Just write something.

I wrote this about eight months ago, and haven’t really known what to do with it. I’m not really sure how I feel about it, it comes off a little too personal than I really like to share, but, I feel like I need to do something with it. So here, I present it, in it’s original unaltered form.

And hey, it beats talking about what’s really bothering me!

So, here we go:

You do realize you’re going to need to write something now, don’t you?
I hear those words echoing in my brain, ever since they were told to me. Constantly. Unending. Write something. Sure I can do that. Of course I can. I love to do that. I write all the time.
Except, the second it’s for something important I freeze up. Freeze up, put it off, ignore it. Leave it until, either inspiration comes, or the deadline buzz comes in and saves me. But what if there is no deadline? What if it’s not really that important? But what if it’s so important that it NEEDS to be done? Well, then, I’ll probably end up putting it off, finding an excuse and never finishing it.
Because, here’s the thing, if there’s no deadline, or no ACTUAL deadline, no ticking countdown clock above my desk (I really should get one of those), I’m never going to allow my indecisive brain to take it seriously. Or rather, my indecisive brain, will never allow me.
My next step is to go on defense, It NEEDS to be done, so I’m going to tell EVERYONE in my support system. I’m going to make them badger me, and bug me, until I irritatedly throw my hands in the air and yell FINE! I need to tell all of them, because if I leave it up to one, or just two, well, they’ve got lives outside of keeping me from wandering off (brain-wise, or actually wandering off, it’s known to happen), and simply being my friend (God bless them if they sign on for a close friend position) is enough of a headache by itself, I mean, do you see all the parentheticals, that’s how I am ALL the time, but with talking.
So, my first suggestion comes back:
“Kevin needs to write about glitter, hugs, unicorns and rainbows.”

I began to think about this. I could possibly work with this. I could…..

….I had to stop here. Life gets in the way. Things change. Life happens. The usual. You know how it goes.
I ended up in an ER, waiting room with my mom. Waiting. It’s a not too uncommon place for me to be, I’ve gotten fairly used to it. I spent my whole life waiting (I practically grew up in?) in hospital waiting rooms, and ERs, and doctors offices, and clinics, and.. well, you get the idea. That’s what happens when your mom is sick. Not sick all the time, one time, that just affected her, and by default me, as well as my entire family, for the rest of, well, everything.

It’s 9:45. I try to concentrate back on writing. Get back to where I left off.

The next suggestion given to me (by the same person):
“Write a Princess story, so it can be animated.”

Most people would be offended. I’m hardly offended. I’m well known as being the princess guy, although really, it’s more than that, I’m the DISNEY GUY, the Disney Animation guy, but that’s a story for another day.
I’ve thought about the suggestion ever since it was given to me. I’ve thought about it for a while. I thought about it while sitting in an uncomfortable chair, listening to a woman bellow at her children. Restless. Climbing over their seats. Climbing over her.

“Why do we have to be here still?” The boy asks.
“Because, WE”RE FAMILY, THAT”S WHAT WE DO!” She roars back.
The little girl drops her DS with a thud.

I go back to my notes. Why would anybody want me to write about an awkward princess with social anxiety issues? Well, possibly, maybe. I give it a try:

Ugh. Sun. I do NOT need this today.
“Rise and shine, duckling, we’ve got a busy day ahead of us!”
Handmaiden! Gluh! I threw the pillow back over my face, “Tell them I died!”
“Yes, dear.” Her cheery voice dropping rapidly to stern, “I’m sure that will go over wonderfully.”

Something like that, I suppose? Or better. I can’t guarantee better. It’s an interesting start. Perhaps for a later time. I’m much better at the interpersonal, introspective, I think. I’d need to find a real “hook” to really draw me in.

Something personal.

I’m just not in the headspace to do this right now. As I write this, I sit and I look around, the very very backed up ER. I don’t see any, ‘Noah Wylie’ type emergencies, but what do I know. We’ve been here an hour? More?
I’m getting pretty good at trying to figure out the plotlines of the USA Dramas silently playing on the television mounted to the wall beyond me. It took me a while to realize that I was watching a completely different series now. I’m calling this one, “Hottie-Milfs and Aging B-List Character Actors.” There’s a dude from Gilmore Girls on it. Cool.
I find myself more interested in the fact that there’s a hashtag logo in the corner of the screen, meaning as I assume, they are trying to entice people to “tweet” about this series on Twitter, and mark each tweet with a hashtag, in order to tack them. Interesting idea, I guess.
I choose not to update my Twitter. I feel weird posting where I am on Twitter, in this situation. I do let my friend know. I met her because of Twitter. It’s almost the same thing.
I’m starting to get antsy, myself. I leave the waiting room to go find coffee. I find a “Wolfgang Puck Gourmet Coffee Machine,” I’m not really sure how I feel about this.

