Given the last time I’d seen Dr. Carver was when I was in his office stomping my feet like a sugar-crashing toddler, chatting with him before my mother’s procedure was awkward at best. The nurse had taken my mother back to do all of her vitals, and things of that nature, while Dr. Carver discussed what to expect during and after the minutes-long procedure.
I sat at his desk, in an office I’d never been to before. We weren’t at Breezy Pointe, which was nice on a superficial level. This office was more clinical. Sterile, with mock 1940’s Coca-Cola advertisements on the wall. Bizarre, I thought, given the obesity crisis the medical community rants about. Though, I suppose if you have someone in front of you who is literally losing their minds, offering them a Coke is the least you can do.
“Georgia.” He nodded, the way a principal might. Then he took a casual seat and fussed with his lab coat. His next lab was my mom’s brain. I wanted to burn the coat.
“Hi, Dr. Carver. How long will the procedure last?” I didn’t need him to retell the tale of why they were doing the procedure and what the procedure consisted of, or a discussion of why were incessantly calling it a procedure.
When people go in for most other procedures, they outline the parameters. Not here. Here, it was a procedure, because no matter how you sliced it, you couldn’t keep the electro out of the conversation.
“Just a few minutes.”
I knew how long it would last. As I said, I’d been doing my homework. I just felt the need to act like I gave a shit about what he said. Maybe my attitude wasn’t fair. He’d been an exceptional doctor to my mom, but he was still the one who was going to be zapping her brain. There are some things I just can’t look past in a person.
Procedure will last a few minutes.
Procedure.
She’ll be monitored in recovery for a couple of hours.
Go home.
Those were the highlights of the conversation. I couldn’t be in the room for a number of reasons, all of which prevented me from having to scream, I don’t want to be in there.
So, I waited. I didn’t count ceiling tiles or entertain the fish in the oversized tank with my longing gaze. There was no playing around on my smart phone, because if it were so smart, it would transform into a portal through which I could escape. I didn’t want to be angry at my phone for not existing outside of reality, so I left it in my backpack.
“Georgia Hall?” The pleasant nurse who wasn’t much older than thirty had a calm smile on her face. Not an overly enthusiastic one. I appreciated the common sense of her facial muscles.
I flowed from sitting to standing in one overly graceful motion. One that I’m sure made it look like I was trying not to look as twisted up inside as I felt.
“That’s me,” I chirped. I was done trying not to seem anxious. I needed to let it all out before I saw my mom.
“Everything went well. She’s still coming out of anesthesia, so we can’t let you back yet. Did you and your mother discuss you going home before she was released?”
My ears got hot. “No ... why would I go home?”
The nurse tilted her head. “It might be a few hours before she’s ready to go home, and we won’t be able to let you back to see her for quite some time. You might want to go get food or something?”
I looked around, not having an answer. Not having a place to go, really. “I’ll stay here.”
I put enough conviction behind it that she didn’t try to encourage me again to leave. “Okay. Well there’s a deli two buildings down if you get hungry. Other than that, just make yourself comfortable, and we’ll be out to get you as soon as we can.”
“K...” I trailed off with a slight shrug. I’d hoped to be there when my mom came out of anesthesia.
Who am I kidding? I’d hoped not to be here at all. Once those expectations were blown, I didn’t bother forming new ones.
I shuffled back to my seat and took out my cell phone as a matter of procedure. There was no one I had to notify about how it went or how long we’d be. I did a double-take as I was about to slide my phone back into my bag. I had a text message. Tapping on the envelope icon, I noted a message from a number I didn’t recognize. Because I didn’t keep any numbers in my phone besides my mother’s. It was too risky, putting someone’s number in your contacts like you were going to let them stick around enough to be “tapped” for a phone call one lazy Sunday.
Hey, the message started, the food was a hit! All gone within the first half of our session.
Regan? I typed back.