waiting

sometimes i dread the waiting room. truth be told, if i could scale the outside wall of the building and rappel down the other side to avoid walking through several time a day, i would. it's not the conversations i'd like to avoid, it's all the eyes.

everyone is there waiting for something they don't want. they're anxious. they're inexplicably bored by the Architectural Digest circa 1998 littering the end tables. they're unimpressed with the accommodations that focus on the pretentious and are a little light on comfort. personally, i say screw the hardwood floors - people need windows, skylights, plants, truly comfortable chairs, complimentary chocolate.

walking through is sometimes uneventful. more often, though, it's a series of greetings - waves, smiles, occasional hugs. it's patients giving quick updates on their cancer and their lives and the book they just read and the pictures from the wedding last weekend. i live for that stuff and the potential of it happening each day is my greatest motivation to keep coming in. if only it didn't have to all take place in the waiting room...with all the eyes...and all the ears. i hate the idea of my sad, just relapsed, sick patient seeing me laughing and celebrating across the room. i hate the idea of not being able to laugh and celebrate with my patients that are looking to me for that.

i was a inpatient for 5 days while in pre-term labor with my youngest. the unit i was on had an interesting mix of patients...some that had just delivered, some whose bodies were trying to deliver way too early, some who had just lost their baby, for one reason or another. outside each private room, the staff would place a picture - their own code to remind them which scenario was on the other side of that door - a blooming rose for the new mother, a evergreen branch for those of us scared and waiting, and a dew drop on a leaf for those grieving. i remember thinking how hard it must be to be a nurse there - to have the happiest day of someone's life in room 8 and the absolute depths of grief in room 9.

the waiting room reminds me of this unit. only there are no botanical cues - only memory and instincts to remind you where everyone is - and what they may need. everyone wants and needs something slightly different from you. it feels like a day's work sometimes to try to give it all.