Diary of a Pessimist

The pediatrics wing is exactly as you’d expect it to be – lonely and depressing. Annie pulls me out of the elevator and to the right, still grinning. She looks out of place here, a bright little ball of energy in a place that has the ability to suck all the life out of you. There’s a mural painted along the hallway that leads to the nurse’s station full of scenes from Dr. Seuss with bright and colorful characters that scream fake happiness at you. I suppose it’s supposed to comfort the patients, but I can’t help but feel on edge. If I were in a hospital, I wouldn’t want to be reminded of all the happy things I wasn’t doing and seeing. I would be more comforted by plaques and awards hanging in the hallways so I would know that my doctors were competent.

This is all I can think about as we pass room after room. I try not to look in but the open doors are like magnets and they seem to call for me to stare. A few rooms are empty, but most have at least one kid in them. I can’t decide which is worse; the rooms that have tired parents slumped in the uncomfortable armchairs, or the rooms in which the kids are all alone. Simultaneously, I also can’t decide the best way of getting back at Annie for forcing me to come here - I can’t think of a worse way to spend my Saturday morning. We reach the nurse’s station only to find that there is no one here. Annie seems undeterred, but I’m pissed.

“Great,” I mutter to myself, but Annie hears me and smacks me on the shoulder playfully.

“Relax,” she says. “This is going to be fun!”

I roll my eyes and lean against the counter with my arms crossed. Annie stands across from me tapping her hands on her thighs to a beat of a song that only she knows and looking around contentedly. I don’t understand how she can be so relaxed in a place like this. I can feel the tension in my shoulders as time ticks by; I could not be more out of my element. I don’t like children and hospitals put me on edge to the nth degree. So why am I in a place that combines two of my worst fears? Annie. Annie and my mother are the reason.

Suddenly a voice is talking from the hallway behind us a mile a minute. “Oh my, I’m so, so, so unbelievably sorry I’m late. There was an emergency with one of the patients and then my daughter is home sick and called in to ask me a question and then I forgot my lunch in my car so I ran back to go get it…were you waiting long?” The woman pauses to take a breath, finally, only to gasp again. “Oh! I’m so sorry I’m being rude, I’m Dr. Green.”

There are two reasons why I am shocked with this initial meeting with Dr. Green. The first is because I am standing in front of what I can imagine Annie to be when she is in her mid to late forties. The second is because I had never imagined Dr. Green to be a woman.

Annie sticks her hand out to shake Dr. Green’s hand, saying excitedly, “I’m Annie! And this is my friend Matt. We just got here a few seconds ago so don’t worry about it.”

The two beam at each other as Dr. Green moves to shake my hand as well. “It’s a pleasure to meet both of you. You don’t know how much this means to me and all the kids that you’re helping out around here. If you follow me I’ll show you what you’ll be doing.”

We follow her down the hallway towards a set of double doors. Annie and Dr. Green chatter on excitedly about something, but I’m not paying them much attention. Instead, I just stare into the rooms, despite my best attempts not to. When we reach the door I notice a sign taped to the window that reads, “Always use hand sanitizer!” in bold print with a small disclaimer underneath that says, “Ask your nurse or doctor if your child is permitted in beforehand.” Dr. Green stops us for a moment and motions to a Purell dispenser attached to the wall next to the door.

“Before we go in we have to sanitize.” She explains.

We all use the Purell to scrub our hands thoroughly, and I am confused for a moment before Dr. Green opens the door for us and we walk in. It’s a playroom. To the left there is a reading area with several bookcases and beanbag chairs thrown in a circle around a rug. The other side of the room has some chairs pushed up against the wall that I assume were so the parents could sit and watch their children play. The wall opposite the chairs is lined with plastic bins full of toys. Once again, the room was designed to comfort and send happy vibes – the walls are bright yellow and there are windows everywhere to let the light in, but I can’t help feeling trapped in here. It’s yet another reminder of the sickness that permeates the entire building, and I feel as if it’s killing me the way it’s killing the patients.

“So really all you guys have to do is read to the children.” Dr. Green is explaining to us. Annie stands next to her, nodding attentively, but I’m still distracted by the sheer wrongness of the room. “There isn't going to be that many kids, there’s only a few that are feeling up to coming down.”

“So we can read them whatever we want?” Annie asks.

“Sure,” Dr. Green says brightly. “They should be down here in a little while, I told them to come at ten. I have to go attend to some patients now though, so you can just hang out here until they come. I’m going to have one of the nurses sit in with you guys in case anything goes wrong so you don’t have to worry. Have fun!”

With that, Dr. Green leaves us. Annie beams at me before rushing off to one of the bookcases. She starts reading off titles to me, asking me to help her pick one, but I can’t focus on her. It feels like my chest is starting to cave in on itself and I can’t breathe. I check my watch – it’s only nine thirty. I figure if I disappear for a while Annie won’t mind, she’s busy with her own excitement anyway. I duck out of the door and rush back down the hallway. I don’t really have any idea where I’m going; all I can focus on is trying to settle my breathing down to a normal pace again. Finally, I realize that I have nowhere to go and I decide to sit on the ground against the wall.

I rest my head on my knees and just focus on taking steady breaths. I don’t think I can make it through another five and a half hours here. I just can’t. I don’t like helping people. I don’t like hospitals. I don’t like sickness. I don’t like children. Everything feels like it’s piling up on top of my chest. When I was little I used to get panic attacks that felt just like this. My mom said they ran in the family, that her brother and her mom used to get them too, but I’m pretty sure she made that up just to make me feel better. I remember her sitting with me during the attacks and helping me to slow down my breathing. She would make up stupid stories to distract me or sometimes turn on a movie for me. I can hear her voice in my head counting as I breathe in and out, and I can feel my breaths now starting to slow down.

After a couple of minutes I feel better, and I consider returning to the playroom to help Annie pick out books to read to the children. But I’m afraid that if I go back so soon the panic attack will return so I wait a few more minutes. I glance at my watch - it’s only nine forty - I can afford to wait a little longer. Thankfully, it seems that the hospital’s pediatrics wing isn’t all that busy so there’s no one around to witness my lapse in sanity. Having to explain what is going on to someone, especially a complete stranger, always makes the panic attacks so much worse than they already are. When my watch reads nine fifty, I decide I should head back to the playroom even though it’s the last place I want to be right now.

Annie barely seems to have noticed that I left when I return. She’s distracted by her discussion with a nurse that must have arrived a few minutes before I came back. Annie’s asking her about the kids that are coming and what kind of stories she thinks they would like, rambling on as usual. Once again I’m shocked at how normal Annie can be here, but I guess it comes with her personality. I glance around the room, trying not to think about all the sickness and sadness that lives in this room and my eyes finally land on a small boy sitting in one of the chairs designated for the parents. He looks to be about seven or eight years old with short blonde hair that I can’t tell if it has been cut like that or if it’s just growing back. The thing that strikes me the most about him is how still he sits perched in his chair, one hand holding onto the IV that extends from his left hand.

He catches me staring at him, and I feel obligated to go over to him. “Hi,” I say as I sit down next to him awkwardly.

“Hi,” the kid mutters back without even looking at me.
From up close I can now see that he has the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. They’re big and round and bright, despite the tired bags that sit under them.

“I’m Matt,” I say and hold my hand out to shake his.

He glances at me for the first time but only holds eye contact for a fraction of a second before his eyes flit down to my hand. After a split second hesitation he grips my hand firmly but quickly lets go again.

“I’m Jackson.”