The Waiting Room

Wednesday afternoon I spent two and a half hours in the emergency room of a local hospital. I was there because my left achilles and calf muscles gave way while I was chasing down a lob playing pickleball. 

The ER was overwhelmed. All the chairs in the waiting area were full. IVs were being given in an anteroom that once housed vending machines. Vitals were being taken in the area as well. We were all friends by date of birth, height, and weight called out loud. 

I had no book, no magazines were available, and no phone scrolling either. And so, I along with the others, we waited. And waited.

So many wheelchairs were in use that two would have to be moved for one to move by.

Two elderly women, coincidentally, came in by themselves--each had fallen the day before and hit their heads. Dizzy this morning, they drove themselves to the hospital.

Severity of need trumped time stamps. Of course.

The young man with chest pains, the second time in a week, more acute than my injury, severe or not.

The elderly woman who has been coughing for three weeks. 

The staff moved at a measured pace. They all seemed in their 20s and 30s. Efficient, pleasant, on task. The nurse practitioner who did my initial assessment about 30 minutes in would sometimes make eye contact with me. Maybe--or so it seemed to me--she allowed a slight shrug.

The two younger women, both pregnant, clutching at their bellies. Both had a child at their side.

Perhaps I should set myself age-wise in this mix: I will be 69 on the 11th.

A teenage girl, very pale, very thin, eyes alert, making her mother laugh. This is her third trip to the ER in the past two weeks. She leaned into her mother's side, head on her shoulder, and drifted off to sleep.

A young man--early 20s--with cast on his right wrist, left arm in a sling--gingerly retrieved a pair of sunglasses on the floor with his fingers and carried them over to a woman who just checked in.

Around the 90-minute mark, an x-ray tech came for me. She wheeled me through the doors into the central ER treatment where every exam room was occupied and down a hall and down another hall to a mobile machine just outside what looked like a lab. She propped my leg up on a rolling chair. Three views taken, and back to the waiting room.

Three of their four radiologists were in emergency surgery. It may be an hour before a review, she warned.

Four more elderly patients in wheelchairs were lined up at the reception desk. 

Two hours in, a nurse brought me two Naproxens. I've had it before--good stuff.

A young man came in--heat exhaustion, football practice.

About 15 minutes later, another young man--heat exhaustion, construction worker.

A young man wheeled in his mimaw, her head rolled to the side, eyes open. Feverish, he told reception.

Another pregnant woman, both hands under her belly. Husband had his arm around her. They both seemed worried. The nurse patted her knee. 

The nurse practitioner came to me. There is no tear, severe strain to the achilles and calf muscle. I can be released without seeing doctor if I wish. Should check in with my regular physician and go from there.

Perhaps I have buried the lede somehow, but somewhere along the way in my life I came to understand waiting as a matter of perspective. 

My seat in the waiting room allowed me a view through the swinging doors into the treatment area. Within the first ten minutes after my check-in, the doors opened and I could see a staff member wheeling out a gurney with a corpse, fully covered, white sheets neatly tucked in around the body.

One might, without much thought, recall a particular sensibility: Oh, the humanity.