Tripping

I intentionally didn't absorb the details of my surroundings as I normally would. I let the walls blur past me, let the chairs exist in the background, let the bustle of workers go relatively unnoticed. I have had too much experience in hospitals to care what any of them look, sound or smell like. They all serve the same basic purpose in the end, and they all have the same smell, too.

I waited for her MRI to finish so we could leave. I deserved some serious brownie points for this: I came along for her MRI just to keep her company on the long drives there and back, as well as waiting for almost an hour long procedure to conclude in the smallest waiting room I've ever been in early in the morning with virtually no food in my system. Plus, I absolutely hate being in hospitals, both for bad memories and the fear of subject matter (as in things that would make me faint), so sitting around in one is always awful, even if I'm not the patient. I feel my blood pressure rise as soon as I enter and noticeably decrease when I leave.

But this is not about my hospital issues.

I am fortunately a rather patient person, which is a good quality to posses in a waiting room, particularly when I know that end the end of my wait lies not something that could solve a health problem but another long drive home. I am also a well-prepared waiter. I almost always bring something of my own to read, both for the typical lack of decent material found in such places and for my own distraction should an unpleasant subject (such as graphic discussions of medical procedures and other such blood-oriented topics) arise in the conversation of other waiting folks, which has happened in the past. Today I brought a book I had been reading for a few days. Unfortunately, I finished it, so for the last ten minutes or so I was left with nothing to do but stare around the room, unless I went over to the side table and grabbed a magazine. I didn't do that though, because I wasn't in the mood for cluttering my mind.

I stared straight ahead at a wall that was depressingly empty. It seemed to serve as a closet, with a few pathetic metal coat hangers hanging from an awkwardly placed rack. Given that it was around 35 degrees outside and humid this rack was not in use. As much as I didn't want to, I had to absorb this room. I didn't like the book enough to read it again, and I had already read all the thank-yous in the back and even the publication information just to keep occupied. So I looked around at other walls, since this one held no promise for further probing.

The wall to my left had a nauseatingly posed photograph that was enlarged and plaqued, the image being of an extremely happy doctor with an extremely happy patient sitting on a MRI bed looking up at him and an extremely happy nurse standing behind the patient. Not only were the smiles forced, but so was the very picture itself. It seemed like it knew how ridiculous it all was and just wanted to fall off the wall behind the chairs and let the dust hide its shame.

Behind me was a strange triangular canvas with a variety of neon swirls and textures. I didn't look closely at it because it was weird to look behind me. I felt creepy.

To my right was the door, and on the wall a little framed piece of paper explaining how great the hospital is. I tried to read it but couldn't.

There were no windows.

I turned back to the wall in front of me. It was still blank, pitiably so, and I stared into it very hard and very long. It got to the point where random colours would appear on the wall and it seemed to be moving.

Then I noticed some bins on the ground. They were green translucent plastic, filled with plastic toys for children to play with while waiting. I stared at that instead, wondering where on earth the children would play, because in this tiny cave there was certainly no space to have any fun. Other patients would be stepping all over everything. I felt bad for the toys. So few children probably ever even came in here, and when they did, they probably didn't play very much, or at all.

To the left of the bins was one of those toys that are long pieces of coloured metal that swirl in different directions, mounted on a block of wood with bright, different-shaped wooden beads to slide along the metal strand. Both ends of the strand are mounted into the wood so the beads never go missing. This one had four tracks. I remembered when I was very young how much I loved playing with those. I loved the colours and the rises and falls of the metalwork, how it felt like I was controlling a miniature roller coaster. Or like one side of the metal was one of the bead's houses and the other bead lived on the other side and they would visit each other or get mad and run away from each other. I remember liking symmetry when I left the toy; I never wanted to leave the beads in mid-game position. I liked there to be an equal amount of beads on each side of an individual track, and if there was an odd number of beads, I would put one in the middle of the track. The odd time I would put all of the beads, from every track, off to one side like they were about to race. Usually not. Usually they were symmetrical, nice and lined up, perfectly organised and placed to depict my masterful and, at the time, very pertinent vision.

I stared at the toy, wondering if other children played like I did, if other children found the loops and squiggles as fascinating and consuming. Maybe other children fell in love with toys they would never take home. Maybe it was just me.

At long last, she came out of the room and looked at me sitting there. I asked if she was done, which was a useless question. She said let's go. Then she said she needed a coffee. Then I said I needed some food. Then we walked out of the room and left the other waiters to themselves.