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Waiting

On two occasions in the last week, I found myself waiting for family members receiving medical attention. That’s not one of my favourite things to do for a couple of reasons. I don’t like waiting as a matter of principle and I particularly don’t like waiting in medical contexts. Somehow that always feels like “judgment day.”

It usually happens in the awkward hush of a waiting room. Old magazines are passed around. People drink too much coffee and then shuffle around trying to be quiet but unable to suppress the noise of their shoes on the high gloss hospital floors. They stare through the window, even though the view is limited to a small courtyard and a brick wall. When the door opens, everyone looks, each one hoping to be summoned.

As people are called out, others move in, furtively scanning which chairs are available. It reminds one of the carousel at the park. The mechanical horses go round and round all day as the laughing children come and go. In the hospital, the waiting room chairs offer uncomfortable support while anxious people come and go.

Eventually, your turn comes. The door opens. Everyone looks. You hear your name. You try to move unobtrusively, but weary eyes follow you all the way into the hall. You follow the white gummed-soled shoes squeaking ahead of you. If the news is good, they stop, turn and you’re taken to the side of your loved-one where you’re handed some paperwork to sign and told you can leave. If the news is bad, you’re ushered into a private office where an unnecessarily long complicated explanation is given and after a brief visit with the one you are leaving behind, you go home alone.

Of course, not all waiting is exactly like this. When family members are awaiting the arrival of a new baby, they still flip through old magazines, stare through the window, drink too much coffee and walk and fidget. When the door opens, everyone looks, each one hoping to be summoned. The difference is the expectation of the outcome. If you’re expecting good news your attitude is upbeat, even excited. If you’re not sure of the outcome, your mood is quiet, even somber.

In a sense, we are all waiting. Sometimes life feels like a waiting room. We consume some media and look out of windows trying to get a sense of what is going on outside. We eat and drink to sustain ourselves, we move around, sometimes with apparent meaning, sometimes aimlessly, but we know that what really matters is what will happen when the door is opened and we hear our name.

When we follow our escort toward the light at the end of the hall, will it be good news or bad? Will we be anticipating stepping into a world where the shadows of the waiting room melt away into darkness, or into one where the shadows give way to the light of ultimate reality?

Ron Hughes
© April 2009