The Waiting Room

A short story about my first visit to see an Oncologist and the waiting room.

I had dreaded this day.  Fear and gut-wrenching torment had racked my body ever since, three days earlier, my family doctor had referred me to a Hematologist/Oncologist due to extremely high white blood cell counts.  I woke early that morning, around four-o’clock.  I was unable to sleep as fear and confusion filled me to the brim.  None of this seemed real, as if I was living someone else’s life.  Calm down, you're over-reacting.

 

I gave up trying to sleep and got up at four thirty, deciding I’d go downstairs, have some decaf (the last thing I needed was a jittery cup of caffeine,) and maybe load the dishwasher.  I slipped my feet into my fuzzy pink slippers, threw on my old faded pink bath robe, and grabbed my glasses, hanging them around my neck.  I quietly left the room so as not to wake my lightly snoring husband.

 

All the while, I felt this knot in the pit of my stomach.   I had to move, I couldn’t sit still.  After I loaded the dishes, I straightened up the family room, cleaned the cat box, and took some cod fish out of the freezer for dinner.  We’re having fish for dinner on the day I might find out I have cancer.  

I glanced at the clock.  Only five fifteen.  My appointment was at ten o’clock, and I was counting down the minutes though it felt as if the seconds were counting me down.

 

My eyes were heavy, but my brain was so active I knew I would never be able to fall back to sleep. So I lay down on the couch and flipped half way through a tabloid magazine, but words and pictures blurred together.  I threw it back on the coffee table and stared at the ceiling.  I turned to check the time again and now it was five-fifty.  Time was moving like a hourglass filled with sludge.

 

I’m not sure how long I lay there, staring, trying to work out in my mind what I was doing seeing an Oncologist, even though my biological father and his brother had Leukemia, one chronic and one acute.  Never in my life had I thought I would get cancer in any form.  It just didn’t register.  

Well, I don’t have cancer.  My doctor is just being overly cautious and I’m sure everything will be fine.  I did some deep breathing exercises and tried visualizing how the appointment would go.  

I think we’ll have a citrus salad with that fish.

 

I heard closets closing and doors opening from upstairs, so I went to get ready. 

 

“Hi, babe.  Trouble sleeping?” he asked.

 

I nodded as he pulled me into his arms and whispered everything was going to be fine. 

 

“I know,” I replied.  But I didn't.  

 

"I'll be right there with you, every step," he reassured me, rubbing my back in slow circles.

 

 "I know," I replied.  And I did.

 

After a twenty-five minute drive, we arrived at the doctor’s office fifteen minutes early.  It was in a non-descript building I must have passed a hundred times, never noticing.  I had been instructed to stop by the lab on the second floor to get my blood taken, and then to proceed to the waiting room on the third floor. 

 

I’m not an easy “stick” because I have baby sized veins which like to roll when pierced.  I once had a blood test that required nine sticks before an anesthesiologist finally found a vein. 

 

“Don’t bother.  I don't have blood anyway,” I recall telling the mortified phlebotomist at the time, before she summoned the doctor.  

 

Today was good though, and the deed was done on the first stick.  “You’re the queen of the unseen,” I told the nurse. 

 

Hey, first try.  Nobody ever gets it on the first try.  That’s a good sign.  This is going to be a good day.

 

My husband and I then made our way to the third floor, following the signs.  I found myself facing double glass doors, with the words “Virginia Cancer Specialists” etched into the glass of the door on the right. 

 

Everything slowed and became more vivid and confusing. 

 

“Come on, Honey.”

 

My husband’s voice seemed loud. 

 

I watched as he raised his right arm and grasped the handle, to open it for me.   I stood for a moment, frozen and unmoving. 

 

He gently placed his other hand on my lower back, propelled me forward, and whispered.

 

"Let's do this, Babe."

 

I was about to cross a threshold.  It felt as if my life was being distilled down to what was there before this moment, and what would come after.  

