The one where I realize I was a soul-less child.

Children are strange. They have priorities in life that seem to escape logic and as adults the oddest pieces of childhood are remembered.
The other day, I shared one of those memories with my mom, who looked at me quizzically as if to confirm that I was still hers.

What I had recalled, you see, was my first brush with crime. But it was a crime that I had clearly willfully forgotten about because it was proof that as a child, I did not have a soul or indeed empathy for any other human being. Think pulling kitten’s tail, but worse. Think throwing someone’s prosthetic leg in the fire, but worse.

It’s time to come clean and share the moment that separated me from a loveable child and a heartless criminal.

“Oh, what did you take someone’s crayon?” you’re likely thinking with a forgiving wink in your eye.

“Did you purposefully muddy up your sister’s shirt because she and your cousin had the same one and you didn’t and you were jealous?"

Yes, that happened also, but this was worse.

I stole from an orphan. Nay - multiple orphans.

You hope I am exaggerating or using fanciful terminology, but you’re wrong.

Let me take you back to the years that formed me into a human being.

My mom worked at an orphanage. Now that makes it sound like I grew up at the turn of the 19^th century and she took a buggy to work right after she beat our laundry on the rock, but nope. That’s a thing.

Now, we would go there sometimes to hang out with fellow children, but – let that sink in – you know, they were orphans, while I had parents.

But here’s what you don’t understand. These children had the coolest toy ever and I wanted it. Was it a Barbie? No, you fools. Barbies were owned by capitalist wannabes. Was it Lego? Also no. It was a tennis ball with a slit in it on a stick.

This sort of gives you an idea of the barometer of coolness against which  I was judging life’s luxuries. And while the parentless children looked on, I took this toy home.

It was not until later on in life (some might say, shockingly later) that my conscience alterted me that stealing from orphans is uncouth.

Did every child NOT clean a gas mask?

Let me preface this by saying that by all accounts, I had a really awesome childhood.

But, every time I speak with someone who was born and raised in Canada, I am reminded of how different my own experience was. When I mention the main colour of my childhood was beige, I’m not exaggerating. For some reason, most of the outfits you could buy behind the ol’ Iron Curtain seemed to be beige in colour.

I remember the excitement I felt when our exotic Canadian uncle sent us purple jackets.

I was all like “daaaamn son, I’ve got it made now!” I was almost blinded by the colour of capitalism.

Yet another reminder came a few months ago when we were all getting ready for a Halloween outing and one girl came by with a gas mask clipped to her belt, claiming to be a Russian Spy.

Everyone was amazed at the ludicrousness of such a realistic accessory. To me it just seemed like a fond childhood memory.

“Oh! That looks just like the ones we cleaned as kids during our exercises!” I squealed with the delight of a child who just spotted his/her favourite childhood snack.

Blank faces turned to me in horror.

“…Pardon?”

“Well, I mean we had to be ready, right? So we each had a gas mask – sometimes had to share one among a couple of us – and we cleaned them and made sure they still fit!”

I mean, I’m not suggesting everyone needs to clean a gas mask to have a happy childhood memory, but then what DID you people do in school?

Yet another thing that made me a tough kid, I think, were the regular camp games that we all participated in.

Sure, there was colouring and all of that safe stuff. But we also participated in something called the grenade toss. That’s right, give your kids what – I assume now in retrospect were inactive – grenades and we competed to see who can throw it farther. No biggie. This I thought was yet another childhood activity that everyone could relate to. Turns out, not so. Again, what DID you people toss if not a grenade?

I’m still grappling with my ability to relate to other children as they quote their experiences of day camps without grenade toss, colourful outfits and masks they wore for fun rather than as a prepper.

Damnit,Meredith - you're ruining my ER expecations!

I realize that I’m about a decade too late on my diatribe about Grey’s Anatomy. But I only recently started watching Grey’s Anatomy and it has left me with some pretty strong feelings. And I just need to get it out of me. Much like an aneurism might explode on Derek’s table, so too do my emotions in this blog.

First of all, can we just talk about unrealistic expectations this show sets up for us in terms of healthcare? Now, I’ve been to an ER once or twice but my experience was vastly different from that of the emergent patients riding on up to the doors of Seattle Grace/Mercy West/Grey Sloan Memorial hospital.
Generally speaking there is never a welcome parade of ridiculously good looking doctors just waiting outside the emergency entrance, ready to fight over who gets to give you better service.

Here’s what my latest ER experience was:

You walk in and are immediately hopeful that perhaps this time it will not take 6 hours to be seen. But that’s where you’re wrong. You’re shuffled from one waiting room to the next, your hope slowly fading into nothingness with each step you take towards the mirage of health. Once you’ve been there for good 2 or 3 hours, you start to question the severity of your injury. Could I just maybe go home and die quietly? Is this worth it? But then your sense of commitment kicks in and like a girl at the end of a never-ending bathroom line, you are determined to see it through. You’ve put in too much time to give up now. You will not give them the satisfaction.

Though there are some weak ones out there who just can’t take the pressure. While I was stoically in my 4^th hour of wait time, a sickly looking gal was brought in. She was supported by two of her friends and barely mobile. She looked on the verge of death and the human side of me wanted her to go ahead of me. But then also, I was all like: she should’ve gotten sick sooner. This spot is MINE.

But also, she looked like she only had a couple of hours left. They even brought out a gurney so she could await the sweet release of death in comfort. That’s when she whispered:

“How long before I can be seen?”
And the nurse answered, “Probably in 2.5 hours.”
“That’s ridiculous!” the sickly girl shouted, hopped off the gurney and marched out the door.

 

But this side is never seen on Grey’s Anatomy. And it just hurts my expectations. One episode should just be from the point of view of someone in the waiting room. Just 45 minutes of waiting. The episode would end with “to be continued.”