I go back and I sit. And I notice and I wonder, how many days, how much of my time have I spent in waiting rooms? Medical offices.

Sometime after, I have a conversation with my friend.
“You’d think with all of this time spent in all of these medical places, I’d have the desire to go into a field of some sort, or at least, have the desire to learn more about this,” I tell her.
“No,” she tells me, “Why would you?”

Of course it makes sense, so much of this, has occupied so much of my life, of my time, why would I want it to take up more my headspace?

The waiting room is filled with people, lost souls, hopeless cases. I try not to look. Honestly, this is one of the least worrisome times I’ve waited with her. I can think of a million worse times, but I won’t. I shouldn’t. And I won’t. For the same reason I won’t make eye contact with the woman, who has one arm. Or the very old man in the wheelchair, whose face is bleeding.

They finally call us back. It’s probably close to 1 AM now. We get an observation room. I get a nametag. It says “Kevin.” We sit. There is more waiting. My ex-sister-in-law works here (for simplicities sake, we’ll leave it at that), not in the ER, but Ironically in the Neurology Department, but not the same section we usually attend. She isn’t working tonight, however.
I tell my mom.
“Oh, that’s too bad,” she says, “She was really nice last time.”
There is more waiting.

“It’s probably ok for you if you got a new girlfriend,” my mom tells me. “But, I understand If you don’t feel like you want one yet.”

“yes… Thank you.. I’ll see what I can do,” was my reply.

The first doctor comes in. She’s actually just a student, from France. With a very thick accent. I find her adorable. My mother asks her about her lab coat, which hospital she came from. She tells us she’s been in the country for a week and she understands English very well, but people have a hard time with her accent.
Don’t worry about it, I think to myself, it’s fascinating. I choose not to say it out loud. I pick up a slight antagonistic animosity between the French Student and the blonde nurse. The nurse’s tone is sharper with her, it’s subtle but I notice it.
The one thing that does seem to be lost in translation is my mother’s sense of humor, her dry sarcasm is lost on her. Lost on all the other Doctors, too, apparently. Either that, or they’re politely ignoring it. Something I’m very familiar with.
The doctors never seem perplexed by mom’s condition.
“Are you still receiving cancer treatments here?”
“no, not for a long time, like 17 years”
“why does she see a Neurologist here, then?”
“because,” I say dryly, “the radiation treatments 17 years ago”
“wait? Seventeen years? OH….”
And on and on, it’s the same with every doctor, every nurse, ever specialist, every time.
Now it’s closing in on Four AM. My First notebook is filled.
My phone has died. It doesn’t really matter. Anyone who I would talk to is long asleep. Those who I chose to tell. I honestly didn’t want to tell anyone. I didn’t want people to think I was fishing for sympathy. It’s also the reason why I don’t really tell people about my Mom, most of the time, anyway. I deliberately decided against telling specific people about tonight. I don’t want them to worry. It’s my burden to carry, and it always has been. I know I’m going to catch hell for it from some people (I did).
My phone died. It doesn’t matter. I’d run out of Facebook updates (Or Twitter, same diff, really) saying, “It feels like I’ve been here my whole life,” or something like that. I can’t post things like that. It goes against my not letting people know. It seems like I’m reaching for attention. I don’t even want my family to find out that way, have them worry, overreact, or somehow find a way to make me feel bad for this (believe me, I spend the second 3 hours running the ways it could possibly be my fault through my brain).
My phone died. It doesn’t matter. My eyes are blurring too badly, I can’t concentrate on any of these Disney animation blogs. I start falling asleep.

“Can you please get him some coffee? It’s no use if you guys fix me just for him to fall asleep driving me home.” I hear my mom tell the nurse. My Wolfgang Puck Gorment Coffee is long gone.

In a weird way, it’s the most quality time I’ve spent with my mom in a long time. Time we don’t really get to spend together anymore. In a strange way it’s a very familiar, routine, nostalgic, sentimental even, and strangely comfortable. As odd as that seems. It’s closing in on 5AM when I finally get home. I go to my computer, the first draft is sitting there, untouched from when I left, incomplete, vague, searching for the next line, waiting for me to write something.

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