To meet local requirements for the disabled, the Baylor Centre where I work has an elevator. [As an aside, individuals with disabilities here are called “paraplegics” and elevators are called “lifts”. Both substitutes seem incomplete as there are many disabilities that are not paraplegia and elevators do not only lift. Nor do they only elevate, I suppose….come to think of it, “disabled” as an adjective leaves something to be desired. So much for my defense of American argot.]
So, as I was saying (or trying to say before I backslid into above amateur linguistic interlude), our clinic has an elevator. It is a simple elevator, not like those in Houston’s Texas Children’s Hospital where there are stipples of light reminiscent of the night sky above and wavy mirrors like those in a two-ticket circus house. However, as there are few multi-story buildings, the device is a bit of a novelty around here, and few of our patients have seen or used an elevator. An ascent/descent on the automated lift is so highly sought after by some of our adolescent patients, in fact, that we have put into place official restrictions on its use solely for recreation. The more assertive teens still try to finagle a ride, for that is what adolescents do. Regardless of continent of residence, teenagers finagle.
Younger children in the waiting room (pre-finaglers), with expressions of wonder and nervous anticipation, watch the closed frosted silver doors with the anticipation of a child about to open a gift, or watch a firework display. When it opens, the response is almost universally one of gleeful rejoice, as if a wonderful thing has happened.
The wait to see a doctor in the Baylor Centre is sometimes quite long. Though I prefer the stairs, I sometimes take the lift down to see if I surprise any spectators below. It feels sort of like jumping out of a music-less, adult-sized jack-in-the-box.
I have never jumped out of a cake, but it feels something like that, I imagine. Cleaner, though.
