Hot Flash Fiction: Perimenopausal Musings

10,927 Steps In 500 Words

You drag yourself out of bed, drink coffee, and eat toast and two eggs. The glistening lake beckons you to come take a swim, but instead you drive on. You park and walk across the bridge. The moon hangs low in the morning sky and a lone rower sculls silently through the water. You enter the monstrosity built decades ago and climb a scuffed stairwell painted a mauve color popular in the early 1990's.

"This place!" echoes in your head. You change out of your street clothes and put on a mask.

"My sister gave them to me. Purple is my favorite color," says a young woman.

You stare at the beautiful purple rose bouquet and pray she doesn't die on your watch. You are afraid of what they might do to her to try to save her. And deep down you are a coward. You promise yourself you will buy fresh flowers on the way home.

A naked man sits in bed. His dark sagging skin has endured nearly eighty years of injustice. He is angry. He feels itchy and refuses to wear any clothes or let the nurse put any cream on him. Like life, he doesn't always make sense. Like life, he makes you cry and smile.

"Ninety-six," you say. "Ninety-six. Can you fathom ninety-six?" The young doctors shake their heads. Neither can you. You ask them what they think they should do.

"Send him home," says the most junior doctor.

He's a smart one.

"Twelve," answers the yellow man.

You shudder. Twelve. You try not to imagine the twelve-year-olds you know drunk. Or dead by fifty.

By one, the young doctors are dragging so you fetch them four large iced coffees. You always buy them coffee. You need them because you couldn't do all this work by yourself.

You take off your mask and suck down the ice coffee in under a minute and keep going.

"Her blood pressure was 212/145 a year and a half ago and she hasn't been seen since," they tell you.

"What is wrong? " you wonder. There is so much more to her story but she won't tell you. Maybe next time.

You answer questions no one knows the answer to. You talk with the difficult people so the young doctors can finish their work.

You recognize Angela the Russian interpreter on the iPad. She too has been here twenty years. She giggles and waves to you buoying your spirits.

You change back into street clothes. You walk back across the bridge and drive home along the lake too tired to stop and buy fresh flowers.

You drink a beer in the back yard and roll in the soft grass with your son. The two of you walk down the middle of the street in bare feet under a bright swollen moon. You relished the cool late summer breeze tickling your bare arms. You come home and put your feet up on the sofa, open the computer and begin writing.