Have I Been Unwittingly Ingesting Marijuana, Part 2

If your just checking in, you may want to start with Part 1.

The answer to the title, just to save you any unnecessary feelings of suspense, is No.

But…

Waiting to get tested for drugs, I felt like I was on trial. No, not quite, because, to fit the analogy, I suppose the bathroom would be the courtroom. So, I guess, as I sat in the lobby, I felt like I was in a holding cell before my imminent trial.

Really, though, I have no idea what it feels like to be on trial. Maybe what I should’ve said is that, sitting in the lobby waiting to get tested for drugs, I felt like I do when I’m being particularly empathetic while watching a movie with a character in a holding cell before their trial. Don’t ask for examples.

It didn’t dawn on me until I was sitting there that I wouldn’t be able to bring my kids into the bathroom with me during the test.

Oh, I didn’t mention that I had my kids with me. Yep, I brought my children to a drug test. A 1 and 5-year-old, cuz mom was at work.

Of course, they won’t be allowed in there. I might have my 5-year-old pee in the cup for me. Or I might wring out the 1-year-old’s diaper for a sample. So, anyway, add to the stress of the drug test that I now would have to leave my kids with a stranger and carefully use the restroom while they freak out. This is going to go well.

They called my name. I stood up despondently, head hung in shame, and followed in my orange jumpsuit and handcuffs, somehow keeping the kids in tow, while I was led out the back door of the clinic. The nurse said, “We have another waiting room just down this way.” Perhaps I was only projecting the ominous tone that I hope you read that last line with.

Of course you do, lady. Of course you do. My eyes didn’t dart around right then, but this is definitely the part of the story where if my eyes had darted, they’d be darting.

It turned out they actually did have another waiting room and it wasn’t a sterile whitewashed chamber with a drain in the middle of the floor where they were gonna strip search me and wash me down with a fire hose. So that was nice.

I followed the nurse into a small room with my kids. She informed me of what I’d already realized—that they had to stay out when I tested. She asked if they’d be OK with her. I said maybe not, but they’ll only be screaming for a minute. She didn’t seem impressed with my parenting.

She told me to empty my pockets, wash my hands, and spit out my gum. While I obeyed, she squirted some blue soapy solution into the toilet and told me not to flush. It was all very formulaic, almost a ritual.

I got the baby set up with this little personified drop-of-blood toy, and told his big brother to take care of him. Then I closed myself in for the test. (Come to think of it, given the level of mistrust that this test is obviously administered with, I’m surprised they don’t require the test itself to be surveilled. Or maybe they do…)

Besides having a difficult time remembering not to flush (you know…because I’m so hygienic), the test went fine. She made sure I turned the blue toilet water green (I’m assuming that’s what the blue stuff was for.), let me have my stuff back, which included my kids but not my gum or the baby’s new drop-of-blood toy, and a couple days later I was confirmed in the job.

3 cheers for gainful employment and an end to my personal poppyseed prohibition.