First of May

When I was small
And Christmas trees were tall
We used to love while others used to play...

 

It was some time in May last year, I remembered.

I was working an early morning weekend shift at the petrol station. BP B|tch was on duty. And I was standing outside filling up the empty water containers for customers to fill their water tanks with.

 

It was slightly cold and the work jacket that I wore smelt musty of too much sweat and too little ventilation. There seemed to be a slight greasy sensation to it all.

 

The fluoroscent lights were harsh and it shone on the cold concrete floor.

 

As I stood there, waiting for the containers to fill, I suddenly had to choke down my tears and pretend that I was stronger than I looked or felt.

 

It was a bad time for me.

 

I had failed my placement assessment by my tutor and had to redo a test. I had been called in to my clinical educator's office where she explained my....deficits and then proceeded to ask me to sign a document saying that if I did fail again, I would not take legal action against the school for my utmost failures.

 

I hated my part time job. I hated what I was studying. I hated it completely and utterly. I even wondered why I was doing it.

 

Here I stood, at 5.45 in the fricking winter morning, filling up water containers while across the street, my flatmates slumbered, unaware, unknowing. I'm not a morning person but desperation got me up. Desperation got me here. And I despised it for what it was.

 

The sudden sensation of "Oh shit, I have no idea what I am doing with my entire life" suddenly came to mind. No doubt, I was studying a "professional" course and that I was going to graduate with a job didn't quite matter. I imagined myself there, working at the petrol station, and finally cracking under the pressure. I'm sure the explosions would have made headlines.

 

It was perhaps the fear that drove most of the feeling. Like how a little boy loses a balloon or a lollipop and unable to do anything about it, stands there and cries.

 

I felt exactly like that little kid.

 

I felt that my hands were tied, my feet were bound, my mouth gagged and there was nothing on earth I could do about anything.

 

Fast forward 3 months.

 

I was working underground in the hospital kitchens. And I actually enjoyed my job. I had good colleagues. Apart from the fact that I had to quit soon after, the money was made and I didn't think too much about having to push trolleys and do food platters all the time. I had fun.

 

I had one more placement to do and by God, I had survived pretty much the entire year.

 

***

But just yesterday, the same feeling rose in my throat again.

 

I stood in the empty and dark treatment room, carrying foam collars and a pair of scissors and strapping tape and I looked down at my uniform and my full hands and the first thought that came to mind was, "What on earth am I doing here?"

 

"What part of this makes sense?"

 

"What the heck am I doing making life and death and discharge decisions?"

 

"Why?"

 

***

I wonder what I would write to my 13 year old self if I had a chance.

 

Huh.