There is no comfort to be found regardless of how one contorts oneself in the pleather waiting room chair: there is only the view of buildings or parking lots, a months-old Sports Illustrated with the address label amputated, and the persistent sense that all is out of one’s control, be it the patient or the waiting.
The persistent ding of elevators and the air raid drone of equipment wheeled across shined floors with scuff marks intact. Floral wallpaper / stark lines, anesthetized against the world outside allowing only its own ecosystem of perpetual waiting and perpetual motion to rise above the din.
Legs over the side of the chair or legs crossed / slouched or straight / upside down or rightside up / the address label is still removed and one struggles to remember which section of the parking garage one is parked in and whether the parking will still be free when one leaves. (Seventh or sixth?)
The question of when the patient will leave, the waiting for the results and the waiting to find out that the results require more testing and more results; the only thing interesting on television is QVC and there is no room for opinion except for a universal disdain of the gold zippers on the floral bomber jacket that might match the floral wallpaper or the mauve of the exercise ball behind the windows of the physical therapy center, the hum of a treadmill.
The question of when the waiting will get to leave and wait no more (until tomorrow); begrudging acceptance that one doesn’t necessarily cede control when one passes through the glass doors and the non-smoking campus signs but the moment one wakes up.
(Happy birthday, Dear Morkie)