Description of a Hospital Waiting Room

¶ … walls of the waiting room reeked of depression and anxiety. Magazines draped across the coffee tables served more to distract than to entertain. Television screens overhead flashed stock market tickers and headline news; the volume was imperceptible, perhaps to avoid competition with the PA system. Considering it contained thirty people including children, the hospital waiting room seemed quiet. Yet tension was in the air, and occasionally a child would break the uncomfortable silence with a startling giggle or whine. The telephones at the reception desk rang constantly but distantly, even though they were only a few feet away the rings were muddled. The room was so devoid of smell that it took on an aroma of its own. A myriad of sights and sounds envelop anyone in a hospital waiting room, whether patient, friend, or relative.

Rows of plastic chairs strung together like sterile beads looked more like bus station seats than those belonging in a hospital. Long, low tables divided row from row, person from person. A few lucky waiters grabbed the huge comfy seats in the corner, where they could probably snooze until their name was called. On the walls, posters advertised pharmaceutical magic, or listed the symptoms of conditions or diseases. Some of the posters warned against the perils of smoking or unprotected sex. My eyes lingered a short while on the walls before they were lured by the televisions hanging from the ceiling. Most people in the room either fidgeted or pretended to read or watch TV, just as I was. Frustrated by the repetition of headline news, I stared at the thin carpet, its pattern geometric and mesmerizing in its own way.

The intercom startled me out of my reverie. The page was for a doctor; most of the people in the waiting room cocked their heads hoping to hear a familiar name. Whether it was their own or someone they loved, I didn't know. Tense murmurs were more common than full conversations; I noticed that most of the families waiting together seemed too anxious to make small talk. Occasionally a baby would utter nonsensical words or a five-year-old would solicit attention. Cars and ambulance engines rumbled outside the sliding-glass doors.

Three families surrounded me in the plastic chairs. One consisted of father and three young sons. The kids played with each other and their toys but were old enough to understand that hospitals were not playrooms. Their dad's hands, clasped together on his lap, spoke volumes. Likely it was his wife for whom he waited; it looked serious. The father's eyes were cast down and only occasionally would he check on the well being of his three well-behaved boys. To my right sat a mother and her five-year-old daughter. Neither of them seemed disturbed and I guessed that one of them was a patient, as opposed to a lady in waiting. Across from me, arm in arm, a young couple waited expressionless. The magazines lay dormant on the table in front of me as if most people were afraid to feign disinterest in the affairs of their own or their family's health. Most of the other people in the waiting room were there solo, and it was hard to discern who was waiting to be seen by a doctor and who was awaiting the news of a loved one inside. When a nurse or one of the receptionists called someone in, everyone's head turned to make sure the name wasn't misread or misheard.