Untitled draft of something...

So I do this quasi-performance-art-exchange-of-narratives-club-thing at school. We call ourselves the Rubber Duckies - don't ask, there isn't a story behind it - and we craft these performances for various assemblies and events for the school. Anyway, here's the piece I did last Friday.

Seven. In case you are wondering. It’s seven. The number of times I can say the Lord’s Prayer in one minute. Seven.

Why do I know this?

Because I’m stuck here. In a hallway surrounded by what appear to be very large vending machines filled with medical supplies like intubator kits and IV bags, forceps and sterile gauze, waiting. For her to be prepped for surgery. And from here it seems, I can do nothing, but watch the clock. And pray.

It’s not a big surgery. Not one of those moments from a primetime TV drama where some renegade, but likable, doctor is going to swoop in at the last second with some absolutely genius way of removing a live hand grenade from a man’s chest cavity.

No.

It’s a planned c-section. One decided on in a small room, in a calm and rational manner without threat to either the mother or my daughter.

My daughter – that’s odd to say. Don’t get me wrong, I really wanted to have kids, but to be a parent, that’s something I’m still not sure I’m ready for.

Huh.

It’s funny, you know, because here. In this hallway. Legally. Technically. She isn’t my daughter yet at all.

But here I am, trapped between triage rooms and pre-sterilized scalpels, praying. For something that isn’t even born.


Just thought I'd share it here since I'm apparently too uninspired to actually blog.