Weighted

On the way to the hospital, after dropping the kids off at their respective schools, I call my mother. Our conversation is short.

I am going over to the hospital.

OK.

I’ll call you when he is out.

OK.

The hands on the clock above the doorway move slowly, like those melting clocks in Salvador Dali's paintings.

It is unnaturally quiet, almost like church before Mass starts. Feet shuffle, papers crinkle, eye contact is fleeting. We are all waiting for our personal conferences with the doctors immediately following a surgery. We are the worriers who wait for word of how our loved one fared. 

The room is light and airy, but the mood is unmistakeably weighted. Is this a waiting room or a weighted room?

Nobody says, “So what brings you here?”

Nobody wears high heels.

Nobody guffaws, or tries to be a comedian to the captive audience.

After a while, a man wearing blue hospital scrubs comes in and calls out, “Mr. Samuels?” He has been working on Suduko puzzles with a blue ballpoint pen. He looks up, stands and wordlessly follows the scrub-wearing man out the door.

Although Mr. Samuels is the first to leave, it’s tough to know if he is lucky of not. At this minute, he knows more about his loved one than anybody else waiting in the weighted room. It is safe to assume that most are here for less than fortunate reasons.

It is the luck of the draw, when your number comes up.

I have now finished today’s edition of The Boston Globe and The Telegram and Gazette. I unzip my backpack and take out the People magazine, a toothy Kate Gosselin on the cover. I save the teenage vampire book for later, a special purchase for today. It is thick and fat, far more than I can read in a single day. I need to read, to keep occupied; I am easily distracted. I must keep my mind and spirits on light material. I sense my emotions - all of them, however inappropriate - are just below the surface, like bubbles, and can pop at the slightest provocation. People magazine and sparkling vampires seem like wise choices.

I need a clear head for when I get to conference with the doctor.

I try to not notice that it is now 10:30, past the time I had estimated needed for this “simple” procedure. When scrub clad people stand at the door and announce the next family that gets to leave, I try to be nonchalant.

Today, there is a lot I don't know. I don't know that cancer will be excised from my husband.  I don't know about the treatments, the follow-up appointments, the strained voice that escapes my lips when trying to discuss this situation.  I’ll never know what news these fellow waiters will receive today. I don't know the story as to how they find themselves here at the weighted room of waiting. I don't know because I can’t bring myself to ask, not today.

They don't ask me either.

Today, we are all just waiting.

It is 11:15 when I hear, “Mrs. Medeiros?” This is not my name, but I answer to it. I quickly gather my things and follow the surgeon out to the hallway.