The Waiting Room

Ticking Timebomb | Cadi Galdos | Painting

The Waiting Room by Finn Dupin

Say Dupin

Say Dupin

“Rosen.”

We all sat in a circle, every face staring at every face. It was a warm day in an otherwise warm December, I sat hugging the exit. Nurses walked by passing worksheets, throwing away gloves, and infrequently calling names. Less names had been called than people had entered, and the room of 30 seats began to fill. A maze of wheelchairs and brittle-boned legs made making the way out a difficult feat. Few were lucky to get to try.

Say, Dupin

Say, Dupin

“McConneley.”

A man with a slender build, long jet-black hair, and an eccentric sleeve of tattoos sat across from me. Next to him appeared to be his girlfriend, a bigger woman whose mask fought to cover her face. The man reached his long arm into his bag and rummaged around for nearly half a minute. When his arm emerged empty-handed, he turned to his girlfriend and told her words I couldn’t distinguish under the cover of his mask. The two started to quarrel and after their extended argument, the woman rose and found a seat in an opposite corner to her boyfriend. Neither of them had seen 30 and it felt such a shame to the few of us that had seen this place first.

Say, Dupin

Say, Dupin

“Smith.”

A TV at the head of the room played a never-ending slew of soap operas, interrupted frequently by long adblocks. The chins of the many patients and visitors that now occupied the room sunk too low for the suspended TV to catch their attention, but it caught a shortened period of mine. Despite the absence of sound, I quickly gathered the premise of the show being played; the characters in it loved to do two things: drink wine, argue, and above all, do them simultaneously. The seemingly endless chaos of the room only made the room feel more silent. The chaos in the lives of those sitting around me wasn’t the type to gossip about as they did on the soap opera playing. Despite what the channel selection might suggest, no one in the waiting room that day struck me as a Real Housewife of Suburban Hospital. 

Say, Dupin

Say, Dupin

“Kelley.”

As the spots around me began to fill, a visibly dejected man was wheeled in to my left. His fading white hair was tied back in a ponytail and he slumped over in his chair. I was afraid he would eventually notice me staring, but that fear quickly dissipated as his gaze did not lift from his lap. His defeated look did not match his attire, he wore jorts and pink and yellow tye-dye crocs. His eyes told the story of many long days between Woodstock and the man I saw that day.

Say, Dupin

Say, Dupin

“Robertson.”

Quietly sitting to my right was an elderly couple sitting upright in their chairs waiting for their names to be called. An hour passed and still, their patience did not waiver, though their silence did persist, not a word between them being spoken. “I’m going to get you a water,” the woman told her husband, breaking her silence and brushing past me gently.

“Jean!” he attempted to call out.

She didn’t hear him.

That day, everyone’s story had shown on them, and I feared mine was in its infancy. Nearly four months had passed since my mom noticed the tumor that turned out to be her breast cancer. Months of hospital visits, medication, and regular examinations. Months of waiting rooms and many more months to wait on.