Friday February 6th, 2015

The exercise:

Write four lines of prose about: the clinic.

We took Max to a walk-in clinic in Penticton this morning, just to make sure he doesn't have anything more serious than a cold. The doctor confirmed that he doesn't, and gave us a few tips on how to help him with his sore throat and congestion.

So that's a relief.

Now I go back to waiting for this nonsense to be done with us.


There's a mother with two little girls in line ahead of us, the smaller one held in her arms while coughs wrack her tiny body. The guy slumped on a chair over in the corner looks like he's about ready to die, possibly from the plague. I look at my son, then my wife, then look around the waiting room one more time.

We came here to help him get better, right?


Greg said...

I wonder if the other people in the waiting room were looking and you and wondering why you'd come in there, since you weren't obviously ill. I can imagine the woman with the two girls pulling uneasily away from you, whispering "Lepers" to her daughters now... :)
Sounds like the trip was worthwhile though, and that's the important thing. And I did appreciate the little vignette as your four lines today.

The clinic
Joe walked outside and crossed the eighteen feet between the health centre and the clinic; he noted the roll-shuttered windows and the rusty iron grill on the door, giving the whole place a kind of zombie-movie chic. Then he was inside again, closing the door against the bitterly cold North wind, and looking at the receptionist.
"Why isn't this part of the health centre?" he asked.
"Clinical detachment," said the receptionist with a perfectly straight face.

ivybennet said...

Both of you have really good pieces today!

The Clinic:

I never thought in a million years I’d be sitting in this god-forsaken cold waiting room with the scantily clad women staring up at me with their fake eyes on the glossy covers of their magazines. I knew the receptionist was judging me; I pulled the edges of my cardigan closer together across my chest, adjusting my skirt so that as little of my legs showed as possible.
My hand flew to my stomach as I mumbled both a prayer of forgiveness and a prayer of protection. When the nurse called me back into the depths of the clinic, I could only hope that God really was all forgiving.

Marc said...

Greg - I may have looked all right, but Max didn't look great and he sounded worse. Thanks goodness that hoarse voice seems to be a thing of the past right now.

Haha, zombie movie chic. I like that a lot.

Ivybennet - thank you :)

Oof, yours has a real kick to the gut to it. A very delicate scene deftly handled.