Sitting in a hospital corridor, waiting to see a doctor and the sights, smells and sounds take me back to Darbs' birth.
The weeks I spent in hospital after his birth and then the months of weekly visits after that. Reception, urine, weight, blood pressure. Sitting in the waiting room, the bulging Manila folder weighing down my lap, my handbag rattling with all the tablets I was taking. Wondering, hoping this would be the last time and I'd get the all clear.
Right now, as I type this on my phone, I'm sitting in a hospital corridor. Thousands of kilometres away. I'm only getting a dodgy mole checked, but it's odd how those same sounds and smells can transport you back to a time and place. Back to an emotion.
The shuffle of rubber soles on lino. The clang of china on a trolley as it bumps down a corridor. The whisk of plastic curtain rings on metal. That pungent smell of antiseptic and handwash.