There is a needle, and he wants to put it in my arm. Nobody tells me why, and I only know one thing: that needle is not going into my arm. I'm screaming bloody murder while the doc tries to hold me down to put the needle into my vein, and Mama steps outside the room. She's embarrassed again--this time by my screaming.
They admitted me for observation, inserted the IV to keep me hydrated and because they couldn't give me anything by mouth in case they had to operate later. But they didn't bother to tell me any of this.
It's early in the gray San Francisco afternoon the next day. I am sitting at the end of the hall atop some kind of suitcase that they must have packed for me although God knows I didn't have anything. I'm done with the hospital, my stomach doesn't hurt anymore, but they haven't come for me. I wait and wait. The afternoon light begins to fade into evening. Finally they are there. They had wanted to bring me home to a surprise, a new dress for me. I would gladly have traded the new dress for their coming earlier.
It is Betty getting back on the bus after she dropped us off at Long Beach. It is abandonment that I have been sure of for the rest of my life. Yesterday a fifty year old client said, "I am so afraid that people will just forget about me and go on with their lives without me." Yes.
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