There are truths in the universe.
One truth is that the trip to the waiting room is as unique as the traveler. Some people, apparently without concern, pop through that door as comfortably as someone going from their living room into their kitchen. I am dumbfounded at their ease.
I am on the other end of the scale—the one that delays as long as possible. I may make the appointment, but when the time comes, I begin to get nervous. I’ve even “forgotten” the date and time, conveniently. And when I can no longer delay, the actual trip to the waiting room is filled with apprehension and tangible fear.
Once I’m in the building, going down that long corridor, the walls seem to impel me forward—closing in at the edges of my vision, almost forcing me through the door. It doesn’t matter that there’s a smiling face to welcome me. It doesn’t matter if the room is comfortable, nicely decorated, freshly painted. The fact that I am there at all is disturbing enough.
Another truth: the waiting room is the perfect place to divert attention from the real reason you’re there. Some are more comfortable than others—some are cold and spartan—but nearly every one offers a flood of media and information to peruse. Sit in any waiting room and you’ll see how quickly people immerse themselves in something: a magazine, a phone, a silent television. Everyone knows this place is temporary. The real reason is behind the next door—the one we pretend not to notice.
And yet we fill the time. I’ve even seen people carry their magazine with them through the fateful door, as if the story mattered more than what’s waiting beyond. This is a waiting room—why can’t we simply wait?
Perhaps it’s because we can’t bear the weight of the conversation on the other side. Perhaps we’re embarrassed—by what we’ve ignored, by the rules we’ve broken, by the damage we’ve done to our own bodies.
The truth is beyond the door. Here, on this side, I can read about movie stars. I can sip coffee. I can check email, browse headlines, do a little work on the laptop I brought with me. I can fill every minute with distraction, until the real reason I’m here is only a dim memory.
A friend had a mild heart attack yesterday. Today, I’m thinking about my own mortality—and the many ways I’ve been abusing it. I wonder how long I’ll continue to see life as a waiting room… before I find yet another diversion from the real reason I’m here.
