I haven’t been as active online recently, for two reasons. The first: I’m working on some ideas that I don’t feel ready to share yet. The other: I’ve spent a lot of time in waiting rooms.
Arriving at a new neurology clinic is scary enough. Everyone in this waiting area is at least 20 years older than me, but I’m used to that by now. What I’m not used to is security getting called on a patient.
As I take my seat in the tidy, sterile waiting area, I notice an older man arguing with one of the providers. He had been more than an hour late to his appointment, and is furious that they won’t be able to see him. The provider offers him an appointment the next day, but he won’t have it.
“Well, if you had been on time—” she, rightfully, points out. This is the match to the fuse.
At first, it’s “you don’t need to keep reminding me of that!” But as he is told that all they can offer is an appointment the next day, he devolves.
“This is why women shouldn’t be in business,” he says. “This is why women shouldn’t have power.”
This is the point where I know I should join in. As her reaction will soon prove, this woman can handle herself. But to know that I am on her side, and not calmly watching a man harass her, would likely make a difference.
Instead, I’m still in my seat, albeit on the edge of it. Anxiety, overwhelm at a new place, and pain have me frozen. The provider, however, is not.
“Excuse me?” she says, her tone leaving no room for misjudgment. “That’s it. We’re calling security.”
My muscles start twitching, ready to get up and defend this woman, with my cane if necessary. But another, male, doctor comes running over. He quickly informs the man that he should leave and will not be allowed to return. Security had already been called and will escort him out if needed.
The man threatens to fight, but he’s about as intimidating as an elderly guinea pig. He backs down instantly.
The provider comes back, face stoic. “I’m so sorry you have to deal with that,” I say, wishing I could convey much more. She mumbles a thanks, and then turns to cry into a hug with her coworker.
After he leaves, all is quiet. Patients come and go, almost all with quizzical looks in my direction. I always register these looks, but they don’t even come close to surprising me anymore.
This is my fourth visit to my primary clinic’s new location. It still feels new, maybe because every visit here seems a blur to me.
But the front desk staff are friendly. They check me in and hand me the GAD-7 and PHQ-9. I could fill those out in my sleep.
I take a seat in one of the almost-comfortable chairs by the door. A woman sits across from me, discussing her friend or family member’s care with a doctor. I can’t help but eavesdrop. I’m nosy.
The conversation seems boring. Then, they’re discussing possible reliefs. “If she could get some kind of,” the woman stops, gesturing across the room at my cane, “mobility aid, like a cane or crutches or something. That might help.”
My brain freezes. As a young person using a cane, I’m almost never met with acceptance from strangers. Most commonly, if a woman her age would gesture at my cane, it would be to ask “why do you need that?” or give a disapproving glare.
Instead, this woman acknowledged it so nonchalantly. So why do I still feel unsettled?
I start typing up a text to my friend, but am interrupted by a nurse calling my name. Time to go back, get weighed, confirm my CVS-receipt list of medications. The waiting room woman is deferred to the back of my mind, but she will continue to pop her head up in the days to come.
At last, a waiting room I’m familiar with. While in a hospital, with cold tile floors and stabbing white lights, I’m comfortable here. It’s a space I’ve been in a dozen times. Here I see my physical therapist, who has had a huge positive impact on my life.
Thanks to him, I can walk unsupported with minimal pain. Most days. I know what exercises to do to keep my foot moving. And I’ve had opportunities to talk about writing with him, learning more about his writing process and sharing some of my own practice.
Because of these interactions, I’ve learned to see PT as a positive thing, a way to strengthen and support my body rather than a begrudging need.
But today’s reintroduction to this room is not a calm one. Traffic was terrible and the bus late, so I rush through the doors right at my appointment time. I catch my breath at the desk, panting out my name and date of birth to be checked in.
I’m coming for a new concern this time, so of course there’s paperwork. When my PT comes out I’ve only answered the first few questions. “Hey, Ashton! Good to see you,” he says, a big smile and bouncy energy.
I stand, following him back to his room. He’ll end up finishing the paperwork for me. Then he’ll give me a new exercise regimen for my knee, esoteric drawings on scrap paper coupled with my own messy notes. A system that works perfectly fine for me.
I’ll be back in just a few weeks. Unlike all the other waiting rooms, though, I won’t dread having to step back into this space.
Ashton Rose 