In elementary school I was a tall, strong, athletic kid who excelled in most sports. I had won the 100 yard dash in my age class for the whole city of Evansville when I was in the 6th grade. When teams were chosen in gym class or at recess, I was always among the first chosen.
One morning when I was in the seventh grade, we were all lined up inside the gymnasium by the door, waiting as each one of us would be called to go outside and climb aboard the mobile X-ray unit, which was a bus that had been customized to house an X-ray machine. We were being X-rayed for tuberculosis.
I knew that X-rays didn’t hurt, but as I entered the unit, I caught a whiff of that hospital smell and something in the dark recesses of my brain shuttered. I did as I was told, I removed my shirt and pressed my chest against the cold glass of machine, but then, down I went.
Slowly my consciousness began to reappear, as nurses were scrambling to pick me up from the floor and sticking ammonia soaked cotton balls in my face. I was helped down from the bus in front of all my friends and classmates, who were straining and stretching to catch a glimpse of the excitement.
How embarrassing. Big strong me, passing out while being X-rayed. Even the wimpy and weak kids who always got picked on, managed to get X-rayed without hitting the floor. What’s wrong with me?
Luckily, I made it through high school without any fainting, although there were several times at the dentists when I came close.
View my paintings at: davidmarchant2.ca
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