My breathing quickened, and I reached back to hold his hand.  I stared straight ahead, not really seeing, heart pounding. 

 

What does any of this have to do with me?

 

My husband pulled my hand and led me forward toward the reception desk.  I moved through thick, dense air, everything slow and heavy.  

 

We arrived at a sign which said “Check in,” with an arrow pointing to the left.  Beside the arrow was a happy face which reminded me of Chucky from those old horror flicks.  

 

A happy face?  You wouldn't be smiling if you were me right now.

 I glowered at the offending sign. 

 

Why the f**k am I having a silent conversation with a sign?  Anyway, it’s not like it is the sign’s fault I’m here.  

 

Good God, get it together, enough with the stupid sign! 

 

Crazy, party of one.

 

A friendly young woman at the desk gave us a beatific smile and motioned us forward to the two chairs across from her.  I reached for a pen but my husband said, “Nah, I got this.”  

 

I sat staring down at my hands folded in my lap. 

 

She then told us to take a seat and said the doctor would be with us shortly. 

 

Did she mean he would be with us in a short amount of time?   

 

Or did she mean he would meet with us for a short amount of time?

 

Or did she mean when he is with us he will be short in stature?  

 

What is the matter with me?  I was moments from busting out in hysterics. 

 

Crazy, party of one.

 

My husband drew me to two chairs against the right wall.  I sat, feeling more than a little light headed.

 

“Okay?” he asked. 

 

“Uh huh,” I lied. 

 

No, I am not okay, otherwise why the f**k would I be in an Oncology waiting room talking to signs and imagining short doctors?

 

I began to look around the room which was a perfect square.  Chairs and tables lined the walls, and a few were clustered together in the center of the room.  The chairs were various shades of soft violet and the tables were a dark espresso brown as was the carpet. Magazines were everywhere.

 

The walls, a cream color, were hung with beautiful landscapes.  Pick one, anyone, I'd rather be there than here right now.

 

This color scheme was most likely meant to create feelings of warmth and calm. But I did not feel calm.  

 

Okay Universe, take me there!  Pick one.  Anywhere but here.  C'mon, giddy-up!!

The Universe was silent.

The room was about half full, with maybe fifteen people sitting in the chairs.

I slowly moved my eyes around the room, careful not to make eye contact with anyone.  I naturally began to wonder at their situations.

 

There was a young couple sitting in the far corner, who looked to be no more than thirty.  I noticed the wedding band on the young woman’s finger.  They held hands and she spoke quietly to the man, likely her husband.  She had a look of total adoration on her face. 

 

Even sitting, you could tell he was a tall man and painfully thin, almost to the point of emaciation, with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes.  

 

Oh God, surely not him.  He is so young. 

 

I was filled with horror and an odd simmering anger at the unfairness of it all.  I was careful not to let them see me.  Finally, I couldn’t stand it anymore and I looked away.

 

There was an elderly woman directly across from me, dressed in a light pink warm-up suit and a pink baseball cap, covering her bald head.  She moved very slowly, looking for something in her purse.  She heard her sigh deeply.  And she was alone. 

 

I could see the weariness in her from these movements and the sounds she made.  Once she found what she needed in her purse, she gave another deep sigh and then just stared at the floor.  

 

I wonder what kind of cancer she has, and why she is alone.  

 

I felt a deep sorrow for her, because I knew her time on this earth was coming to an end.  You could see it.  It was palpable.

 

I could feel the fear rising like bile in the back of my throat. 

 

I am going to the same doctor’s office as these very sick people.

 

I don’t belong here.  I can't belong here.  

 

My hands were shaking and I was starting to have trouble with shortness of breath. 

 

I leaned over to the woman, in desperation, to avoid running from the room, and blurted, “You need my shoes!” 

 

She looked up at me, startled and said, “I need your shoes?”  

 

I glanced at my husband, wide eyed and more than a little shocked at what had just escaped my mouth.  He looked at me as if I had just lost my mind. 

