64 tan and pea-green squares make up the waiting room floor—eight across and eight down.
There are 32 chairs; all occupied. We could play human chess if we wanted. Though I sense, no one here is interested. Well, perhaps the suicidal man over there, if he thought he might have a chance of being taken out early in the game. An angry restlessness permeates the room. Light filtering through the louvered blinds falls like prison bars across the inmates. The sign on the wall pronounces: Expected Wait 4 hours. An intolerable sentence for some. But for me, this time, this place is a gift. The pain in my back has eased a little and I no longer think I’m dying. The faces around the room mirror anguish, despair, frustration, fear. I’m excited. I open my sketch pad, and start to draw.
I’m entranced by a young mother holding her two daughters. One is about three, the other just a baby. The older child is sobbing; her hand wrapped in a towel. The mother coos and whispers in her hair, “Sh-sh-sh, mommy’s here.”
The baby starts to scream, demanding food. A man mutters under his breath. “For Christ sake,” and moves across the room. The mother calmly unbuttons her blouse; baby hunts, finds breast; prayers answered. It’s a holy moment; the infant raises a tiny hand in thanksgiving to Mother God.
With one child appeased, the mother turns and comforts her wounded three-year old. Quiet descends, for a few moments they rest.
Soon, too soon, the baby pulls away and starts to cry again; her sister joins the refrain. A stranger senses the mother’s desperation. She rises and takes the wailing infant. She’s a pro. A musician with an instrument she knows how to play; she sways, drums back, baby settles. The silence is music, especially to the young mother. She sighs gratefully, “Thank-you.” Then, perhaps hoping for a pardon, she confesses, “I just turned away for a second and my little girl burned her hand on the iron.”
The older woman leans down and whispers, “We learn not to iron dear.” Every woman within hearing nods in agreement.
A little boy is watching me draw. We exchange smiles. A nurse approaches his mother and announces, “There are no treatment rooms available. I’m going to start his intravenous here.”
He looks terrified. He’s holding a giraffe, and I ask, “Can I draw him?” He nods. “Now, watch carefully, make sure I’m doing it right.” I draw an elephant.
He says, “No, this,” and raises the giraffe.
I draw a dog and a cat; he laughs. The IV is in. Then I draw the giraffe, and give it to him.
I sketch the hysterical teenager with a gash on her chin. She sobs with well-rehearsed drama, “It’s going to scar, I know it!.” I want to show her the scar on my back, tell her about when I was shot trying to protect my gay roommate. Okay, so it’s from having a mole removed, but the story’s evolving into a really good one. That’s the thing isn’t it? Sometimes we tell the story in a way that makes us feel broken all the time, and sometimes we emerge a hero.
Every moment, life unfolds around us in Polaroids, proverbs, treasure maps, and we just toss them aside as useless scraps. Perhaps I am naïve, but don’t assume it’s because I have never experienced the wait, or the weight. There’s a room behind this one. It has smaller pea-green tiles: seven across and nine down. It is stained by tears and lives ripped open. It’s where you wait when your pain is too great for others to see. Once I came to this place with someone I loved, loved deeply. I waited. “I’m sorry there was nothing we could do.” Life weighted. I left alone.
Now, I am sketching a girl who was attacked by three other girls. Her face reflects fear and betrayal; my chest aches while I draw. A woman watching says, “The light is beautiful.”
I examine the sketch. “Actually, the beauty’s in the shadow, that’s what reflects the light, gives it depth.” I want to tell her not to miss the shadows around her, not to waste them or throw them away. But, it’s not my place.
They call my name. The nurse apologizes for the wait. I say, “No need, I actually had a pretty good time.” She looks at me like I’m delusional or stoned. “Sometimes when we wait, the weighting becomes lighter.”
“Huh?” She checks my chart to verify I’m there to see the kidney doc and not the psychiatrist. “The doctor will be in shortly.”
“No hurry, I can wait.”
Published in The Word Weaver, November/December 2005