The Waiting Room

It’s forty minutes past twelve.  By this time I could have been taking an afternoon nap on the couch, after being its potato from watching House.  But I’m here, sitting quite uncomfortably with a book on my hand, pen on my pocket, and sweat on my forehead despite the cold room temperature.

The smell of coffee from the nurse in the reception area makes my stomach remember that it hasn’t eaten anything from my two hours of waiting here in the lobby.  But it feels like it couldn’t digest anything until after everything is over.

How further will I have to wait?  I’ve sat and stood and walked around for like five times or more, I don’t know.  And now as I decide to sit for the rest of the time, a towel lands on my feet.

“Timmy, behave!” a woman rushes to get it, her son stands still behind her, brows crossed. I pick the towel up and hands it over to her.  “Thank you,” she smiles at me, her hair loosening from her pony tail. “Your first?” she asks as she notices the book on my hand.  “Yes,” I reply, as I run my handkerchief across my forehead.  “Oh, that’s a nice name for a boy,” she points at an underlined Joshua in my open book.  I smiled at her as she grabs her son’s hand and leaves.

Joshua. Then his nickname would be Josh? Ah, no. I once had a strong hatred for a person with such name.  Hmm. Timmy?  Like the kid who loves to throw towels? Haha.  Or like Timmy Turner from the cartoon the kid in me loves.  Ah no, he’s got two huge protruding front teeth and always wears pink.  Jimmy, like Jimmy Neutron the boy genius?  But he’s got this crazy hair.  Carl, like his best friend?  Yikes, he’s fat and freckly and allergic to everything.

I smirk discreetly and the reality snaps back at me.  A man with a damaged ear who just sat across glares at me.  Perhaps he thought I was laughing at him.  I clear my throat and sit straight and browse my book for names again.

Frank. Too sausagey and rhymes with prank.  Harry.  Like hairy Potter? Dirk. Hah, and that’s just one letter different from…

“Excuse me, can I borrow your pen?” a man in office uniform asks me. I hand him my pen and offers him my seat.  “Oh no, don’t bother, I’m done in a sec,” he fills up his checkbook on the bench’s arm rest.  Mr. Kennedy A. Segada, Administrative Officer, his ID says.

            “Thanks,” he hands my pen back and leaves in a hurry.

            Hmm.  Kennedy.  Perhaps I should name my son Roosevelt.  Hahaha. But I don’t want him to be a president.  What about a basketball player?  Jordan?  Golf?  Tiger.  Haha.  Writer.  William? Ah, I know.  Osama!

            Sigh.  It’s fifteen minutes after two.  All I could do is amuse myself by coming up with weird names.  I’m gonna have butt cramps anytime soon.  I cross my left leg across my right.  This doesn’t seem right.  I cross my right instead.  This doesn’t feel right either.  I settle with stretching both my legs down instead.

Ah, finally, the TV shows something interesting.  The movie 300.  Leonidas.  Whoa. Xerxes.  That’s a bit, eccentric.  Names don’t often start with X.  What about Y?  Yaris.  Haha, my car.  Wait, did I lock my car?

            Beep beep.  2 new messages.  From Lisa: Sir, Mrs. Ramos is here, she wants to talk to you about her case.  Reply to sender: I’m on an emergency. Please reschedule.  Work can wait, I say to myself.  From Alex: Sir, you can now pick up King from our clinic.  Reply to sender: Thanks, but I’m on an emergency.  Will drop by asap. The dog can wait, I say to myself again.  I’m already waiting.

            King.  How about Ace?  No, that’s too short.  Jack.  Err no, that makes him just next to my dog.

            And what is he going to call me?  Dad?  Generic.  Father?  Impersonal.  Papa? Pops?  Eddy. Wow, that’s respectful.

            “Doctor Henry Santos, you are needed in the operating room,” the hospital pager calls twice.

Perhaps I should try freeing my mind from names and get a grip of what’s happening instead.  Just then I become aware of my heart pumping blood into my tired body, and the chances I have.

What if…  Ah no, Dr. Crisostomo said everything will be alright.  But…  I shake off the thought.  I tap my fingers on the arm rest, and I make a melodic drum beat with my nails.  My nails?  Wow, I did not realize they could get this long.  I bite at them gently.  Hey wait a minute, I don’t bite my nails!

An old man struggles to keep his balance with his walking stick on my right.  I put my book in my back pocket and stand up to offer him my seat, but he was looking down, and I couldn’t hear what he was trying to say.  And I don’t know if I accidentally kicked his stick but somehow he loses balance, but I get a grip of his arms and keep him steady.  Just then a lady who has just gotten out of the comfort room spots him and rushes towards us.  She smiles at me shamefully.  Talk about responsibility.

I walk slowly as if learning to walk for the first time, my legs still reluctant to move.  I stop at the hallway, making room for a patient on a wheelchair.  A bag of blood hangs on the chair’s dextrose stand above him.  Ugh, the sight of blood.  I don’t need this.

Just as I am heading for the comfort room I notice a young woman sitting on the far left end of the bench where I sat for hours with her head down and palms upon her lap.  I don’t even know if she was there the whole time I planted my butt on my seat.  She looks in my direction and I smile.  She too tries to draw a curve with her lips, but they are too shaky, and her watery eyes did not help.

A doctor approaches the woman and she stands, her hands now held together across her chest, as if hoping.  The doctor says something in a murmur, and though I couldn’t hear, I knew it was not something she was praying for.

“Mister Abella,” Dr. Crisostomo called from behind me.

I turn around and shake his hand, my mind now realizing that I had stood there frozen and watched.  A sudden rush of blood passes me as I try to sort out the many mixed emotions I am currently having a difficulty in handling.

I clear my throat.  “Yes, doctor?” I look at him and study his face, his eyes half hidden behind his glasses, his lips barely moving.

I try to hide my hands in my jeans’ back pockets, but my book was there.  I put them in my front pockets instead, taking a deep breath to steady my stance.

He looks at me sincerely and I try to figure out if this was some trick to keep the suspense burning.  He laces his fingers and lets his hands down in front of him, looks at them, and finally looks up back at me.

“Mister Abella,” he repeats.  “I have good news and bad news.”

Author's Note

i know there isn't much stuff in this short story, it was just a homework

Reviews

[Joiedevivre]

I really like this. How you join the beginning and the end with the Doctor theme. Really fluid following your thought process. Entertaining and serious at times.
We have House and cartoons in common. Made an interesting and ood read, kept my attention all the way through.

[Shy Girl]

This might have been just homework but I've spent many days and nights in hospitals (good and bad) and you do notice ALL the things around you. Each characteristic of a person, down to each second that damn clocks ticks off. Sorry so wordy, I just...it brought me back to those times.