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Expectations vs. Reality Part 2


First Period:

Expectation: Relaxing by the pool in a two piece blue green bathing suit (thank God for tampons am I right? I mean you barely feel them!). We smell like flowers and spring and we are positively glowing (kind of like we’re pregnant, but we aren’t bloated, God forbid). Someone tosses a frisbee to you and you catch it with one hand and a smile. 


Reality: “Leigh….Leigh” my mom whispered. “Shhhh. The pain will hear you” I whimpered. I am in a fetal position bleeding into a glorified diaper. My breasts feel like swolllen bowling balls. My stomach looks like a watermelon and I am wearing my loosest pants. Chocolate wrappers decorate the bed. Legally Blonde plays on repeat.


Theater Camp:


Expectation: You belt “Defying Gravity” while an ensemble of talented musical theater geeks dances around you to make you look  and sound good. They are gifted but obviously are not as gifted as you. You hit every note and you aren’t the least bit nervous because you are confident in your ahmazing voice and your “Broadway Belt” Well, I mean….that’s what your direcor called it anyway. The audience seems to agree with him. There is uproarious applause as you finish the song and close the number.


Reality: You are squished in the back for the only number you were put in. Some munchkin (all the chorus members are either munckins or poppies) elbows you in the face and you get pushed out of sight. You can’t hear yourself above everyone else and you know your voice has gotten drowned out in a sea of sound. You scan the audience looking for your family before munchkin elbows you again. You are thisclose to starting a Broadway Brawl.


First Day as a Camp Counselor:

Expectation: “Look! I made this for you!” Fiona says presenting you with a drawing with two stick figures, a tree and a pool (well, it resembles a pool anyway). “I love you” the four  year old camper says, wrapping her arms around her leg. “I love you too!” said Jeremy doing the same to the other leg. The four year olds were at rest time. One quietly stacked blocks in the corner. “It’s a tower!” he said joyfully. Another girl, Amy, came up to me with a picture book. “Wead?” she asked. I settled back against the bean bag chair, let the children rest on me and read until they all fell asleep.


Reality: “Whose underwear is this?” said Ally, my coworker, as six naked four year olds ran around the Wellness Center while we struggled to change them for swim. Can’t parents put names on any of these things? “Hey, Tony can you please come over here?” I struggled to remain calm.  Tony came over, arms folded. “I don’t want swim. I don’t like you” he said. I turned to try to change Samantha but she burst into tears. “Leigh!” Ally said with enormous panic. Jeremy was peeing on the bean bag.


First Time in the Mental Hospital


Expectations: Everyone sits around, eyes glazed over from overmedication. Some read. Most don’t. Most just watch the televison. People interact with grunts and moans. Lanugage is slow. People drool or shit themselves. If someone throws a tantrum no one else reacts and the orderlies quickly subdues them. Quiet is restored.


Reality: There is no such thing as quiet on a closed ward. People play cards, people cheat at Monopoly, people play music. There are conflicts between patients and one woman goes after another man with a dining room chair because he called her a “crackwhore” (I won’t even say what she called him). Code Reds keep things lively and someone’s always recovering in the quiet rooom. 


Taking a pregnancy test:


Expectation: My fingers fumble nervously with the test. I stare at it willing an answer. The second line grows stronger. “Honey!” I scream. My heart won’t stop. I am a mother. There are footsteps. My husband of five years had been sleeping but he was awide awake now. “No…finally! Oh baby!” He picked me up and whirled me around. I was 35 years old.


Reality: “Please be negative, please be negative” I I beg as I rip open one of three home pregnancy tests in the CVS bathroom. I stare at it willing an answer. The second line grows stronger. “Fuck!” I scream at a very loud decibel. “Babe?” asked a concerned voice. My boyfriend of two weeks. My heart won’t stop. I am a mother. I open the door and see the fear on his face. I nod confirming his worry. “Fuck!” he screams even louder. I was eighteen years old.

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