Monday, July 11, 2011

Don't smile, your face will crack.


“Hi, I’d like to get my parking ticket validated, please,” I asked as I handed my card over to the security guard at the hospital’s front desk.  I was on my way out after visiting Conor.

I’d seen this guy before.  He looked like he was in his mid-thirties, a little overweight, an open face and—you can tell by how he calls out to all the women who work there—thinks he’s a ladies man.

“Don’t worry, everything will be all right,” he cheerfully says to me as he hands the card back.  “You have such a sad expression, I mean.”

I politely gave him a small, perfunctory smile and headed out in to the humid Baltimore air.

How the fuck does he know everything’s going to be all right, I yelled to myself, in my head. For Christ’s sake, he works the front desk of a freakin’ hospital, he should know better. 

Don’t make me those types of trite promises, I want to tell him, because if it doesn’t come true, I’ll be even more devastated than I already am.  I’ve learned, over the years, to manage my expectations.  It’s better for everyone that way.

Luckily, I got half way down the block before I started feeling the tears running down my face.  I let myself cry until I reached my car in the parking garage and then choked them back. 

That’s enough of that, I tell myself.

2 comments:

  1. Again, I can completely relate to your postings. Thanks so much for continuing to write while Conor is in the hospital.

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  2. Thanks, Christine, I'll try. The hospitalization was unforeseen and really threw us for a loop! We're in town and so we see him every day, which gives me lots to keep writing about!

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