The Only Girl in the Band

The Only Girl in the Band...[Part 26]

I hated hospitals. They just spelled bad news. Almost 99% of the time that people are in hospitals, it's for bad news. The other 1% is for people having babies. But that could be bad news for some people, depending on how they viewed life.

It was just the feel of them that I can't stand. They're so...so clean. You would think that a place so clean would smell better. Ack, the stench. Of bleach and cleaning supplies. Of sterilized hallways.

And the fluorescent lights cast shadows on everyone's face, making even the healthiest person look sickly pale. The doctors walking by kept their heads down, not making eye-contact. As if if they looked into someone's eyes, they would see fear and disappointment; the lingering of death and bad news.

I sat outside the emergency room. My mother walked back and forth in front of the doors. They wouldn't let us in. Ian sat on one side of me, his hand resting gently on my knee. Mae sat on my other side, clasping one of my hands in her own.

I looked down at my hands now. They looked pale blue under the horrible hospital lights. Mae's looked a sickly yellow color. Ian's looked purple. I wondered half-mindedly what color my father's hands looked like right now.

Click. Clack. Click. Clack.

The sound of my mother's heels echoed in the silent hallways. I watched her pace worriedly. Her hair was coming out of its usual tight bun. I could make out the grey hairs. I saw worry lines plastered on her forehead. She kept wringing her hands and occasionally brush a tear from her eye before it could escape.

My mother never liked showing weakness. She was always a strong-willed woman with ambition; a true feminist, but with a conserative background. A living juxtaposition. When I was 7, we had travelled to South Africa because my parents were doing some charity work there with their law firm. They couldn't leave me at home because I was too young and my mother didn't believe in nannies. During the trip, I got bit by a mosquito and got malaria. I fell so ill and was taken to the hospital right away. I still remember the look on my mother's face when the doctor's strapped IV bags to my wrists. When she thought I was asleep, I heard her whisper, "My baby..." ever so softly. Whenever I got frustrated with her, I always thought back to that memory. She had a strange way of showing it, but she did love me. And I loved her, no matter how much I denied it.

The doctor walked out. He was wearing light blue scrubs, his face mask hanging underneath his chin. He wiped his brow as my mother approached him.

"How-" my mother croaked. She paused and cleared her voice. "How is he?" she asked him in a clear, strong voice.

"He'll be all right. The surgery was a success. I'll discuss the details with you later as I'm sure you'd like to see your husband right now," he replied. My mother nodded. I let go of Mae's hand and stood up to follow her.

"Can I visit him, too?" I asked the doctor. He looked at me with pursed lips.

"It isn't good for him to see too many people at once. I think your mother should go for now. We can't stress the patient so soon after surgery," the doctor replied. With that, he walked down the hall, his shoes squeaking slightly on the clean floors. I followed my mom anyways, but didn't go into the room. I stood a small distance, peering at the two as they conversed.

I smiled. If someone ever asked me what true love was, I would say what my mother and father had. They both cared deeply for each other. The only person my mother would show weakness in front of was my dad. And even though they fought all the time, they would make-up so quickly and without any drama. They were perfect for each other. I couldn't imagine what would happen to my mother if something had gone wrong in the surgery. My father was everything to her. She couldn't lose him.