The Hurry Up and Wait Room

”Well, here I am again,” I sighed. It was 7 a.m. and the hospital waiting room was still empty. My husband was undergoing day surgery, scheduled for 8 a.m. and this was my sixth visit here in four years. Settling in for a minimum six-hour wait, I remind myself once more to be grateful to be on the waiting room side of the situation.

I consider myself a waiting room veteran. I’ve also come to see the gifts in every part of caregiving—even the waiting. In over five decades during hospital stays, I’ve learned acceptance, tolerance and empathy, and most importantly, to quiet my inner voice despite the fear and dread of outcome.

Over the years, I’ve met dozens of lovely, caring people nervously waiting and praying for the same positive outcome that I was. Stilted conversations led to more intense sharing and over the next few days, the “waiting room people” become welcome faces. Meeting up in the ICU unit, we’d update our loved ones conditions while offering positive words of encouragement. The fact that we’ll never see one another again is insignificant; for the moment we are friends.

One of Lorie’s childhood heart surgeries taught me a memorable lesson about judgment. I was a single parent, waiting alone with several worrisome hours ahead. I noticed a couple seated nearby that seemed quite distraught. This was a children’s hospital, so I asked about their child’s procedure and with tears in their eyes, they replied he was having his tonsils removed.

My mind wanted to shout, “You’ve got to be kidding – tonsils!” I would have traded places with them in a heartbeat! After a few reassuring words, I went back to my novel. On reflection, however, I realized how unfair my initial inner reaction was. Quite simply, it’s not fair to compare levels of distress. They couldn’t have possibly understood the severity of my situation, nor did they need to. We both wanted the same thing—our child to be well. This important lesson remains vivid in my mind to this day.

Lorie has undergone at least six major surgeries and I have lost track of the lesser procedures. Over the past four years, my husband had six surgeries, three of them major. In between two of his “larger” surgeries, Lorie suffered a life-threatening brain infection and thankfully survived possibly the most dangerous one of all.

After decades of heart procedures, tests and surgeries, none of this gets any easier. Many of Lorie’s surgeries have been 10 to 15 hours but I can’t leave the waiting area for very long. After a brief rest and more coffee I’d find myself back within a couple of hours. Somehow it always felt safer there.

Nevertheless, no matter how overwhelming life gets, the waiting room always offers an opportunity to be aware that we’re never alone. There will always be another caregiver eager to share stories and empathy because they are the only ones who really understand.

Post- transplant checkups are still long and intense, but very different. Now it’s the cardio unit waiting room. All heart recipients require frequent heart biopsies and I’ve accompanied Lorie to several of these procedures. As a new transplant patient, it was inspiring to connect with the veteran recipients. These waiting room visits left us in awe chatting with five-year, 10-year and even longer fellow transplant survivors.

Occasionally we encounter a negative, angry individual who resents what they consider life’s misfortune, but their negativity presents another lesson. Always carry the positive forward and encourage rather than frighten newer patients. Now, more than three years later, Lorie is no longer a novice and she uses every opportunity to spread gratitude and encouragement.

I’m sure this is a pattern familiar to all congenital patients’ families. I consider it a privilege to be the one my loved ones know is waiting just beyond the operating room door. Still, it’s fun to tease by reminding them that while they were sleeping, life in the waiting room was far from restful. Humor is always my bottom line.