The Waiting Room
Sitting, sitting in a vaguely comfortable chair, too small as usual, dazed, no energy, waiting. The feeling of nausea deep down, smouldering, waiting for a chance to flare into a conflagration but starved of fuel, no food, bringing weakness. Hot, do I have a fever? Don’t know, maybe it’s just hot in here.
The wall seat is free, the local car salesman and his young female friend , colleague? , don’t know, have gone in. Why are they here together? They don’t look like they are together. An odd couple to be sure. Move over near the wall, lean back, much better.
The steady bubbling drone of the girls behind the counter processing the patients through like Medicare numbers washes over me. I wonder if they call them clients? Probably. The steady rumble of air in my intestines going nowhere. How much longer? I’ve been here 45 minutes already. I wonder what would happen if I collapsed on the floor, made a commotion, would everyone rush over? I chastise myself for being overdramatic.
The young child in front of me marches around making a game of the patterns on the carpet. Two guys in work shorts & boots sit opposite me, have they come here after work ? Still the patients roll in. I look at the battered copy of National Geographic beside me. It is from 2002. I wonder how it got there, what stories it could tell of the people passing through, stuck in a limbo until doctor time catches up to the fantasies hopefully or deceitfully handed out on appointment cards. What if they never call? What if I’m doomed to sit here for eternity amidst the ebb and flow of Medicare numbers coming in and going out?
They call my name, mispronouncing it, and I wander over, leaving the waiting room behind in some sort of timeless limbo as I become one of the lucky ones until the next time I need medical attention.