Crazy, party of one.

I looked back at her. "Yes.  You have your pretty pink warm up suit, your cute pink hat, but your sneakers are white,” I explained in a calm voice which surprised even myself. 

 

“See,” I said, and raised my right pant leg to proudly reveal my Nike cross trainers with the glittery pink swoosh on the side. 

 

I smiled over at her, and she, after seeing my shoe, looked up with a big smile, eyes crinkling. 

 

“You’re right.  I surely do!”  God, it felt good to see her smile.  God, it felt good to smile.  

 

My breath began to slow.  I could hear my husband snicker under his breath, shaking his head.

 

A brightly smiling nurse came out of a door to the left of the check in desk and called out a woman’s name.  The lady in pink placed her purse on the chair next to her, and then slowly rose, grasping her cane.  She reached down and picked up her purse, carrying it in her opposite hand.  She moved very slowly, bent over, eyes looking down at the floor. 

 

I wanted to get up and put my arm around her and help her, but I was afraid that she might find it undignified.

 

And then I would feel stupid, invading her space.  

 

She glanced over at me as she walked by and grinned, “You have a good day, sweetheart,” she said. 

 

“You too,” I responded with such common words, now meaning so much more.  

 

I watched her as she went through the door, hearing the beginnings of a conversation between her and the nurse. “It’s so good to see you again!  You look lovely today in all your pink!”  Then the door closed and she was gone. 

 

I had this overwhelming urge to fling that door open and give her my shoes…as if they might lift her or even heal her.  

Or perhaps selfishly, as if a random act of kindness might bring me some much needed luck.  

 

Did I deserve good luck?  Did I deserve to be well in the midst of all this suffering?

 

Rein it in, Tonto, you’re losin’ it.

 

I reluctantly continued my perusal of the room, while my husband, who must have decided I wasn't going to try to escape, let go of my hand.

 

I watched him pick up an ancient copy of Sports Illustrated, thumbing his way through it.  

 

"That was cute, the pink shoes" he said.  

 

I shrugged as if he had asked me what was for dinner.  Fish.

 

My eyes settled on an elderly couple near the center of the room.  They must have been in their 80s or so.  Both were exceedingly thin.  His hair was gone, and her’s was a bit of a tangled mess of white and gray. 

 

They did not talk to each other, they did not look at any magazines, they just stared straight ahead with vacant looks. 

 

I figured they’d been here many times before.  They knew the process for their eyes did not wander like my own.  I considered whether my prognosis would require me to come here again, to come here often.  

 

Did they diagnose here, and treat somewhere else? 

 

Did they do all of the lab work on site? 

 

Are all Hematologists also Oncologists? 

 

Will the office staff know me by name at some point?

 

Questions kept falling out of my head, almost like they were landing on the waiting room floor, left there upon which to be trampled.

 

Still, I started to feel a bit brave and could tell a sort of calmness was taking hold.

 

The door opened again, and a different nurse emerged.  She called a man’s name, and the young couple rose, with the woman holding on to her husband’s elbow. 

 

They moved slowly.  Everyone here moved slowly. 

 

“How are my newlyweds doing today?” the nurse asked as the couple approached her. 

 

The young woman smiled, saying, “We’re doing just fine,” as they disappeared with the closing of the door.

 

Newlyweds?  You have got to be f*****g kidding me!

 

I decided to stop looking around at the others in the room.  My eyes welled up with tears. 

 

I was probably thirty years older than that couple.  Of course, I was probably thirty years younger than the old couple.  It wasn’t fair, no matter how you sliced it. 

 

I just looked down at my feet, now overcome by fatigue. 

 

I just want to get this over with. 

 

The gray and violet colors suddenly looked old and sickly.  And the air was overly warm, and smelled of some cloying fragrance like lilac and vanilla.  

 

My husband had tossed the magazine back on the side table and took my hand again, patting it.  We didn't speak, we just sat, waiting as others were called.

