When the word hospital comes to mind, differently people picture different things. Pessimists may picture death, bad news and tears. Optimists can smell the fake flowers from the gift shop and know just where to find the maternity ward. Those who have been trained since birth to see neither the glass half-full or the glass half-empty, however, picture fish.
Sick kids. Depressingly enough, not such a rare breed. Needles, tests, procedures and surgeries are all part of the monthly, weekly, daily routine. But fish get them through it all, every single time.
I remember being 4, and sitting on my fathers lap in the waiting room. It was time for my blood tests, again, a short 2 weeks after the last round. He had his shin guards on, because even at 4 I had developed an excellent “don’t stick me with the mean needle again” kick. By 6 I had ditched the kick for clawing and biting - but I digress. I remember knowing, even at the young age of 4, that when the nice-lady-in-white who sat in the office put the papers in the box by the door, the mean-lady-in-white would come out and say my name. Well, the papers were in the box, and I had started to fidget and tear up. My father tightened his grip on me, fearing another run-away incident like the previous month.
In that exact moment, an unidentified-lady-in-white came out. I tense immediately, not knowing what to expect, feeling cornered. She had a grey tray in her arms, filled with what looked like plastic baggies. When she saw me, eyes wide, hair wild, chained down by my fathers arms, she smiled gently and brought the tray over. Upon closer inspection, I realized they were plastic baggies - full of brightly coloured little fish. This confused me immensely… the baggies weren’t full of anything icky, painful, or scary. Just fish. Adorable, bright, beautiful fish.
Of course, mean-lady-in-white picked this time to call my name and collect blood. Twenty minutes of kicking, screaming and crying later, I was back in the waiting room watching the fish-lady-in-white drop the little fishies one by one into a large, shiny new tank in the corner of the room. As my father chatted with one of the nurses about what I had been eating lately and how my recent growth-spurt could mean a new prescription would be needed soon, I kneeled on a stool in front of the fish tank, my tiny face pressed against the brand new glass, staring at the fish. Without even realizing it, I had made new, life-long friends.
Not those fish in particular of course. Every hospital has many waiting rooms, and as I’ve come to discover over the year, most waiting rooms have fish. Through the countless hours of sitting in said waiting rooms, staring at the fish, I’ve come to realize the comfort they bring. I’ve gone from the little girl with her nose pressed against the glass to the “big kid” who helps the smaller ones feed the fish every now and then. I’ve been to hospitals where the nurses, doing the best they can possibly do, always remember your name and try to bring a smile to your face. But in the end, they’re still going to get you with the needle or make you drink the disgusting-tasting liquid that shows up in ultra-sound results. The fish, however, will continue to swim around regardless of what happens outside their tank. If the EMT’s are rushing past you with a gurney, you can always just take a deep breath and look at the fish. See? They aren’t panicking. They aren’t worried. Neither should you.
20 years of hospitals later and I still make sure to stop and feed the fish every time I’m in - that being said, they’re kept very well fed. I no longer count as a “sick kid”, but I’ll still sit by the fish tank in every waiting room and beckon to anyone under the age of 18 who looks worried or stressed. Kids shouldn’t have to worry - the fish don’t.
