I took the portraits of Clara’s newborn last year up on the maternity floor. Instead of taking the elevator I walked up the three flights of stairs. There was no time for exercising. Helping my family as well as single-parenting was overwhelming. It was a triumph to make it through each day. Walking up the stairs seemed like a way to multi-task and cross exercise off my endless “to do” list. My heart pounded and my footsteps echoed in the stairwell. I was gasping for breath and had to stand at the top of the stairs, composing myself. Most people forget that hospital staff have personal lives, their own joys and sorrows. It is one of my jobs for money to support my art photography, helping parents create memory books of the birth day. Doing a photo story for them. Helping them write poems and short personal essays to accompany the photos.

This morning I was in the outer waiting room when Clara came to get me and bring me to the inner waiting room, where I was deposited into a little stall and given a johnny gown and a robe. It seems like days ago I was in the little stall but it has only been a few hours. I must have taken a long time because a woman who wasn’t Clara asked if I was okay. I came out and she pointed to a chair. I recognized Matilda then. She’s near retirement. Her children are grown, but one of her daughters fell off a cliff over at the shore when she was four. How do you ever get over that? Sometimes Matilda gives community talks about child safety. My friend Athena interviewed her once for a national radio program on grief.

Athena was supposed to drive me to the hospital for this procedure, but I’ve been so anxious I gave her the wrong date. I texted her from the taxi on my way here and she said she’d get off work and drive out to the hospital as soon as she could. Athena always keeps her word. When you have a best friend like her there isn’t much more in life you need — except good health.

Athena is six feet tall and has waist-length black hair. She’s a radio producer and lives in the city. She travels a lot with her work. Her great-grandfather came from Lebanon. When she introduces herself as Athena people correct her and say she must be from Greece. Athena laughs at this. She thinks it’s funny how I call myself the “panini generation” because it’s cooler than “sandwich.” Athena would see the humour in how long I’ve been dangling upside down, waiting and waiting for the tests to start.

It was good to hear Clara’s familiar voice. I hadn’t known she worked in the day surgery unit. The hospital clothes are pale and smell chemical-fresh. The same smell from when I gave birth to Saul, six years ago — institutional and oddly comforting.