I enter the small waiting room, a bit early for my
appointment made long ago.
The room is crowded with others who also wait,
each one quiet in their own private thoughts.
A woman sits, head tipped to the side…her eyes open and
close drowsily.
Another woman alternately looks through her bag, stuffed
with papers and texts on her phone.
An elderly man in a green baseball cap flips through a
magazine.
A mother attempts to pour a pouch juice drink into her son’s
bottle as he sits in his stroller, his mouth wide open in anticipation.
With no place to sit, I stand off to the side and begin
waiting.
I have forgotten to bring a book; so instead, I ponder the
possible situations of my fellow patients. I can’t help but notice that each patient falls into the
“Obesity in America Crisis” category and carries the “belly fat” that Dr. OZ
discusses frequently. This makes
me sad. I look down at my own
belly and feel a twinge of inclusion, yet a sense of contentment at my recent
health gains, weight loss included.
I watch the mother puncture the juice pouch with the tiny straw and
think of the patterns continuing.
My own children drank those juice pouches and loved them. I think of the cycles, the spirals that
get carried along even with an onslaught of ‘new’ information, lessons on how
we as a people can live healthier lives.
Soon the mother pushes the stroller out into the hallway and
I am able to take a seat.
Within a few moments a woman pushing an elderly woman in a
wheelchair and a man enter the confined area.
I find myself swooped into their story by virtue of no place
else to rest my eyes and an intense interest in people watching.
The caregiver parks the wheelchair close and sits down while
the man greets the elderly man in the green baseball cap, who stands up to
shake hands. The younger man
speaks with a strong voice in an accent I cannot quite discern. The elderly man moves over and
sits beside the caregiver, warmly greeting the elderly woman in the
wheelchair. They know each
other I think to myself.
Suddenly the room is no longer small, confined, but it is an
intimate space filled with care.
The caregiver gently strokes the back of the woman’s head, smoothing her
straight gray-white hair down.
Down
Down
Down her
hand travels in repetitive caressing gestures.
The woman sits quietly, shaking as if cold. She moves her feet off and back on the
wheelchair footrests, her slip-on sneakers and argyle-socked feet causing her
legs to bounce continuously.
Her caregiver pauses to flip the tips of her hair out of the
warm collar of her vibrant purple sweater and pulls the hem of each side closer
together on the woman’s lap. Then
she feels the woman’s hands, rubbing them as if to warm them up.
I recognize the silent confidence as the caregiver slowly,
rhythmically moves her experienced hands while trying to make the elderly woman
comfortable.
I feel a sense of sameness in those who care for the young
and those who care for the elderly.
I reflect on this relatedness, mesmerized by the caregiver’s level of
attentiveness.
The two men have already moved through the typical greetings
to each other. The elderly man
asks about where they parked and how the traffic was. He then asks the woman how she is and if it took her a long
time to get ready. He comments
that while he got there one half an hour early, he forgot to check them in and
he goes to do so. He repeats many
of his statements over and over as his eyes stay riveted on the elderly
woman. He comments that the doctor
must be late as it is past their appointment time.
Looking at the clock high on the wall, I realize that their
appointment time is 15 minutes before mine. I already know what I will do, so I wait.
The younger man with the accent sits apart from the
others. He reads a book he has
brought.
The elderly man sits on the edge of his chair, leaning in to
talk with the woman. His voice is
loud and up-beat and he pauses between comments, listening intently to her
response. In between he leans back
in his chair with a pensive look.
When he thinks of another thing to say or question to ask, his face
perks up and he leans forward once again.
“Are you cold?” he asks, cupping her clenched hand in his
own sturdy fingers. He speaks to
her of people they know, his voice big and encouraging and her voice barely
audible.
And as he speaks, he rubs the knuckles of her curved
fingers.
His thumb moves around
and around
in
circular motions
I can feel him attempting to connect.
Searching for that hit-and-miss certain something that will bring a
response.
He talks of things to come, of things planned.
The old man asks her if she had any of the cookies someone
had brought over.
She noticeably raises her head and her voice rises with
indignation as she tells him that the others ate them all.
He assures her that they will get more and her eyes twinkle
as she asks in a girl’s voice hopeful of convincing the one in charge, “Today?”
No, not today, but soon he tells her.
Her eyes dim and she again looks f a r a w a y…
He says maybe tomorrow afternoon, after the doctors.
She says in a firm voice, laced with a wry sense of
disbelief, “We’re at the doctor’s now!”
The caregiver smiles and softly chuckles while the elderly
man erupts in laughter.
The elderly woman smiles, laughing softly and finally that
sought after connection falls into place.
He laughs and tells her of his own doctor appointment the
following day and she accepts this explanation.
One, maybe two other topics catch her interest, I no longer
recall. I am left only with
the sense of longing, of the missing of something by the old man and the
quietness of the woman.
He continues to try.
He continues to search for that next subject that will bring her back to
him.
It is at this point, as I watch this dance of conversation,
of communication
This very slow fragmented waltz before my eyes,
It is at this point that the receptionist points the remote
control out of her windowed space and turns on the television.
It’s colors of children’s programming and loudness barges
in, jarring and invasive.
She quickly turns it down a decibel or two, but it is still
loud and he can’t her the elderly woman’s limp answer.
I glance over at the receptionist. I’m thinking unfriendly thoughts based on the assumption
that not one of the adults in the waiting area seems to be interested in the
children’s program and no one had asked for the television to be turned
on. I eventually realize
that she is tucked away at her low desk, behind a partial wall and window.
The receptionist is not aware of life unfolding not four feet away.
I glance again and she turns down the volume to barely
audible, like the elderly woman’s own voice. But the colors and movement continue flashing near the
ceiling, pushing the dancers apart once again.
She closes her eyes.
Her head tips forward, chin resting on chest.
He asks her if she’s sleepy. He turns and comments over his shoulder to the younger man
that she is getting sleepy.
He looks to the caregiver for additional information.
I feel his searching.
She sits back up again and elbows on the armrests of the
wheelchair, her knuckled hands rub at her eyes.
“Don’t rub your eyes sweetie”, he says and takes hold of her
contorted hand.
He begins rubbing
again and tries to spread her fingers open.
“Let’s open this up a little”, he says gently.
Her eyes remain closed.
The door to the inner office opens and my name is called.
I glance up, not moving I gesture across the aisle
and state, “their appointment time is before mine”.
The nurse looks from one patient to the other and goes back
in, the door closing behind her.
The elderly man looks over and I tell him my appointment was
at 10:30. He states again his
appointment time and that he did not check-in upon arrival.
Before I can answer, the nurse returns and calls them in.
As the elderly man moves to follow the wheelchair in, he
glances back and says, “That’s my wife.
We’ve been married 67 years.”
I
smile at him.
My heart swells.
And in a voice as quiet as his wife’s, he adds, “Things
haven’t been too good recently” and disappears behind the door.
Emotions bubble up as I think, that’s what love looks
like.
Story by NAE ©2011