Waiting

Hello all! Guten tag! Ciao! Insert other multi-lingual sentiments of greeting here.

Damn... I'm so worldly.

So here's a quick little piece for you kids at the office on this dreary Friday. I hope you're all bored and just dying for something to kill a little time. Well stop checking your facebook homepages and do a little reading! It'll be quick and painless... cuz I know that's how you like it you kinky little...

Whoa! Sorry about that. It's Friday and I'm chomping at the bit to get the eff outta here (shitty weather or not). So take a little time and read a little something from your good friend in the blogosphere (God, I'm a fucking tool). Enjoy!

It’s the whiteness that’s truly maddening—the sterile, buzzing fluorescence of it all. It’s like a million radioactive fireflies are trying to console you and their only allies are crinkly, old magazines locked in a perpetual state of impertinence—the past littered before you in obsolete still frames of the most forgettable “current events.” It’s like tracing a timeline of obscurity between seemingly arbitrary start and end points. Withered, discolored faces well past their fifteen minutes in the spotlight stare up with expressions perfectly contradictory to every thought meandering through your brain. After only minutes of staring at light-hearted and self-satisfied features, a strong desire for violence builds, like it’s within your power to ram a fist through their papery faces and have the pain felt across the boundaries of distance and time. 

Of course there’s the loneliness too. It’s not just about the waiting.

Sure, there are other poor souls anxiously spoiling the pure, incandescent barrenness of the room. But there’s no real camaraderie. Almost everyone is too enveloped in their own grief and worry to provide any kind of consolation or even commiseration. Still, there is always one or two that just can’t keep their concern and apprehension to themselves. I’d imagine for these people it isn’t even a conscious decision. It’s a defense mechanism—one that has probably been with them most of their lives—and they can’t control it anymore than an obsessive-compulsive locking and unlocking the door eight times before actually exiting the house.      

But these really aren’t times for conversation. Well… maybe they are. But reversing this particular tradition of silence holds all the futility of a Catholic telling his excessively devout brethren that going to church is unnecessary. All you need to do is listen to one of these nervous attempts at therapeutic empathy to realize there’s a reason people in this situation would rather keep their problems internalized. 

“So… who are you waiting for?” 

“What’s wrong with them?” 

“What are their chances?” 

It’s like being in a holding cell with other criminals waiting for sentencing. “So… what are you in for?” It’s a desperate grab for comfort; an attempt to reassure yourself that you’re not the only one in this unfortunate situation. But it doesn’t change the fact that you are in this situation. It doesn’t ensure the nurse or doctor will come strolling through that door with you in their sights, their practiced poker face melting away to good news, those words you’ve been aching to hear rolling over their lips in cinematic slow-mo. 

No. It just makes you wonder why some humans feel this incessant compulsion to exchange drama with other humans. As if your own burdens weren’t troublesome enough. 

I breathe a sigh of relief as the extroverted loudmouth targets a slightly more approachable participant. This is no accident. I do my best to emit the coldest aura I can manage. Everything about my body language says “leave me the fuck alone.” In case this isn’t clear enough, I even offer an expression of outward disgust as the loudmouth’s nasally voice cuts through the near-silence in an attempt to strike up a conversation. His target is more willing than I, but the tone of forced politeness in her voice is unmistakable. 

I lean my head back against the wall and close my eyes, letting the fluorescent ceiling lights offer a luminous hint to my own private darkness. I breathe slowly, allowing the cold, medicinal smell of the room to remind me of her on that frigid steel table, gloved hands poking and prodding at her motionless body, heart struggling to circulate the precious remaining blood. I can practically feel the temperature of her pale skin as it hovers around an unacceptable point, her flesh fading into the white operating lights like vapor into darkness. 

My eyes snap open. Somehow the image of her vanishing into brightness is less than reassuring. As my vision readjusts to the room I notice a new body sitting in the row of hard, plastic chairs across from me. Either her entry was completely silent, or I was too immersed in my own thoughts to notice her sneak in. Her complexion is mildly ethereal, but her expression says it’s not a result of her present circumstances, like so many of the others in here. On the contrary, she looks almost reassured… confident even. The rumored power of positive thinking I suppose. 

But something about her looks so familiar. This isn’t really a mystery to me. It’s not a face I’m searching for buried deep in the recesses of my mind. It’s not some visage from the distant past that I expect to place in an hour or a day or a week. No, her resemblance is almost uncanny and strikes me immediately. 

She catches me looking at her and accepts my gaze with open and recognizable affection. She employs a familiar pseudo-shy mannerism and smiles with warmth that is literally tangible—I can actually feel my face brighten with the sensation of sincerity and feel my lips begin to elevate in the form of a faint but noticeable smile.  

Suddenly I hear the doors leading to the waiting area open. She nods in the direction of the doors, gives me a playful little wink then blows me a kiss. 

A strong hand touches my shoulder and pulls my eyes away from the now-empty seat. I look up at the doctor who looks back with a practiced poker face that shows no sign of melting. His mouth opens and I can hear the words clearly before they even roll past his lips.