Waiting for Bad News (standard:non fiction, 2075 words)
Author: Bentley Lynn	Added: Sep 20 2003	Views/Reads: 3475/2396	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A true story explaining my feelings on a diagnosis of my husbands illness. Getting inside my feelings and realizing what he means to me.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

'waiters' stare at me as I head towards the exit; I'll be back, I think 
to myself, I'll be back to wait with you. 

Outside the waiting room, in the hallway, I feel a little bit of relief
heading towards the women's room where I can throw some water on my 
face.  As I walk I can smell those hospital odors; I can't stand the 
smell of hospitals, that nothing-but-clean smell, that medicine smell, 
the makes-you-think-of-sick-people smell.  The smell overwhelms me, I 
feel myself walking faster towards the bathroom, almost running.  I 
need to get away from this smell.  I push the door open and I feel 
myself losing control.  Water.  Get to the water!  I turn on the faucet 
full blast-cold water-throwing it violently on my face, again and 
again, one more time.  I feel the cold water hit my face, like a 
fireman with his water hose putting out a fire.  I can feel the steam 
coming off my face, as the fire is put out.  I feel completely weighed 
down from all the waiting I have done since my husband started getting 
sick.  I don't know how much more I can take.  I catch a glimpse of 
myself in the mirror, my face dripping, the top and sides of my hair 
soaked.  I don't want to be here.  I don't want to wait.  But, I have 
to wait.  This is my husband, he's scared too, be here for him, not for 
you stupid!  I dry my face off and I try to take some deep breaths.  
Calm down, what is my problem?  I can't believe I am acting this way.  
I need to be strong for him, my husband, the one who is always strong 
for me, the one who held my hand during the births of our children, the 
one who held my hair back as I threw up every morning for 5 months 
during my pregnancies, the one who said I do, for better for worse, 
through sickness and in health, until death do us part.  He's always 
there for me, strong and powerful. 

I pick up my companion feeling a little bit more calm and head back to
the waiting room to wait some more.  As I enter the door of the waiting 
room I see a man, another 'waiter', who is now occupying my spot on the 
couch, so I sit down on the other couch and try to get comfortable once 
again.  In the two chairs to my left is a couple, a man and a 
woman-another set of 'waiters'-speaking with a doctor who is hovering 
over them, going through his spiel.  The doctor apologizes to them, but 
says there is hope, he can do this test and this procedure, he goes on 
and on about what he can do.  I notice the woman is crying, gripping 
the man's hand, squeezing it so tightly the tips of her fingers are 
turning white.  The doctor is relaying not so good news, the fate of 
their loved one, her mother, it's her mother I realize as I continue to 
eavesdrop on their conversation.  I don't think the woman is listening 
anymore.  I become nervous about their situation so I turn away.  As I 
turn away, the man across from me gets up and walks towards a doctor 
who just entered the room.  As he approaches the doctor, the doctor 
begins to speak.  I can't hear what the doctor is saying, I don't have 
to hear it, the paleness of the man's face says it all-not good news.  
Doesn't anyone in this room have good news?  I will get good news.  I 
will be the first one to get good news.  God, please, I want good news! 


I look at the clock again, 25 more minutes have passed, and the
procedure should be almost finished.  I should be getting my good news 
any minute.  Any minute now.  Ok, any minute now.  Stay calm, do 
something until you get your good news.  I reach for my companion once 
again, this time for my magazine, I want to read article about 
something happy to get my mind off of the waiting.  Just as I pull the 
magazine out, I hear someone call my name; it's my husband's doctor.  
It's over.  The good news is here!  My heart beats faster, my legs have 
a mind of their own, and they pull me up off the waiting room couch, 
towards the doctor, to the good news.  The doctor pulls me in to the 
hallway, not like the other doctors who aired the bad news to the other 
'waiters' in here; my good news will be delivered in the hallway.  As I 
listen to the doctor, my legs, the legs that carried me to the hallway 
for the good news, begin to give out.  No!  I don't want bad news.  The 
hallway is for good news; the "Outpatient Surgery Waiting Room" is for 
bad news.  I want to sit down.  With my back pressed up against the 
wall I slide down and find comfort on the hallway floor.  Inside with 
the other 'waiters' of bad news is where I should be now.  I barely 
hear the rest of the doctors' findings, the suggested treatments, the 
way we can avoid future problems, and the medications my husband will 
have to take probably for the rest of his life.  The doctor tries to 
comfort me, he says he will do his best and help my husband to the best 
of his ability.  He kneels down next to me, cradles my elbow in his 
well-trained medical hands, and helps me to my feet.  It's not really 
that bad I hear him say.  The candy striper from the waiting room comes 
in to the hallway, she puts her hand, with her perfectly filed nails on 
my shoulder and walks me back in to the waiting room.  This is where 
'waiters' with bad news are supposed to sit, sit here with the others 
that will receive bad news, sit here and wait some more. 

Another 15 minutes go by, and finally the candy striper says I can go
see my husband, he's awake in the recovery room.  I want to see my 
husband desperately, I want to hold him, let him know I waited for him 
that I will always wait for him, I waited my whole life for someone 
like him.  I get up and grab my companion and head for the exit, and I 
see that sign, the first thing I saw when I entered this room over an 
hour ago, that dark, brown sign with its white letters screaming out at 
me.  I close my eyes and put my hands over the white bumps below the 
words "Outpatient Surgery Waiting Room".  I can almost read those bumps 
scattered about, they read: You are in the Bad News Waiting Room. 


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