I’ve been sitting in hospital and doctors’ waiting rooms for the last ten years - one pretty much looks and feels like the next. I’ve spent a good amount of time in the one I am sitting in today, so much time I’m sure I’ve lost count of the number of visits. It’s the GI Associates waiting room at Mass Gen; this is where I come to see Doctor A, my Gasteroentologist and Hepatologist. My wife is with me today and we’re meeting Dr. A’s assistant an RN who specializes in the treatment of liver disease.
Tension and anxiety are always part of the emotional process when you’re going to the doctor, and both are especially palatable here. Here, we’re cattle, part of the American medical process, reduced to a blue card with an ID number. The aroma of sterilization and rubbing alcohol blend with the stench of patients. The administrators try to make it as comfortable as possible…decent chairs, soothing colors, Anderson Cooper on the television with poor reception, dog-eared magazines brought in from a clerk’s home, the address labels neatly removed. This is all well and good, but I’m not really interested in reading about what Cleopatra really looked like or the mating rituals of the Ambystoma tigrinum tigrinum (tiger salamander) - although the Berry Summer Salad recipe looks delish and the retrospective on Paula Deen has piqued my interest. But in the end, nothing seems to be able to distract me from my rotting liver and the possibility of being rudely prodded by my Doc’s latex incased finger. Thankfully she knows how much lube to use without leaving me feeling completely violated and greasy. It isn’t my first trip to this rodeo.
All of us here are essentially on a cattle call; we’re either here, waiting to be seen, tested and probably delivered some less than stellar news, or waiting for a procedure - endoscopy, colonoscopy or some other “oscopy” that hopefully I won’t ever have the humiliation of enduring. And if we’re not waiting for a visit behind closed doors, then we’re waiting with someone going behind those doors. Which is worse? Being the patient, or the loved one of the patient, both suffering in their own way and, with any luck, in a dignified manner. We’re a motley crew brought together by one common denominator, a failing organ, a cancer, polyp or tumor. We come from all walks of life, a cross section of our society - you see, fate plays no favorites. So the CEO sits next to the nearly reformed yellowing and listless alcoholic, who sits next to the mother of a hipster crocheting away madly to pass the time and forget; the old man, taking his wife for granted their entire marriage until he realizes at this very moment how much she actually means to him and how lost he’ll be once she’s gone. I feel the worst for those loved ones, waiting patiently and painfully, reassuring their spouses, friends and siblings that everything will be okay.
We all look towards each other for reassurance, weak smiles in between crossword clues and sodukos. It is reminiscent of a sad-eyed dog, which has been negated, waiting on the other side of the front door for that owner who is never going to come home.
So my wife and I sit here, talk about our day, our future and quietly wait to be called.
