3:00 p.m.
Sitting on a lime-green reclining chair, I feel like I am on top of the world. But I’m really not—I’m on the tenth floor of Mount Sinai Hospital. I can see everything happening below me: pedestrians rushing to their desired locations, taxis honking, men running hot dog carts, and fruit stands in full swing, just a typical day in New York City. Doctors’ offices always make me feel invincible for some odd reason. I love going to the doctor—most of the time. The walls surrounding me are pretty bare except for an otoscope, some gloves, a hand sanitizer dispenser, three coat hangers, and a paper towel dispenser. On the wall to the left of me, I notice that some kid got hold of a purple crayon. The writing just looks like scribbles to me. Maybe it’s an attempt at writing a name. Maybe it's some sort of secret message.
3:27 p.m.
The nurses are rapidly typing on their computers like New York Times reporters when breaking news has just been released. In the other room is my favorite nurse who has been here since at least the year 2000. I think about all the times I spent with that nurse when I was a baby. She was the one in the room when I once had a panic attack before getting a blood test. I remember that day so vividly; they recruited a very strong man to hold me down in order to get my blood. Next door a baby is screaming like the world is about to end. Hopefully one day this baby won’t be like me: constantly going to the allergist and never growing out of their allergies even though the majority of the population does. And then trying everything to grow out of their allergies and still failing. This test is my last hope.
4:03 p.m.
The doctor finally comes in with my potential cause of death: one-eighth of a vanilla muffin. Don’t get me wrong, I love muffins. I love muffins with soy milk and almond milk and coconut milk, but this muffin does not have any of these types of milk. It has my worst nightmare: cow’s milk. Rather than just eating this cow’s milk muffin, I choose to stare at it for ten minutes straight. I notice its features; it looks dry and fluffy, just like the better muffins I usually eat look. There is also a chunk of vanilla frosting clumped on the top; my mom put it there to make it look more appetizing. The doctor glances in front of the tinted door to see if I have finished the muffin yet. Little does she know, she is going to be out of luck.
4:18 p.m.
“NEE-NAW, NEE-NAW, NEE-NAW!” Ambulances rush past the windows behind me. I notice that Mount Sinai dresses its ambulances in festive colors—blue, pink, and white—for a not so festive occasion. Maybe to bring hope to patients and their families. Once the sirens pass, I focus my attention back inside the room and stare at the muffin in the bowl I have now been holding for fifteen minutes. Its appearance has not changed; it is still just waiting to be eaten. I decide maybe it's time. EpiPen in one hand, muffin in the other, I take a bite and wait for the muffin to decide my fate.