The air smelled nauseating, a strange concoction of rubber gloves and Neosporin. Nurses with salt and pepper hair wearing hideous baby blue scrubs scurried around me, not once did their too-white shoes stop moving. If I weren’t so terrified, I would have been laughing about all the childish posters on the proper way to wash your hands or brush your hair. All I could think was, “I’m in an emergency room. About to go into surgery.” Nothing about this was familiar, except for the man sitting beside me in the uncomfortable waiting room chairs.
“Hey Daddy, do you think its gonna hurt when they cut me open?” I asked in a soft, scared voice. He lifted his head from the bike magazine, turning his green eyes to me. “No, I don’t think so Boo. They’ll give you special medicine so you don’t feel anything, and I’ll be right there beside you,” he said with a reassuring smile. I nodded, and returned to my iPod, humming along to an old Taylor Swift song.
My stomach ached, begging for some form of food. I glanced at the red clock hung on the obnoxiously yellow wall. 7:47 PM. I skipped lunch at school that day; my dad promised a lunch out to a restaurant of my choice after the doctor appointment. That was, until Dr. White said I needed to go to a hospital immediately. He also mentioned I wasn’t aloud to eat until after the surgery. With nothing but a granola bar in my stomach, I turned my head to my dad, once again. “Hey Daddy, when do you think I’ll be able to eat again? My tummy is rumbling.” He looked up from the magazine and said, “Right after the surgery, I promise. Although you probably won’t want to, we won’t be home until after midnight.” My tiny mouth dropped open. After midnight?! I’d never been out of the house past eight. I shrugged and blew my bangs away from my forehead, slumping in my seat.
Another patient was called into the room, leaving just me and the crazy teenager, on the phone talking about some stabbing that just occurred. Scary. I leaned my fragile head against my father’s strong sturdy shoulders. Hot tears rimmed my eyes, urging to come out. Suddenly, a lanky nurse strode in, calling my name in an unfamiliar accent. I lifted my limp body off of the chair, my dad following. He slipped his bulky hand into mine and gave it a reassuring squeeze. We walked into a room decorated with a panther mural and light green bed sheets.
A doctor came in, rambling on about medical procedures that my 10-year-old mind couldn’t begin to understand. After he was through, college aged nurses came in, sticking tubes in my arm and patches on my chest. They left us alone then, coming back in every five minutes to see if the IV shots had put me to sleep. With people running in and out of my room, one person never left my side. My dad. And as I drifted off to sleep, his face was the last thing I saw.