Mom blog: My daughter in urgent care

MY OWN LITTLE BUNDLE OF JOY My daughter needs to sit down too – “it’s my
FOOT, remember Mum?” – so she sidles off and finds a chair and attempts
math homework. “This is really hard.” “Who cares how high this building
is?” “I can’t do this.” “I need a calculator.” I offer her my phone,
which has a mean calculator. “Mum, I need one that does the cos thing.”
The cos thing? Cosco? “Could that be cosine, dear?” Have I just peeled
back 15,000 layers of memory matter to land in grade 10 math?!?!? “Sure,
cosine, whatever, have I shown you these shoes yet?” and a fashion
magazine
materializes from her side, like Eve from the rib of Adam.
“These shoes are SO cool – ” fashion monologue stops, eyes alert to
behind me, where I slowly swivel to see male, tall, athletic, cute,
wearing a new CLEAN local university sweatshirt asking me politely (if
not somewhat cluelessly) “Is this the line?” (No handsome, this pileup
of humanity is a conga line – grab a chair and join in!). My daughter’s
magazine disappears and the math comes back out, and she starts witty
repartee about math and how insane it is. Young hunk listens up. Can
this be happening? Can my 15 year old finesse a conversation about math
with what appears to be a first-year university student?!?

STEP RIGHT UP WHILE MUMMY HAS A PANIC ATTACK No. Fate steps in and a
nurse calls next, and my daughter, working those long dancer legs as
only a dancer and Bambi can do, delicately makes her way up to the desk.
University boy is behind us now. Temp., history, blood pressure, pulse.
Move to the registration desk (I thought that’s what we were doing). No,
we were triaging. Then we register. While we are registering a very,
very tall version of Eminem comes in and walks right past The Line, past
the signs, the red and yellow lines painted across the floor and starts
in at the nurse. He needs to see a doctor. Now. Before he gets an
answer, a man in line points out there is a lineup, and Eminem swings
around, pulls his head and shoulders back in that here-comes-a-fight
posture and I say to our registering lady, “please call security, you’ve
got trouble over there.” The man, and his dad, and his big son move away
from the line and the talk is of the type: “this is a line” “oh yeah?”
“yeah, we are in the line” “So? I don’t need a line, I need a doctor,”
“so does everybody – get in the line.” Two nurses have rounded the
corner to Registration and security has been called. Big male docs come
from the examining rooms to see what the fuss is. Eminem is telling the
nurse, “So then call me an ambulance, NOW! Here I am!” Now, that’s
funny. She has obviously been explaining the prioritization of getting to
see a doctor. Black-garbed security dudes show up, and Eminem swings
outta there, with a string of four-letter words.

WHOA, THAT WAS EXCITING Registration completed, and the place all abuzz
from the showdown at the triage desk, we are directed to a sea of blue
chairs, where we all sit and watch CP24 with no sound. I read an entire
story in Toronto Life. It’s about the champagne-soaked world of teenage
models. A girl from my dancer’s class at school models with the same
agency. She has gone to Paris to work for Parasuco. You can get Parasuco
at Winners. Ha!

ERRANT THOUGHTS IN URGENT CARE As we cool our heels, Miss Puffed Foot
and I, a nurse tells University boy to go to room whatever down the
hall, take off all his clothes but his underwear, and wait. She called
this out so even the EMT girls outside could hear it. He took his time
walking down that hall, not like I watched or anything. My daughter
sniffed. “If anyone says that to me, I’m OUT OF HERE,” she hissed.

FROM YOUR LIPS TO GOD’S EAR Just as Urgent Care seemed to take forever,
so does this entry! To be continued…

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