Ellen Williams

WAITING ROOM BLUES

When I walked into the doctor’s waiting room, I had just finished breakfast, later I enjoyed a lunch break and now I’m thinking about where to eat dinner. I’ve lost track of time, no, not the minutes, but the months and year. I think, or believe, it’s 2000 something, but I’m not going to ask 'cause they’ll call out the men in white suits carrying butterfly nets. Not knowing the year is a dead giveaway to one of the questions testing a patient’s sanity, i.e. "is the patient oriented to time, person and place"? So, quickly I’ll add: I know it’s 2008, but orientation to "place" in a waiting room where there are no windows, eclectic furnishings and perpetual music become a challenge.

It’s a nice office. I should know because I’ve had time to intimately get to know it’s contents and design. I was really appreciative of the many original works of art. I think it took me about one hour to study the various mediums and composition of the hangings, took me a half hour or so to locate the artists name and phone number, then another 30 minutes to negotiate an agreeable sale price. The office receptionist assured my husband and me that we had plenty of time to celebrate our new acquisition during lunch with the artist.

Upon our return, the receptionist informed us that our 45 minute delay now put us at the end of the appointment list, even though they had approved our absence. I assumed that perhaps we misunderstood and accepted the new plan of waiting by reading the latest Popular Mechanics, Golf Lessons, No. 16 and browsing through the complete set of Children’s Biblical Stories since the more popular magazines diminish in number with each hour.

People in a waiting room seem to be a disgruntled sort. Most of them apparently could benefit from an attitude adjustment. They scowl at one another, gulp at their bottled water and engage in loud sighing, snorting plugged up nostrils, coughing, hacking and heavy breathing, accompanied by long noisy exhales of breath. Occasionally they may look at one another, glance at their watch, shake their head back and forth while making a "tisk" sound, done by quickly forcing one’s tongue from the roof of the mouth to the floor of the mouth culminating in a loud clicking noise, all performed while rolling their eyes in a broad sweep across the ceiling, accompanied by one long enormous expulsion of air.

In all fairness, not all docs are tardy and have a hard time keeping to a schedule. As unbelievable as it may sound, some (two in the entire world) are even timely. They are my son (of course) and the other is a doc I heard about in Anchorage, Alaska who had to keep his patients moving lest they suffer from frostbite.

The moment finally arrives. The inner sanctum door opens and though I expect two medieval court musicians clothed in silken striped red and yellow balloon pants and blaring on trumpets decorated with purple and gold flags, a voice that would carry to the last row of a theater announces: "Jane Doe." I jump out of my chair, 'cause already the doc’s assistant looks irritated that I’m not traveling at warp speed, and warmly greets me with: "turn right first door on left." Did I really say "thank you?" Probably so, because my white coat syndrome has set in and interfering with whatever remembrance I had of why I was here!! We now enter waiting room #2, otherwise known as "The Final Answer," or "This is it - the Really Big One," or "Now After All These Weeks of Feeling Punk I’m Finally Going to Find Out What’s Going to Kill Me in Probably Three Days and Better Get My Affairs in Order." Before leaving for room#2, and before your name is called, you had best collect your favorite stash of magazines (while there are still some left) or you’ll be sequestered into the inner room with nothing to look at except colorful enlarged posters of the colon, kidney or lungs, and various miscellaneous organs, diseased or otherwise.

When you’ve finally arrived in the inner room, it is in this room, you pull out your notes to remind yourself of your various ailments and when the doc’s assistant enters and in a real friendly- like manner says: "Well, what’s your problem?" you refer to your list of medical complaints and discover you are nervously reciting your grocery list. Seriously, being a advocate of assuming some responsibility for one’s own well-being, at the beginning of my annual physical, I produced a 2x3 card listing my health concerns. Horrified, the physician took his copy and as his voice rose an entire octave, said "My god, what is this? I can’t get to all of this"!

What’s a patient to do?

Multiple Choice: choose any three:
Learn and practice self-hypnosis and other relaxation techniques.
Take several books with you to your appointment, like: "War and Peace" and "Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire."
Bring your favorite pillow with you and take a long nap.
Practice your conversational and social skills with other patients.
. Bring a deck of cards and board games.

As a last resort, sing The Waiting Room Blues
(ALL TOGETHER NOW- in blues style)

We got the waiting room blues
And that’s no lie.
We wait and we snooze
And inbetween we cry
'cause we haven’t seen the wife
or the kiddies all day
and if I value my life
I better get going right away.

We got the W.R.Blues
Just hear what we say,
The W.R.Blues
Just won’t go away. Yea, yea, yea.

Ellen Williams was diagnosed with Parkinson's disease five years ago. During the past year, she began to keep a journal expressing her experience. This led to other subjects and formats, such as poems, short stories and essays. Willims is a staff writer for a local paper and her work appears on a regular basis. Several poems and an essay have since appeared in local papers. Previously, she had earned a Master's degree, practiced as a counselor and had not seriously explored creative writing. Today, Williams is exuberant about her new interest and the joy it has given to her when sharing her works with her family and friends. She feels fortunate to have discovered such a fascinating challenge at this stage of her life.