How is it that hospital waiting rooms feel so clinical and yet strangely intimate? | Canada Voices

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“Gowned waiting room,” the sign says, and my eyes roll of their own accord. Not “waiting room for the gowned.” Maybe that would have been too close to “waiting room for the damned.” In any case, I’m in the right place: two rows of six well-used chairs each, a few small pictures on otherwise blank walls and two people, gowned. A very busy hospital’s waiting room.

No one looks up as I enter. No one speaks. No one looks at me as I sit down. By the time you’ve been relegated to this room, you’ve changed into a gown, stuffed all your belongings into a nearby locker, turned the key in the lock and plunked it in the outstretched hand of a slightly bored employee. By the time you realize that you might have a bit of a wait, any bit of distraction you had the foresight to bring with you is no longer available.

I didn’t anticipate being part of an involuntary experiment but apparently I am: there is nothing to do here but think. An older woman, blonde-haired, stares off into space. A middle-aged man, his entire body flushed, leans forward in his seat, his hands clasped together, thinking God knows what. If we are here, it isn’t for a good reason. Something needs investigating. The data produced by a machine is about to direct the course of our lives. We want to get this over with and get the hell out.

My foot takes on a life of its own, tapping away. I didn’t realize I was nervous but clearly my foot is. Surrounded by silence, it comes to me that there are no windows to the outside, no soothing classical music playing to distract us. There is nothing at all to do here but think.

Unable to sit still, I stand up and walk a few paces down the hallway. Nothing to see, unless looking at a suffering woman in a stretcher is my idea of fun, so I walk back. I mutter to the blonde-haired woman, “It would be nice to know what time it is.” Without saying a word, she wearily lifts a finger and points across the way to an unused nursing station. From her vantage point, you can see a clock. Suddenly life isn’t so bad; at least I can keep track of the time passing.

A woman comes in, looks around and chooses a seat across from mine. I smile at her through my mask; she smiles at me through hers. At some point I ask how she is. Her response is hesitant; English is clearly difficult. “What language do you speak?” I ask, hoping I might know one or two words. “Farsi,” she replies. End of conversation.

We all hear footsteps coming down the hallway and turn our heads but no, someone with a practised look of not glancing over walks past us into the next room.

I check the clock. “This is hard,” I offer up to no one in particular. The reddish-faced man nods sadly. The blonde-haired woman replies, “What’s taking so long?”

More footsteps. A name is called. The clock woman quickly stands up and follows the voice.

Another gowned man enters, sits in the newly vacated chair. Soon he, too, is pacing the floor before wearily sagging into his seat. After a few minutes of shifting in his chair, he says to no one in particular that his back is hurting. I urge him to take a different chair, pointing out that they’re not all the same. He moves to a different spot and smiles his thanks.

Footsteps. Another name is called and my flushed neighbour stands up. “Good luck,” I say, and someone else echoes my words. He looks over and thanks us with his eyes.

A new woman finds a spot in the corner. “I wonder if the wait is always this long,” I say to no one in particular. She volunteers that she’s usually there in the middle of the night so doesn’t know. “Usually?” “Oh, I’m here every six months.” I need to shut up and count my blessings.

Yet another youngish woman walks in, gowned but still holding her belongings. I stand up and walk over to the lockers. “You put your things here,” I explain, handing her the lock, and the other patients laugh. “They should put you on the payroll,” someone ventures.

More footsteps and finally, finally: “Is there someone whose last name is Jo?” I spring to my feet. “Not my last name, but close enough for me!” More laughter. I wish everyone good luck and happily follow the nurse down the hallway.

On my relieved way out, my ordeal over, I pass by the gowned waiting room. People are speaking quietly to each other. I hope the time is passing more quickly for them. I hope I’ve made a difference. I hope I never have to return.

Jo Meingarten lives in Toronto.