Just as the small chipmunk has become adept at noticing the shadow of a circling hawk, I too have learned when it is time to seek shelter. Faced with an impending doctor's appointment, I retreat into a book, ducking for cover into its pages. My mind slips into the safety of an ongoing story, leaving behind, for a little while, the reality of whatever unpleasant activity awaits. There, among fictional troubles and imagined adventures, I can remain hidden, unaffected by scalpel and unfamiliar phrases.
It is a coping mechanism that becomes
more perfected as I age and the frequency of appointments becomes greater. Unlike the chipmunk’s dive into the depths of
a hole, my retreat takes me to the fabricated, yet secure territory of people and places I myself
have created. Stories with pleasant outcomes, free of bandages and ice packs. Where the end isn’t followed by a recovery
time.
The better the book, the more effective the distraction.
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