The Waiting Room

I've spent enough years in medical waiting rooms that I no longer notice the wait. I notice the people.

Waiting rooms are fascinating little ecosystems with rules everyone somehow understands. Nobody sits directly next to another person unless there are no other seats. Everyone pretends not to listen while hearing every conversation. Every time the nurse opens the door, every head lifts in perfect unison, each of us hoping, despite all evidence to the contrary, that somehow they will call our name twenty minutes early.

Some medical offices have embraced comfort. Soft chairs. Warm paint colors. Coffee that almost tastes like coffee.

Others appear to have furnished the place with whatever was left over from a middle school cafeteria renovation. Hard plastic chairs. A ficus tree hanging on by sheer determination. Magazines featuring celebrities who have since retired. A television permanently tuned to a home renovation show that absolutely nobody is watching.

Years ago, I was sitting in a very similar waiting room. It was at my father's primary care physician's office when a gentleman's name was finally called.

I watched him make the familiar walk down the long hallway before stopping beside the scale.

The nurse pointed.

He nodded.

Round one. 

Man vs. Scale. 

Both competitors looked ready.

Off came the belt.

Then off came the phone, clipped proudly to his hip.

His wallet.

His keys.

A handful of loose change.

Then, to my surprise, a small shoulder bag I hadn't even noticed.

Shoes.

I figured we were done.

We were not.

Off came the glasses.

The glasses?

I have no medical training, but I'm reasonably confident bifocals aren't the deciding factor between one weight category and the next.

The nurse chuckled, "Take your time."

Without missing a beat, he smiled back. "Don't tell me that... or I will."

By now, I was completely invested. My father was too. Unfortunately, Alzheimer's had taken his filter years before it took much else. He leaned toward me in what he believed was a whisper.

"Would ya look at that guy? He doesn't need to be doin' all that."

My father's commentary reached every corner of the room. I felt a sudden urge to vanish into the upholstery. Then I noticed the room begin to change. A man across the way offered a subtle, knowing grin while a woman suddenly became intensely interested in her magazine. Without meaning to, my father had voiced the collective thoughts of our little ecosystem.

The gentleman, meanwhile, remained completely committed and wasn't about to concede a single ounce. We all sat there in silent solidarity, cheering him on as he continued removing anything he believed might influence the outcome.

Watching him made me realize that every medical office has a completely different philosophy about the scale.

The thoughtful ones hide it.

They tuck it halfway down one of those long, cavernous hallways every medical building seems to have. Usually somewhere beyond seventeen identical doors, just far enough away that you begin to wonder if you're being transferred to another zip code. The scale waits around the corner, out of sight, protecting one of society's best-kept secrets.

Our actual weight.

Then there are the offices that haven't caught on.

They place the scale just far enough down the hallway that it's technically private, but still well within earshot of everyone in the waiting room.

The nurse never says the number out loud. 

She doesn't have to. 

You know exactly how the weigh-in went by listening to the conversation.

"That can't be right."

"Hang on... let me take my shoes off."

"I don't think this thing's calibrated."

By the time they're finished negotiating with the scale, the rest of us have become emotionally invested in the outcome.

I've come to realize that waiting rooms are one of the few places left where strangers unexpectedly experience life together. We silently root for people we've never met. We exchange knowing smiles when someone's child discovers the joy of spinning in the only empty chair. We pretend not to notice anything, while noticing absolutely everything.

Maybe that's why I don't mind them as much anymore.

By the time most of us make it to the waiting room, we've already put in a full day's work.

Maybe you spent twenty minutes convincing someone it was time to leave the house.

Maybe you searched for the missing hearing aids.

Maybe there was an argument about whether this appointment was even necessary.

You finally sit down, exhale, and immediately start counting how many people are still ahead of you.

But if you look up, you might notice something else. Waiting rooms are one of the few places left where nobody is performing.

People are tired. Nervous. Bored. Hungry. Hopeful. Impatient. They're just living their lives.

The gentleman with the scale wasn't trying to entertain anyone. He was simply doing what so many of us have done before him, hoping the number would be a little kinder than he expected. He had no idea an entire waiting room had become invested in his success.

No idea my father had turned him into the afternoon's headline.

No idea he had given a room full of strangers a reason to smile.

Sometimes that's all it takes.

Not a life-changing conversation.

Not profound wisdom.

Just an ordinary person, being wonderfully human, reminding the rest of us that we're all carrying more than anyone else can see.

Some of us just remove our glasses first.

The next time you find yourself in a waiting room, put your phone away and look around.

You'll probably notice a few things you would have missed.

A funny exchange.

A quiet act of kindness.

A familiar routine.

A reminder that every person in that room walked in carrying something you can't see.

And that sometimes the best part of the wait has nothing to do with hearing your name called.

With you,

Tahnya Brown
Founder of TAHN & Co.
Author of Blurred