The little bell chimed as I opened the door, announcing my arrival. The room I walked into, however, was empty. A dozen chairs were lined against the walls, which were very appropriately painted pink. Informative posters decorated the walls all around the room. I walked to the small window at the end of the room and tapped it lightly; after a few seconds a lady with black hair and bulging eyes slid it open. I told her why I was there and she nodded, then told me to take a seat and wait a few minutes. I picked up a magazine and sat close to the door by the small window. I was reading for about 5 minutes before I even realized that I had sat in the exact place as I had the first time I went there.
It was different that other time, though. It was earlier, but there was one more person in the waiting room. And I wasn’t alone. We walked in, talked to the same lady behind the window (some things never change) and sat on the second and third chairs by the door. I pretended to read a magazine that I didn’t even know what was about. He just sat quietly, his feet stretched out and his arms crossed, his unruly black hair hidden under his blue beanie. They called someone’s name and the only other person in the room got up and approached the window, then went through the door. I put the magazine down; there was no use. I looked at him, he looked at me. He patted my back as if saying that it would be okay, but what did he know about being ok? Then, maybe because the time was coming, or because I knew what to expect, or because I was afraid, or maybe because of all those reasons together, my eyes started to swell up and I tried, unsuccessfully, to sniff back some tears. “Don’t cry” he said, “please don’t cry.” It was his weakness, I knew, seeing a girl crying. He couldn’t handle it. And even though in the past I had done many things to catch his attention (and I did many more after that day), this wasn’t one of those times. I tried to stop, because they would be calling my name any moment and I didn’t want them to see me crying and take pity on me, because I was stronger than this… because he was asking me to. Especially because he was asking me to. But the truth is that I should’ve cried, because it was the least I could do and the most I could do at the same time, and most importantly it was all I wanted to do. But I guess I was, even then, subconsciously doing anything to please him.
The rest was a blur. Someone else came in, looking just as frightened as I, if not more. They called my name. I went in. I changed. I sat in a little room accompanied by a TV that was off and a bunch of old VCR tapes. Don’t cry. Before I knew it, I was prepped up in a small room with a nurse’s soothing voice, which turned out to be my salvation. What’s your name? I kept thinking, don’t cry. How old are you? No, it won’t hurt. Just a prick. You won’t feel a thing. You’ll be ok.
Don’t cry.
Turn your face sideways… yes, just like that. You’ll be ok, I’m right here.
Don’t cry.
It was hard being in the same room, seeing the same people, doing almost the same things. Only this time I was all smiles. I wanted to hug the nurse, who was, like last time, by my side asking me silly questions so I could relax. There was no sedative, only a nervous me and a 30 second procedure. All smiles. They hoped I came back soon, they said, with more good news. I was so happy I wanted to cry. But rules are rules, and as I walked out I said to myself:
Don’t cry.
