Waiting

Whilst we flounder as a nation, wondering about the myth of leadership, pondering how modern politics became the farce we have to be held hostage to, the waiting room of the breast clinic is buzzing with idle conversation. Behind me, two women are auditioning for the Colchester reboot of 'The Muppets.' The cattiness off the comments is impressive and makes me miss my maternal grandmother. Sweet 

Once in the exam room, I don't actually remember the last time my top came off so fast. Pretty sure it didn't involve dinner but I imagine it was more enjoyable. Apparently, it is a good sign that the issue is global, that these two like to play up together. 

I'm grateful but antsy, waiting for radiology. Bags are packed and I'm still not sure if I am taking a car, driving or chancing public transport. It took 3 hours to get home last night. This visit is so strategically targeted, I have to actively not clench my jaw. 

The imaging equipment is named Pristina. I'm not sure that the GE marketing team really hit the mark with that one, but what do I know; I'm only the target demographic.  

Back in the waiting room, I quell envy that people have people with them. In th end, I didn't ask anyone to accompany me but I wonder if that is out of stubbornness or consideration?  Who would I ask? The co-parent? A girlfriend? The ones I would ask are oceans away or are weighed down with their own concerns.  This isn't heavy, just uncertain. A few minutes later, an ultrasound and a sigh of relief: unlikely to be anything nefarious, just keep 'em cool and breezy. The relief is real. I can work with that. I debate the merits of an overdue idle afternoon but it isn't right time to make plans to do the wrong things.

Before I realise it, I am in a taxi heading back towards the house. I wonder how I would fare as a taxi driver and then shake my head.  My brother rings as soon as I am getting in the car and I update him on where we stand re dead dad bureaucracy and getting him self-sufficient.  I smile at the driver in thanks as he grabs my suitcase (packed strategically; I've been given marching orders!) 

I hate telling Jay that we have to source a new back up Trustee, that his childhood friend can't handle the weight of potential responsibility. Really, can any of us? Is potential responsibility like worry? Interest on a loan that never comes due? What do we call it, that assumption that another will always hold a thought or feeling? How short-sighted to think that something like potential is love and is ever hinged on one moment.

Heathrow looms ahead, so many options. There was a moment on Sunday where I almost rested my forehead against the co-parent's shoulder, for the sake of human contact and familiarity.  I skated quickly away from that dead-end, moved through the moment, relishing my littles' embraces instead. Not out of malice or angst, but because it is no longer a safe harbour, that shoulder, that crook of an elbow, if it ever was. I shake my head, eyes smarting briefly. I make sure to pat myself down again. On repeat. Money, passport, tickets. Money, passport....

All of the above. Eventually, I'm safe through security. Safe. Safe. That word again. 'Safe.'

'A strong fireproof cabinet with a complex lock, used for the storage of valuables.'

'Protected from or not exposed to danger or risk; not likely to be harmed or lost.'

'Cautious and unenterprising.'

Sliding into a seat, the click of a the safety building. Suspending fear. Trusting into multiple strangers that they have only the best of intentions, that I'll wind up where I am supposed to be.