on my way after finding nothing (the pain stopped long ago, so naturally its source may have vanished as well if there was any at all).
Dissatisfied, I left for he had already departed as well, absenting the door behind him and without any cordial good-bye or wish of wellness. Not the biggest issue, but doctors should be glad that they don't need tips to sustain themselves financially. I walked outside proud, rejuvenated that I was now on the majority side. I scanned the waiting room I blindly made myself with familiar, but it had already shuffled with new people; new voices, new sickness, same need to be whole again. Upon stepping outside, the rain peppered my face. I was to either take a Taxi, Metro or just walk it. For some reason I chose to front the cold and walk it.
Conclusively, I walked it. It was still early in the morning, the stores were not open and as I entered China Town here in Montreal, there was a certain romance of the air that left me gleeful of where I was. Amongst the disgruntled establishments, tilted due to the dis-leveled terrain, I felt this silence of wandered life through the street. Scattered were young girls, popping into the cozy illuminated Chinese bakeries, dazzled goodies parading themselves on the storefront, a contrast to the brutal weather that had many cower into their coats. To the distance, above the steam lurking the pebbled careless streets of China Town was a couple, co-leasing a pocket under the palm-tree of a dark umbrella, shading them from the shade of the clouds and sweat of the weather.
The whole thing was soothing, revealing of just how much I enjoy the moments where there are no moments, but purely what the narration can muster to justify our senses.
