The medicinal scent, an artificially sweet scent mixed with chemicals I can’t pronounce, permeated the room. It was a scary place. I looked over at the nightstand of my “home” for the past ten months. There was George, my best and only friend at the time.
His once-pristine jammie top was stained. Spills from careless nurses and miscellaneous hospital grime. His smile, though stitched on, told me that he didn’t mind. “Erin, we’re in this together!”
To me, it feels like maybe five years ago. I still can’t believe it has been seventeen years. I have aged, fourteen to closing in on my 31st year. A little too old to have a stuffed animal.
But George isn’t just your run-of-the-mill plush toy. Every time I look to the left of my bed sitting on my gunmetal gray loveseat, I see him, smiling widely. “Erin, this journey is scary, but again, we’re in this together!”
Looking at my friend is bittersweet. I purchased him, probably with babysitting money. When I could walk, talk, you name it. Obviously, that was pre-1998, when all possibilities were open to me. George got me through this terrifying place. A place where I survived; survived a virus predicted to take my life. Survived against all odds.
All I can say is thank you, George. But thank you isn’t strong enough.
Dear God, the letter read I came across on my jog. I felt nosy reading some child’s correspondence with The Big Guy. I found it endearing, but it also troubled me. As a postal worker, I knew what would come of it. Dead letter pile. I couldn’t let that happen. With two parents out of work and a brother with cancer, this youngster needed some help! Back home, I called my boss. I explained the situation. “We’re really not hiring,” he said, “but we can find something.” Another call, remembering our church secretary just quit. He works in mysterious ways.
Granted, things were far from perfect in the 1940s. Still, I feel like I was born in the wrong generation. It’s not that I’d like war rationing or blackout curtains, but—and call me simple—I’d love to have a 1940s kitchen. Here’s what a typical family’s would look like:
A white Sunbeam electric mixer and coral tins, a little bright for her husband’s taste, but they were a wedding present, contained the kitchen essentials: flour, coffee, sugar, and one not in use. There was a toaster that is so unpredictable, the toast could be burnt to a crisp one day and in it’s original state another morning. The white refrigerator’s exterior contained report cards, finger paintings, and reminders: John had a dentist appointment on Thursday and Abby’s ballet class was Tuesday not, Wednesday.
No email reminders from Abby’s ballet teacher or text reminders from John’s dentist—but also no Downton Abbey or Amazing Race, either. Maybe 2015 has something to offer after all.
I’m enrolled in WordPress’s Writing 101 for the next four weeks so I’ll continue to post, but excuse me if things seem a bit odd! For instance, today’s assignment was a 20-minute free write. As you can see, it takes me a long time to type so my 20 minutes’ worth isn’t as much as other people’s.
Almost giddy about getting some answers tomorrow. But what if the test comes back normal? Will I have to live like this until he gets it right? And the new stuff makes me like a zombie and that’s it. What now? Can’t take it anymore.