In response to Sunday Scribblings #202 Ethic/ Ethical I wrote this short piece.
As the nurse called my name, mom rose from her seat to go with me. I shot her a look. I am thirteen now and I didn’t need a maternal escort into the examining room. After all it was only a sore throat. The odour of medicinal potions and antiseptics filled my senses as I followed the nurse down the long corridor. Nurse Myrna takes me to room no. 3 and slides my file in the tray on the wall. “Get up on the examining table, the doctor will be in shortly.” she tells me.
Left alone in the room, I look around. You’d think they would pick better posters for the walls, like Scott Baio or John Stamos from Tiger Beat instead of the colourful diagram of the digestive system or the inner workings of an ear. My throat was sore, like swallowing broken glass. I’d say it was tonsillitis but I had them out years ago.