In the hospital room, a young white man enters. He glances at me too quickly. Returning his gaze to the screen on the cart he rolled in, he tells me that I have a pill to take. I asked the name of the medicine and why I had to take it. I heard something but noted that he was preparing the little medicine cup and the water.
I needed to hear from a doctor, I said to him. I'll have to take it anyway at home, he snapped back. Had I been thrown back to Benin or to the Kongo? Are we going backward, again? I insisted that I needed a doctor to explain what and why about this medicine, and he asked why I was refusing to take the medicine.
I asked for warmer blankets in an attempt to ignore his ignorance. I could feel an uptick in my heart rate. He could get me the blanket, he said, but I had to explain why I refused the medicine.
Are you 71?
And it seems he's using his high-tech skills to sum up my refusal-- in his words. With his back turned to be, he turned slightly in my direction. What does that mean?
PLEASE LEAVE!
What does that mean?
PLEASE LEAVE!
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