I admit to my husband this has gone far enough and I ask to go to the hospital. I have been to the hospital before. I know to expect to be there for hours. I bring a book. My phone. I get dropped off early in the morning. Shouldn’t be so busy now. Through the rotating doors and across the hall into the triage area.
I take a seat. I am waved into the room. I speak quietly and answer the questions as best I can, but try to avoid sounding as insane as I feel. I don’t give everything away. Vitals taken, I move on to registration and follow a yellow line taped on the floor to another waiting room.
The waiting room is small. Like an oversized closet someone has jammed yellow plastic seats into. There is a TV just outside the room on the wall and if you tilt your head just right, you can see CP24. So thankful that it is there. I love the news. Love the comfort of another voice taking over the thoughts in my head. With every crime, I can breathe easier knowing at least I didn’t have something to do with it.
