The Waiting Room

Hospitals are the place where feelings go to die, but a neurosurgery clinic brings your emotions to the forefront and makes you question your mortality.

"Good morning, I am here for my 9:30 am appointment," I said to the two African American nurses behind the counter. I was at the neurosurgery section of the hospital. 

"Fill out this form and have a sit," the female nurse replied coolly. 

Forms completed, I quietly sat on a brown chair in the waiting area and waited for my name to be called. The waiting area smelled like antiseptic, bleach, pine-sol, and hand sanitizer mixed together. Though the room was brightly lit with overhead lights, it gave me the heebie-jeebies. 

There were not many decorations in this room except for the two cheap wall art pictures of a flower and a circle lining one side of the walls. There was an 80inch TV screen on one side of the wall that played one of the many mornings shows Americans love to watch while getting ready for the day. 

A big pot of fake roses sat atop the counter on the nurse's station, making it impossible to see them or hear them talk, especially since we were separated from them by a large, clear, plastic divider. For some reason, I felt like this pot of fake flowers was put on the counter for the sole purpose of agitating patients. I was definitely put off by it.

I found it interesting that none of us patients looked sick, by conventional standards, anyway. We all looked normal, whatever normal is. But I knew for a fact that we all had hidden ailments and we were all battling different demons. My demon was the constant pain behind my ears and neck.

Nine of us, patients, sat in the waiting area, but not a single soul made a sound, not even a little girl sitting on her mother's lap. 

The only sound that was heard in this room was the faint humming of the TV and the occasional voices of the nurses behind the glass-walled counter when they yelled out a patient's name. It felt like a giant industrial vacuum was used to suck up all the energy out of the room, and it seemed no one was interested in getting it back. We all looked lifeless and hopeless. Maybe because us being in the neurosurgery clinic felt like we were knocking on death's door? I certainly felt this way. Add to the fact that we were all wearing a mix of dark and neutral color clothing, and it felt like we were definitely at a funeral. All that was needed was somber music and a preaching pastor to hammer the point home.

None of us talked to each other. We were all on our phones, except for one lone woman who was reading a book. I looked at her with envy on my face because she was doing something I wished I could do. I had brought a book with me to read, but my anxiety was getting the better of me. Every other time I am an optimistic person, but not this day. 

As I sat waiting in this lifeless waiting room, I let my thoughts run wild. "Was there really something wrong with my neck?" "Would the doctor be able to find out?" "Would I need surgery?" "Is something wrong with my brain, my spine?" "Do I have some terrible unknown disease that is causing my terrible neck pain?" "Is it cancer?" and lastly, "am I going to die?" like Maya Angelo nicely puts it, "I was hoping for the best, but preparing for the worst." 

My inner turmoil was interrupted by a loud murmur coming from the nurses' station.

"Why are you here? The female nurse behind the counter asked a woman. 

 "I got my appendix taken out," she answered. She was wearing black jeans, black boots black, a sweater, and holding a white umbrella. She definitely looked like she was dressed for a funeral. 

 "Fill out your information on this paper and have a seat," the nurse responded briskly.

Twenty minutes into me waiting for the inevitable call, a man with a huge buddha belly, wearing all black except for the bright orange Nike sneaker he had on his feet, went up to the counter and angrily demanded to be seen by a doctor. This was the first bit of displayed emotion I had seen from anyone since I sat down in the waiting area. 

"Have yall called me yet? Are yall going to? when?" 

 "Not yet," the female nurse replied calmly. "But you are next," she said.

Orange sneakers slowly walked back to his seat. As luck would have it, not five minutes later, he was called back up to the counter. This time, he went to see the male nurse.

"I come here all the time," I heard him angrily telling the nurse. From their body language, he seemed to be having problems with some of his paperwork. I pitied him but turned my attention back to my own issues. 

Finally, at 9:50, twenty minutes after my appointment was supposed to start, my name was called.

 "Mariana, Mansarie," the female nurse yelled.

 "Coming," I yelled back. Then, slowly, I inched my way up to the counter.

 "What's your name," asked the nurse.

 “MARIAMA MANSARAY,” I said. She typed on her computer for a few seconds then asked me to initial some documents. Seven initials and 2 signatures later, I was done. She told me to sit back down, that the doctor would call on me soon. I did as I was told and patiently waited.

A few minutes later, the woman with the quiet baby was called up to the counter. She had on a black hoody, and on the back, it reads, "normal is just a cycle on a washing machine," inscribed in bold white letters. I found this quite amusing. "Whatever 'normal' is, anyway," I thought to myself.

 "Your ID, please," the male nurse behind the counter asked her. She did not reply.

 "Your birthday?" he asked again. But, again, the woman did not reply. 

 "Happy birthday," the nurse yelled. This seemed to catch the woman's attention. 

 "What's Your Birthday," the nurse asked her, smiling. The woman laughed and told him her birthday. "Have a seat, and the doctor will call you shortly, okay?" the nurse said calmly. The woman picked up her baby and sat down in the only empty chair. By this time, there were 15 of us and not enough seats in the waiting area. It was a revolving door.

An hour after my initial appointment was supposed to start, I was called by a different nurse.

 "Maariya-ama," she yelled from outside of the waiting area.

"Me," I replied eagerly. I was so happy to be finally seen that I didn't even care whether the nurse said my name right or not. I slowly got up from my seat and followed her. A woman leaning on a wall next to my chair watched me with interest as I got up. I instantly knew she coveted my seat and was going to steal it. But at least she waited until I exited the room.

The nurse took me to a small closet-sized room and hooked me to a blood pressure machine. While she did this, another nurse asked me some questions. 

 "Are you pregnant or breastfeeding," she asked quietly

 "No, I'm not pregnant. Not breastfeeding either"

 "How many siblings do you have?" she asked softly

 "Eight" "Can you please speak up a little bit? I can't hear you," I said to her.

 "…..Brothers?" She asked again, quietly

 "Sorry, I can't hear you. Can you please repeat that?"

 The nurse taking my blood pressure finally came to my rescue.

 "Speak up, please, you know I'm hard of hearing. You speak too low," The nurse laughingly said to her coworker. I gave her a smile of gratitude. 

"Taking any medications?"

 "Yes, the ones prescribed for me when I was here on Friday."

 "Do you smoke,"

 "Yes, hookah, sometimes," I said coolly. Twenty questions later, I was done. I was sent back to the waiting area to wait some more for the neurosurgeon to call me.

I got back to the waiting area and was not surprised to see that the lady who was looking at me with interest when I was leaving, has planted herself squarely in my seat. Twenty minutes later, she was called up to the nurse's counter. I contemplated taking my seat back. But decided against it. "Was I really ready to have an argument over a seat.?" I asked myself. I found it funny that I was in this waiting area to be seen for a life and death situation, but yet here I was getting mildly annoyed over a seat.

My thoughts were interrupted by a loud announcement from the nurses' station.

"Good afternoon, everyone; if you have an appointment, please come up here and fill up this sign-in sheet. If you do not have an appointment and would like to make one, please do so over the phone. Or if you want to wait, the wait is an hour," this was said by the male nurse. 

By then, I had been in this waiting area for more than two hours, waiting on an appointment that never seemed to arrive. Waiting for a doctor to tell me my fate. Waiting for that inevitable conversation.