The hospital waiting room

The hospital waiting room. Quite possibly the most boring room on the planet. They are all pretty much the same, no matter where you go. A variety of well thumbed through magazines, a few books and the usual half empty box of generic facial tissues. Rather uninspired artwork on the beige toned walls, worn out seating and an end table covered with medical information pamphlets.

The large plant in the corner by the door is plastic. The muted TV bolted to the wall is playing drug advertisements on repeat. The stale air is not being circulated by the unplugged floor fan. The harsh florescent lights create an unnatural glare from every surface.

The citizens of this room look up each time the door opens and then look back down again when their name is not called, to make us all seem like slow motion bobble head dolls. We ache with hope that a nurse or other hospital official will call our name and take us to the nether regions of the hospital, or at least let us learn treasured information of a loved ones condition and location.

As a nurse walks past you, you get to hear the delightful music of squeaky soles on the tile floor to compliment the endless beeps from unseen machines and announcements from the intercom. The telephone on the receptionist’s desk lights up like a Christmas tree, but the calls are never answered.

As the minutes add up to go past the time when I was instructed to arrive, I double check all the information entered onto my patient information forms. I had signed my name where highlighted, check marked boxes where indicated, but what did I really sign? Was I absolving them in the unlikely event of my death as well as signing up for endless and automatic monthly payments?

A few people wander about the confines of the room, some venture out in search of coffee or nourishment from vending machines, located in the next room, that were last serviced sometime during the cold war era. A few lucky ones are reunited with relatives thought lost to the giant medical machine. A child lay back in her father’s arms gently snoring after her hour long cries for her mom.

An hour into my confinement, I work up the courage to venture toward the door, to search for the restroom. Just then a nurse walks in with a brightly colored and highly suspect clipboard. Would my name be the next to be called? What information was really written on all those papers? I was beginning to think they were some sort of betting pool, and the hospital staff watching us through the security cameras, are selling chances on which one of us goes insane first.

Since my number was not up, I found the small restroom, holding my breath against the antiseptic spray set to overdrive and exited as quickly as possible. I then made my way to the cafeteria, aided by color coded lines on the floor, brewed myself a cup of hot tea and purchased a package of breath mints. I briskly walked back to the waiting room hoping I had not missed my appointment. Nothing had changed except the commercial on the TV had switched from high blood pressure medicine to asthma control inhalers.

I settled back into my floral print chair and adjusted the lumps in the cushion for comfort. The chemical smell from the custodian mopping the floor made my nose itch. I reached for the most recent Reader’s Digest, only 9 months outdated. I was delighted to see that nobody had yet to fill out the vocabulary quiz.

The clipboard wielding nurse walks past and makes mysterious marks on the paper, no doubt marking off the losing entries of the lottery and said for perhaps the hundredth time since my arrival, “Only a few more minutes.”

As those minutes turned into another hour and my butt had begun to chafe from constant shifting of positions, I realize that I am all alone in the neutral colored jail cell. My supply of tic-tacs was running dangerously low and my tea turned into sludge that could be used as paint stripper.

I had emptied my purse of all old receipts, balanced my checkbook and counted my remaining change. I wondered what kind of food poisoning I could get from the tapioca pudding in the rotating cooler case; it would only cost me a $1.50 to find out! Just as I started to slide in the first coin, the nurse called my name. It sounded like angels trumpeting a proclamation from on-high!

Before she could change her mind, I scrambled quickly to gather my purse and jacket to follow the nurse. I handed her the patient forms and answered rapid fire questions about possible pregnancy and illegal drug use, I dodged into the exam room mere inches before she slammed the door shut.

I was instructed to change into a fashionable gown designed out of facial tissues. Was that why every box was half full? I had just settled on the table just as a discreet knock sounded, proceeded by the abrupt entrance of another member of the hospital staff.

I tried to position myself as instructed, while she adjusted a robotic looking machine and gathered items from a supply cabinet. She was apparently displeased with my efforts and then pushed, pulled and twisted me into what felt like my exact same position. I think this woman was a former Russian Olympic wrestler. She left the room with the parting words, “Try to relax”. I closed my eyes and tried to figure out how to breathe, keep myself covered and not move, all at the same time. I wondered how long I would be stuck like this only to hear, “Okay, we are all done. Have a nice day!”

I have been waiting for nearly three hours and my exam only took 38.4 seconds? As I gathered my belongings and walked slowly back to the parking lot, I absently wondered who won the office pool?