The waiting room

There we sat, about a dozen of us in the second-floor waiting room, sharing approximately 144 square feet during simultaneous points of crisis, anticipation, weariness and relief.

I was there with some members of my family as my father underwent an unexpected triple-bypass, "open heart" surgery.

Across the room was a young woman named Kelly, just about my age. It turns out that her daughter was born the same day as mine, within the hour, and their names were similar--hers is Mallory Grace; my baby is Madeline Grace. It turns out that her mother also had bypass surgery a couple of days earlier. She was able to tell me what to expect throughout the day and in the upcoming days of recovery, information that proved to be invaluable. To our left, another small group of three sat watching us with their own pained eyes. The next morning, we'd learn that the person they'd come to see had not survived.

For the most part, though, on that first day, my family and I tried to make light conversation against the sober undertones of the day. My mom was like a tightly wound spring. She seemed afraid to move, lest the tension of it all would break free and she'd go bouncing out of control. Others in the room, including the newly-acquainted Kelly, offered words of encouragement, and soon the details of our various circumstances of waiting began to unfold.

As the days passed, the lot of incidental roommates shared our stories. The waiting room, it turned out, was shared by the surgery, maternity, and cardiology at the small regional hospital where we happened to find ourselves. Few small matters passed through those halls. We met a family awaiting a first baby, as well as one waiting to welcome the latest grandchild of many (and at one point, the many were in attendance, making our own waiting a bit interesting). A woman waited to hear whether her elderly father's leg would have to be amputated. Another waited for a toddler to awaken from ear surgery (he did, and immediately asked for his mother, to the disappointment of his anxious father). A teenager mother waited to see her own father, while her mother's bitterness spilled out into the hallway, marked by words I was happy that Madeline could not understand. A young woman waited anxiously to take her much older husband home. A little girl and her mother passed around Girl Scout Cookies, $3.50 a box.

Over the span of four days, we saw those in grief and those who rejoiced (I'm happy to say we were among the latter). Those moments of great intensity and significance were shared with strangers who were, for a moment, those who understood us best.