That's what you do in a waiting room.  You don't talk to signs, you don't say silly things before thinking, you don't begin developing tactics for you escape.  You wait.

 

After about ten minutes the door opened again, and I held my breath.  “Mrs. Brown,” the nurse said.  I jerked slightly, then looked around to make sure it was I who was being called.  

 

I then stood and picked up my purse, taking my husband’s arm as we made our way to the nurse.  I purposefully walked at a normal rate and kept my chin up.  

I wasn’t ready to give in to the slowness.

 

I took a deep breath, just before reaching the nurse. 

 

“I’m so glad to meet you all!  This must be Mr. Brown?” the nurse chirped. 

 

“Yes,” replied my husband.

 

And so we walked through the door which separated the waiting room from what awaited us.  We crossed another threshold, which led to other rooms for the “all clear,” rooms for optimistic diagnoses, and rooms for unimaginably bad news. 

 

It was those thresholds through which I progressed that day, forcing me to cross over to another world.  But it was the waiting room, where people waited their turn, waited to hear their name, waited to live, and waited to die, which tore at my soul. 

 

And with this walk, on a bright January morning in the year 2012, I left the waiting room and crossed a new threshold.  And there on the other side, was the diagnosis that changed my life forever. 

Author's Note

This is a true story. I was diagnosed over a series of appointments with High Risk Level 2 Stage Zero, Chronic Lymphocytic Leukemia. Now, the Waiting Room waits for me, for my many visits, almost like a familiar acquaintance I never wanted.

Awards:

- What Just Happened Contest 1st Place

- Short Short Stories Contest 5th Place

- So You Love to Write Contest - "Most Creative" 5th Place

Reviews

[December Blaize]

This is such a sensitive, intense story, and I was biting my nails as I read, trying not to hyperventilate. And when I got to the end, saw that it is a true story... it just blew me away. My best friend had to be tested last year for cancer (and other illnesses) because of high white blood cell and platelet counts. We're in high school. At the time, I think neither of us thought she could possibly have cancer, even though her grandmother died of it a few years ago. It turned out that she did not have cancer, or anything truly serious, but reading this made me realize how real the possibility of a more grim prognosis really was, and how lucky she is.

I hope you remain strong, and continue to share your beautifully heart-wrenching words with us. Thank you for this story, honestly, I believe we can all take something meaningful from reading it.

[Schyala]

This is a beautiful yet intense story. I loved the description os the people in the waiting room, the old lady, the young couple, the old couple it was beautiful. I was almost brought to tears, and that's really hard to do. Amazing job :)

[Archia]

This almost brought me to tears. It was just the way that I felt I stepped into your life, into that waiting room, and I'm so sorry to hear it wasn't good news. It was heart-wrenching. Thank you for sharing your story, it was wonderful to read.

[Wendy Seames Garner]

Nicely done! I hope this is something you have recovered from. This story brought back so many memories - ten years past now for me. Memories of waiting rooms, thinking I didn't really belong, wondering about the other patients, feeling embarrassed if someone made a fuss about me - I was going to be fine, it was the others who needed help. I developed some sweet friendships there in the waiting room, many of whom I knew would soon die.

[BLBrown]

House of Relics - Thanks for your kind review and sensitivity. It was a powerful experience, and I knew it would be life changing. I have an aggressive form of Leukemia, which was diagnosed only about a month ago, so my emotions are pretty raw...but I'm doing okay. Thanks again. - Barbara

[Relic]

I read this story filled with anticipation. It was a gripping read because it was so real in the way you recollected each scene. You described your feelings in a way that leaves the reader feeling your emotions. By the end it was clear your diagnosis was not good and I'm sorry about that.

My cousin died of Leukemia at 17. It was very hard on the family because she had been improving. Then suddenly they told us the bad cells multiplied and she died a short time later. I hope you're doing well and continue to do well. This was a well told story and a gripping one.