The Waiting Room Saga

The Waiting Room Saga

Suzanne Marsh

I hate waiting rooms especially in doctors offices. There is something about being there during the flu season, with folks coughing and sneezing. I hate waiting for the nurse, who comes out, calls my name. I rise and follow her; sort of like the lamb to the slaughter. I think back to my last visit. Hmmm, the doctor ordered blood work. That means needles...I hate needles for any reason.

The same humdrum pale green waiting room, there has to be some other color other than pale green. Pukey yellow, no that would be even worse. It needs a blast of color, to keep patients from dozing, like yours truly.

The magazines are boring to say the very least. Medical magazines, that don't give much information but man have they got advertisements galore. I have been here a half hour already. Now I am beginning to wonder how much longer. I approach the window:

“how much longer?” I ask in a plaintive voice.

Then come the dreaded words:

“Doctor is running about two hours behind...sorry.”

“Sorry, now what do I do twiddle my thumbs?”

“Your thumbs are not my concern, you are not the only one sitting here.”

“I might not be the only one waiting but two hours at least is ridiculous.”

“Please take a seat, you will be called by the nurse to have your vitals taken.

That will be at least an hour. There is coffee over there help yourself.”

A simple visit to the doctor's office is now looking like an all day fiasco. I keep thinking about the things I have to do today and sitting here in this miserable waiting room is not on the top of my list. I can think of all sorts of things: laundry, dishes, the dogs in their crates, to name just a few.

I have thumbed through every magazine there except the local paper, which doesn't really cover anything interesting and is now a dollar for every issue. Then some little old lady puts down People, well at least there is something interesting according the headlines. I have now read People from one end to the other and here I sit. The question is do I want to antagonize the receptionist again. I prudently decide after watching her face that would not be the best idea I could have. She is overworked and underpaid, which no doubt is why the phone is now ringing off the hook. I glance around the waiting room, looking at peoples faces. There is the “why I am here?” look. The next one is: “why did I get out of bed this morning?” People's face tell you quite a bit about a person, I was having a real learning sessions here. In two hours one whole patient has emerged from the inner sanctum of the doctors offices.

I think, 'wonder how many more are back there.' I half expect to see my doctor on roller skates going from room to room. I know that the man is busy but the waiting is crazy. I notice the woman sitting next to me has now dragged out her knitting. I accidentally while moving my foot, spill over the contents of her container. Yarn is now rolling in all directions. Her face turns beet red, almost the same color of the yearn she is attempting to capture. She is a rather large lady. I get up and try to help her recapture her balls of yarn.

That broke the monotony for a few minutes now it is back to sit, sit and sit. Actually it is more like being in the army: hurry up, hurry up, sit down and wait. Yep, that is what is happening here. I can still hear that nasal voice telling me to be here fifteen minutes before my appointment. I was here fifteen minutes before my appointment time, it is now going on one o'clock in the afternoon, my appointment was at nine o'clock in the morning. I am beginning to wonder if the damn doctor is really in there or if he took a long lunch break about nine this morning.

Once again the door opens another name is called, obviously not mine. I decide to go out to the car and bring in my cell phone. Everyone else is on theirs even though they should not be. At least it will kill time until my name is finally called, whenever that may be. I walk back into the pale green waiting room. Nothing has changed, no one has come in or gone out in the last fifteen minutes. It took me that long to walk to my car in the parking lot. I begin to get testy:

“Lady, how much longer are you going to make me wait. I have been here since nine this

this morning, it now is two o'clock.”

I don't wish to make the woman angry but if they are that backed up why not reschedule. That would be the smarter thing to do. However this woman is not the sharpest knife the drawer to say the least. She gives me a rather whimsical grin and motions me to sit back down.

The more I wait the more disgruntled I am becoming. I keep telling myself that sooner or later my name will be called. I have read all my face book messages, I found Kindle but didn't care for the free choices. Then a voice from the inner sanctum bellows: Susan Marsh, okay now I am seeing red, if my mother had to name me Suzanne the least old fat Bertha, the nurse could manage to call me by my given name. Old fat Bertha has been with the doctor forever, she was there when my children were born, that is over fifty two years ago. She should be retired. Her hands tremble as she takes my temperature. She takes the blood pressure cup and misses my arm. This is not boding well at all. She takes my weight, well at least that will make the doctor happy I have lost at least four pounds waiting here. I keep my sarcasm to myself. She tells me in that booming voice that she will call me the doctor is ready to see me. I might as well camp out here for the night.

Ten minutes later I hear that booming voice again. She escorts me to an examining room. The doctor knocks on the door and enters. He looks over my vitals and says:

“your blood pressure is elevated.”

That was the opening I was waiting for:

“I have been here since nine this morning. I missed lunch and I have “white coat syndrome”.

The doctor chortles as he replies:

“Suzanne, calm down. Apparently someone forgot to mark you in for today.”

Calm down is like waving a red flag in front of a bull. The doctor sees my face turning a marvelous shade of purple. He pats my hand. Finally, Fat Bertha waddles in. She has a needle and syringe in her hand. This is not boding well. She begins to lunge toward me. That is it I am out of here. The doctor and Big Bertha are in hot pursuit, they have never lost a patient. I am almost out the door, the other patients have questioning looks on there faces. Me, I just keep booking. The doctor smiles:

“See Bertha, I told you she would forget about the wait, if you came after her with a needle!”