Title: Twenty years too late
Christine O'Connor - May 22, 2012 05:59 AM (GMT)
The old Mahindra classic moaned as Chris took a ninety degree turn twenty miles per hour too fast, her voice more alike to a yell than anything else, crying out the lyrics to Sweet Home Alabama as it blasted through the ancient speakers. Cloth top down and volume up, the 47 year old Wiccan wheeled and weaved through the familiar parking lot without much thought and backed into her usual parking spot with more skill than one would think a woman of her age still possessed. Though a little reckless and a little more illegal, Chris's driving style gave her much pleasure, even if she successfully gave half the population heart attacks with her haphazard lane changes and dime turns. To her endless pleasure, her claim to home town fame was that over 31 years of driving, she'd never gotten in a single accident nor had to pay a single ticket.
Nodding her head to the last few cords of one of her favorite songs by Lynard Skynard, Chris turned off her car before the next song on her playlist and she was forced to stay where she was. She smiled as her booted feet hit the ground and she locked the door to her precious four wheeler and walked into the hospital. Though it wasn't the one which helped her fight off cancer all those years ago, she nonetheless knew every inch of the edifice as if it were her own home. The scent of bleach and saline wafted into her nostrils, an unmistakable cocktail that she could recognize anywhere. After twenty seven years of check ups and CT scans, there isn't much about a hospital that she didn't know. Some of her friend would insist that she had more experience than a greater portion of the nurses, which wasn't exactly incorrect. She'd gotten to the point where she could even put in her own IVs, though it wasn't the highlight of her day when she had to.
Taking off her mirrored aviators and setting them atop the straw fedora that skillfully disguised the horrific hair day that plagued her this fine spring afternoon. With a sly smile and a skip in her step, Chris came upon the check-in counter. "Afternoon dear, I.D, insurance card, credit card, the works.
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