Waiting

I sit in a rough, scratchy chair. My back hurts from the constant strain, not only from the chair but from the whole environment. The constant twiddling of one's thumbs tends to get old after a while. When you've been doing it for the past five hours, it is unbearable. Linoleum hallways stretch as far as the eye can see. Double doors with "Staff only" written on them impede on the monotony of this barren void.

 Salty tears have fallen down my cheeks for hours, draining me of my strength. I continue to sit, watching the clock on the wall across the hallway, counting the seconds as time passes. I am stuck. People and equipment move all around me, yet I go unnoticed. I have given up asking for more information. Each staff member had a different excuse, yet each response meant the same thing: We don't want you going back there.

 So, I sit here in silence and solitude. The seconds continually tick by. A stretcher appears in the hallway. On it, a frail man. People in blue wheel him past my chair. Tubes and equipment are hanging haphazardly around him. The man looks peaceful. I used to feel regret when someone rolled past my chair, but it doesn't cause me to bat an eye anymore. 

 Instead of feeling sad for the number of lives lost in this building, I wonder what their stories are. Did this man have a wife, children? Were his aspirations big ones? Was he content with where he landed in the game of life? As people take their last breaths, as their lifeblood drains away, a sudden calm comes about them. I hope this means that they have found a place of peace.

 Another person is coming down the hallway, this time a woman. She is in a wheelchair, her stomach large with child. As she breathes, sweat pours down her forehead. She goes into her room as I pray that her outcome will be a good one. I've had my fair share of children, three to be exact. Two of my children are boys; one is a girl. Going into delivery is no easy feat, but it's worth it.

 My children are older now. They have children of their own. When I look back on my life, I feel old. It's strange to be able to say that you have contributed to a generation of people. It makes you realize how long you have lived. Sixty-four might not seem old to some people, but it is an old age to me. I am sixty-four. I have lived through the Civil Rights movement and the Vietnam war. Of course, I don't remember those events. Everything from my childhood is now a distant blur.

 It is a sad day when you forget the sound of your parents' voices, the look of your childhood home, the appearance of your dad's face. All these things have erased themselves from my memory, leaving me with empty holes where they used to go. My memories are fading but at a slow pace. I hope I will be able to remember my family in the coming years. I want to see my grandchildren get married, maybe even become a great grandmother.  

 The little things in life that I used to take foregranted now amaze me. I adore waking up to the cheerful greetings of blue jays and robins outside my window. I adore feeling the hot steam from a fresh cup of coffee permeating through the kitchen. I adore going to church on Sundays and praising God for my blessings. These simple things bring me so much joy.

 I come out of my daydream and remember where I am. The linoleum floors, the smell of medicine, and the ticking clock on the wall across from me are still here. My tan sweater becomes constricting as my breaths become shallower with each inhale. I don't like this place.

 Standing up is a struggle, yet I succeed in getting out of my chair. Slowly, I make my way towards the front desk. The lady there is friendly, but I don't want someone friendly right now. I want someone who will tell me what happened to him.

 "Please miss, I need to see him!" I exclaim frantically. The lady responds, but I don't hear her. All I hear is the ringing in my ears. It becomes louder and louder as I stand by the desk. I grit my teeth and close my eyes, not wanting to lose my composure in front of so many people. Turning away from the lady with a smile on her face, I see the sign for the restrooms. I walk quickly towards the sign, yearning for the feel of cold water on my face. 

 Thankfully, there is no one inside the restroom. I turn on the faucet and splash my face with water. All I can think about is him. Racing out of the restroom, I go back to the front desk. The smiling woman looks nervous. She probably thinks I am insane, but I don't mind. He is more important than my reputation.

 I go to room number twelve. Hands reach out towards me, trying to prohibit me from entering. The door is unlocked, so I step inside. There are flowers, and for a second, I wonder if anyone ever tried to water them. I see all the tubes filled with various fluids. When I look at the bed, I see a frail man. 

  This man can't be him. Yet, it is him. He is sitting there with his eyes closed. There is a peaceful expression on his face. Tears start to pool in my eyes. Even though he is sleeping, I don't want to cry in front of him. I turn so that my back is towards him and break down into tears. I can't take this strain anymore. So much sickness, almost too much for me to bear. A scratchy voice, one I haven't heard in months, comes from the bed.

 "Elaine," the voice whispers. Whipping my head around, I see him. He isn't quite smiling, but I notice the faint twinkle in his eyes. 

 "Roger," I exclaim. I rush to his side and hug him, my husband, the man I haven't been able to speak to for many months. I run back out into the waiting room. The hallway seems a bit brighter now, and the clock almost friendly. Rushing towards the front desk, I see the lady. This time, I am happy that she's smiling. I am smiling too.

 "He's awake!" I say with a grin stretching across my face. The lady at the front desk tells me that a nurse is already in the room with him. I walk back to room twelve and see a nurse folding up blankets.

 "Where is he?" I question, feeling apprehensive.

 "Ma'am, you might want to sit down," the nurse sighs and walks over to me. I sink to the floor on my knees. A guttural sigh escapes from my lips as I embrace the truth.

 "He's gone, isn't he?" 

 "Yes, he passed away just after you left the room." The nurse pats my arm. I struggle not to recoil from her touch. The last thing I want right now is someone touching me.

 "But he seemed like he was getting better," is all I can think to say. The nurse says something, but I don't listen. I go back to my world of daydreams, for that is the only happy place right now. Not seeing anyone's faces, I sign some papers and wander out. I sink into the same rough chair and look at my hands. The skin is paper-thin with veins sticking out every which way. I continue looking at my hands until I no longer see them anymore. I see Roger's face smiling, my grandchildren playing. They won't have a grandfather anymore. 

 My face is an ocean of saltwater. I can't breathe, but I can't seem to die either. As I swim through a sea of regret and loneliness, all I can think is that I waited too long. If I had gone in sooner and not talked to the smiling lady, I would've seen him before he left forever. I would've been able to say goodbye.

The clock keeps ticking. No one tries to make me leave. I know that they will eventually, but until then, I am going to keep waiting. Waiting for the ocean to dry up and the birds to sing again. Waiting for Roger's face to stop appearing in my head. Waiting for something that will never come.