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SHARK REEF
A Publication of the Lopez Writers
Guild
Vol. 5, No. 2
May 2005
Thoughts from a Seat in the Waiting Room
by Amalia Driscoll
I watched from my waiting
room chair. A snow-headed ancient, bundled into a thick car coat,
came in through the automatic double doors of the hospital specialty
center. He leaned heavily on a cane with his right hand as he
lurched forward, steadying himself with his left hand on the shoulder
of a slight and equally snow-headed woman with glasses and handbag
and long coat.
"He couldn't manage without
her," I thought. And then, "But he is keeping her alive."
The two checked into the reception desk and sat on adjoining chairs.
They didn't talk to each other. They didn't search out magazines
from those splayed out over the tables.
A well- buffed young thing walked
purposefully by. Her legs were muscled, filling sheer black stockings
fully as they emerged at mid-thigh from a short black skirt. She
wore an immaculate white jacket with a name- tag announcing her
as staff. "Does she see anyone else?" I wondered. But
why should she? She was supremely confident of her strength, her
youth, and her erotic appeal. She disappeared behind the surgery
front desk.
Four old fashioned square
oak tables with captain's chairs around them shaped the waiting
room area where I sat. There were single chairs at the walls.
It was to the pharmacy at one side of this grouping that a woman
with a stroller and two small children approached. The stroller
baby was asleep. The others, a girl of about three and a boy of
about five, busied themselves with a steel measuring tape. The
boy repeatedly got the girl to pull out the tape for him and then
he let it loose with a gay shout. The little girl liked the game
but I cringed. My moma experience said that girl was going to
get cut when the tape snapped on her. Mother did not pay any attention.
She was busy having a prescription filled.
Four laughing seniors took
over an entire table. Here a booming voiced mid-sixties fellow
acted as it he were piloting his Bayliner on the Sound and the
three women were his crew. The women were well-coiffed, with purple
and crimson and blue polyester fleece jackets. They wore their
lipstick with assurance, but one needed help. Beside this one
knelt a social worker, exuding the crisp air of the efficient
employed, writing information on a clipboard.
Now the old ones were called
in for their appointment. They went together, still supporting
each other.
And where did I fit into this picture? I thought of my obviously
aged face, but then of the way I carefully extricated myself from
the chair without using the support of the arms. Just who was
I kidding? Ruefully, I acknowledged my fierce need to state to
the world that I could do for myself. Just like a two year old
I once had who had a mantra: "I can do it myself."
Certainly, my hold on such independence
is tenuous. One misstep and I could join the walker crowd. There,
but for the grace of good genes and luck, go I. No longer do I
have the exuberance of the mid-sixties. I am making my way reasonably
well today, in my early eighties, but I know this point of equilibrium
on which I rest is fragile. I continue on as if I have a future
but in my heart of hearts I know how problematical that may be.
All these waiting room people exist,
with me, on a continuum. Call it life. An awareness of where you
are on that arc can make you embittered or compassionate. My son
David, who faced his own inevitable and relatively young end developed
deep concern for others. I watched him explain foolish clients
in court and assist ordinary mixed-up people who came to his office
for help. I know he grew into that kindness from his daily realization
of how close he was to death.
The old usually have more
time than my son did, but they can come to this same gentle awareness
of life as gift and reflect back compassion to the struggling
people around them.
I am sure the young mother
of the waiting room was too immersed in immediate problems to
think of life and death. Nor could the vital staff member possibly
think of endings right now. The mid-60s quartet was coping well
enough to ignore the approach of extreme age. The elderly couple
was just hanging on with no visible choices. It is easy enough
to think you are not personally included in the general picture
of impending dissolution you see about you in a medical waiting
room. But you are there, as am I.
To be old is to sustain losses as
you march off from the rest of the community. Family die and friends
die. The energy you are used to depending on vanishes. You lose
the comfortable feeling of a future onto which you can project
your plans. You must find different ways to keep connected to
the living or you will descend into despair. Each of us survivors
has this need.
Copyright © 2005 Amalia Driscoll
Amalia Driscoll - "I am an old lady with a complicated history that includes six children and a couple of husbands. I worked as a teacher, counselor, lawyer, secretary and farm manager. I lived in urban and rural settings in eight different states in the U.S. and traveled a bit abroad as I got older."
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© 2003 Lopez Writers Guild
Made on a Mac by
Leta Currie Marshall