At my local hospital, the room where you wait to be called in for your yearly mammogram is the same room where you wait for your person while they're in surgery. It's a tough place, so many people so worried. I wasn't there long, but did watch one man get called into a private room for a report from the surgeon. (The volunteer who led him there was really savvy about complimenting his laptop, getting him from asking her questions she wouldn't know the answers to yet, and keeping his mind elsewhere until he heard the word.) And then he came out and called his daughter: mom's okay, make sure those dishes are done when I get home. I didn't mean to be spying, but it's clear you're next to people in an important moment for them and for someone they love. I couldn't help listening.
And every person who comes to the door draws all the attention. My mammogram lady called my name and I stood up and headed over to her. Every single person in the room, together, said to me, "You dropped your hat." I had.
Not just the guy next to me or the old woman across. The whole room was so ready for someone to come to them that attentions were just that on edge, I think. I picked up my hat and said, "Thanks, everybody."
I left when it was over, but part of me wanted to head back there, and sit with them and wait to see when people finally got to exhale. To get to hear the next person call home and tell their own kids to clean up the house because everything is fine.
This made me cry tonight. I'm short on sleep, so I'm extra sensitive. I know that room, and the little room where you go with the surgeon. Intense. And I thank god I got to exhale and make the call home that I wanted to make.
Posted by: Poodle | 09 December 2011 at 11:01 PM
Aw, Poodle. I thought about you when I was there.
Posted by: Sweet | 10 December 2011 at 10:27 AM