The doors of the hospital opened and I pushed Lily’s pram inside. My husband, Shua, walked beside us, lugging my suitcase. When I stepped inside the foyer, I had no idea that my life would never be the same again. I looked around for the locked metal doors that I had pictured in my mind, the padded cells, but the office-like space with its beige and white colour scheme was nothing like my expectations. “Your name?” the receptionist asked. “Dassi,” I responded. She didn’t hear me. I forced myself to say it louder: “Dassi.” “The intake coordinator will be right down,” she informed me. I straightened my top, my skirt, my wig, and straightened them again.
When I noticed the receptionist watching me, I stuffed my hands into my pockets and clenched them around a tissue. Lily whined; she was teething and uncomfortable, and I sighed with a mixture of worry and relief. I could hide behind the baby bag in search of a snack. Moments later, the intake coordinator arrived and led us to a room behind the desk. I followed her in a haze. Shua provided most of the answers as she created my file, while Lily bounced on his knee. The intake coordinator took my pulse and blood pressure and then pulled out a camera. “A picture for your medical file,” she explained to me, “to ensure we are dispensing medication to the right person.” The camera flashed; I didn’t smile.
