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Thoughts from a waiting room.
Nov. 21st, 2010 04:18 pmIt's 10:16 on a Friday; I'm basking in the morning Carolina sun while sitting in a mildly uncomfortable chair in a doctor's waiting room, just off a busy street in Durham, NC. In another situation this might be enjoyable. I spent nearly two hours at work this morning then returned home to accompany my significant other to her appointment to have a health issue examined. She was called in to an exam room a few minutes ago.
14 months ago I was in this same room in nearly identical circumstances. That time she had received a phone call a month earlier and that was the soonest follow-up appointment available. "It's not cancer," they began, attempting but really failing to be reassuring, "but we want to run some more tests." I don't think I'll ever forget when she told me about that call, and I'm certain she won't forget receiving it.
We spent a month trying to not think about it. I don't know if she succeeded; I know I didn't. That sort of call is fodder for the irrational part of our minds. I told myself that the odds were good it wasn't anything significant, but I'd have enjoyed more success telling the wind to be still. I remember tear-filled nights in which I was afraid that it might mean I lose her. What a payback by the universe that once I finally escaped the shell of a person that I had been and began to appreciate what she meant in my life - to be engaged in/with life and be involved with her - that she might soon be taken from me.
This time was shorter, and didn't involve a phone call received by her. She noticed something that was concerning, called the practice, and had an appointment that would happen within a week. This time might have been more difficult for her as she had a constant painful reminder. This is most likely nothing of note, and even if it is, it's likely to be quite treatable. Still the worry and fear remain.
Fifteen minutes have elapsed. Other patients are called back. Still I wait... Every time either door opens I look. I wait to see her walk out, knowing I will study her face to see what her expression conveys, hopeful that I'll see relief, telling me there isn't anything to worry about, but also fearful I'll see a tear-streaked face, her eyes begging for me to comfort her.
I remember the time she had surgery. It was the spring of 2000, and I had just taken a different job, though an internal position change with my employer of four years. I took her to the outpatient surgery and took her home, then went to work. Why didn't I take time off and support her? I can't explain it today, but it made perfect sense to me then. Yes, me today has some things she'd like to discuss with me then.
Half an hour has passed. My heart jumps when I see what I'm certain is her due to the shirt, but is, in fact, someone else. I tell myself that I'm being foolish and over-thinking. It is Sisyphean. I find myself in this position frequently, wherein intellectually I know one thing but emotionally is quite another.
I try to distract myself by thinking of our lunch plans and what to do for the weekend, but right now that seems as though years away. There's also getting the replacement battery for my Voyager (had to jump-start it yesterday; took Daisy-Bug today.)
I think more of last year's appointment. The worry, the waiting...oh the waiting.
Forty-five minutes. I see people leaving who were called back after she was.
I notice one of the publications here. This office is part of the Duke Medicine system and the waiting room is full of their publications. One makes me laugh...it features a graphic that reads "do/don't" where the "o" letters are tablet spots in a foil-backed blister pack; the "do" has a red tablet which has the text "estrogen" while the "don't" pocket is empty. "The estrogen question." It makes me think of the patch adhering to my body just below my waist.
She walks out. I think I see a smile.
Post script: At this time it is believed to be a minor condition and the treatment actually made us both laugh; she's been prescribed a medication that is part of my HRT, although the strength of the entire 30-day supply she received is less than two days of my dosage.
14 months ago I was in this same room in nearly identical circumstances. That time she had received a phone call a month earlier and that was the soonest follow-up appointment available. "It's not cancer," they began, attempting but really failing to be reassuring, "but we want to run some more tests." I don't think I'll ever forget when she told me about that call, and I'm certain she won't forget receiving it.
We spent a month trying to not think about it. I don't know if she succeeded; I know I didn't. That sort of call is fodder for the irrational part of our minds. I told myself that the odds were good it wasn't anything significant, but I'd have enjoyed more success telling the wind to be still. I remember tear-filled nights in which I was afraid that it might mean I lose her. What a payback by the universe that once I finally escaped the shell of a person that I had been and began to appreciate what she meant in my life - to be engaged in/with life and be involved with her - that she might soon be taken from me.
This time was shorter, and didn't involve a phone call received by her. She noticed something that was concerning, called the practice, and had an appointment that would happen within a week. This time might have been more difficult for her as she had a constant painful reminder. This is most likely nothing of note, and even if it is, it's likely to be quite treatable. Still the worry and fear remain.
Fifteen minutes have elapsed. Other patients are called back. Still I wait... Every time either door opens I look. I wait to see her walk out, knowing I will study her face to see what her expression conveys, hopeful that I'll see relief, telling me there isn't anything to worry about, but also fearful I'll see a tear-streaked face, her eyes begging for me to comfort her.
I remember the time she had surgery. It was the spring of 2000, and I had just taken a different job, though an internal position change with my employer of four years. I took her to the outpatient surgery and took her home, then went to work. Why didn't I take time off and support her? I can't explain it today, but it made perfect sense to me then. Yes, me today has some things she'd like to discuss with me then.
Half an hour has passed. My heart jumps when I see what I'm certain is her due to the shirt, but is, in fact, someone else. I tell myself that I'm being foolish and over-thinking. It is Sisyphean. I find myself in this position frequently, wherein intellectually I know one thing but emotionally is quite another.
I try to distract myself by thinking of our lunch plans and what to do for the weekend, but right now that seems as though years away. There's also getting the replacement battery for my Voyager (had to jump-start it yesterday; took Daisy-Bug today.)
I think more of last year's appointment. The worry, the waiting...oh the waiting.
Forty-five minutes. I see people leaving who were called back after she was.
I notice one of the publications here. This office is part of the Duke Medicine system and the waiting room is full of their publications. One makes me laugh...it features a graphic that reads "do/don't" where the "o" letters are tablet spots in a foil-backed blister pack; the "do" has a red tablet which has the text "estrogen" while the "don't" pocket is empty. "The estrogen question." It makes me think of the patch adhering to my body just below my waist.
She walks out. I think I see a smile.
Post script: At this time it is believed to be a minor condition and the treatment actually made us both laugh; she's been prescribed a medication that is part of my HRT, although the strength of the entire 30-day supply she received is less than two days of my dosage.
