The Waiting Room

Generally I like to explore the lighter side of humanity. However today we start a little darker.

A normal Friday is interrupted.

My wife finds out she has a mass in her pelvic region and within a week she is scheduled for a colonoscopy, You know, the one where they shove a metal microscope up your ass and look around for things that don't belong.

So technically, the entire week up to the colonoscopy was ruined, as people who love each other tend to lash out at whomever is in the closest proximity of their anxiety.

Friday couldn't come soon enough, and the anxiety is broken by "the prescription". Anyone who has the honor of partaking in this modern day achievement in life saving medicine will be cognizant of "the prescription". It is a liquid version of colon-blow, designed to wash the innards of the intestinal tract for better viewing by the trained professional holding the metal microscope.

It would be helpful if it was clearly stated on the box of "the prescription" that the contents tasted like Moldovan bat piss. (Not that I know what Moldovan bat piss tastes like, but I have a sneaking suspicion based on my wife's struggles to avoid the automatic reflex of violent regurgitation that it is an apt description)

The appointment is not until 11:00am on Friday morning, and we plan to arrive 15 minutes in advance, just in case they are setting record time with their rectal probing endeavors.

The phone rings at 10:00am. 'Come early', they say. 'We are ahead of schedule today.'

So we arrive at 10:30, sign in and sit in the waiting area.

And sit.

And sit.

It is 11:15 before they call her back. Must have had a doozy of a sphincter to cause that instant of a back up. (no pun intended)

I kiss her and wish her luck. Now it is time to study the people around me.

And there are plenty.

Keep in mind they dope you up pretty good when inserting the metal microscope, so everyone who is privy to the butt party is required to bring a designated driver.

The waiting room can be divided into two camps.

Camp one is the crowd of elders, the people who listened to their general practitioner, eat a lot of grains and bran, and get a periodic viewing of their lower digestive tract by the aforementioned highly trained and compensated professional. Their attendee is usually a partner or child, looking bored for all to see while waiting. They never have more than one person with them, and when they are called behind the door at the corner of the room to have their procedure, their attendee either desperately searches the magazine rack for something even remotely interesting or proceeds directly to an intent study of something on their smartphone for the hour or so that encompasses their wait.

Camp two are my peeps. They are the attendees who look anxious. They speak in hushed tones with the person they came with, occasionally patting their hand or twisting a ring nervously. They are more apt to snap at each other while waiting, as the tension of what will be found will manifest itself within the next hour or two is becoming a weight too heavy to bear by any mortal being. Eye contact is not encouraged with strangers, lest they convey the fear that is encompassing their very souls.

My wife is called. I realize I don't know what is expected of Camp two attendees once their patient disappears behind the door. I look for some suggestion, of course not making eye contact with anyone else.

And I realize I am alone...