The small ring I wear on my right hand catches on the fabric of my apron. I need to take it off. The once bright pink fabric is now covered with large patches of red. They're slowly becoming crusty as they dry. It's enough to make my stomach roll if I think about it. So I try not to. Instead I stare at the light blue walls of the hospital waiting room.
I need to get up and throw the apron away. Find a bathroom and wash the matching color from my hands. But what I should do, what I need to do, and what I want to do are all things my body can't do in this moment. The paramedics directed me to the small waiting room off the side of the ER less than ten minutes ago. I plopped my ass in one of the uncomfortable plastic grey chairs and haven't moved since.
My legs seem to have forgotten how to
