Dangling

July 1, 2019

Every hospital has one. They call it the waiting room, but a writer acquaintance says it’s more like dangling. I think she’s on to something there—the “dangling” room, where people dangle midway between hope and despair, faith and fear, dangling as they wait for the surgeon to fulfill their dreams or confirm their fears. 

Dangling rooms are usually pretty quiet. Conversations are muted, laughter is rare; when it occurs, it’s often nervous laughter, so when the genuine article appears, it shines like a beacon in the night. The light shone today.

I sat with a dear friend today as his wife underwent surgery at Roswell Park Cancer Hospital. My first experiences with Roswell nearly fifty years ago were depressing. Halls were ill-lit, rooms were pretty barren; it had the aura of a place where people went to die. Today, it is bright, cheery, staffed by top-notch people who exude life and offer hope. Nevertheless, dangling is still not fun.

So we talked. Some of it was serious, some silly. After all, the Bible says laughter—“a merry heart does good like medicine.” (Proverbs 17:22) Like me, my friend is a writer. We parted with a good laugh, courtesy of the hospital itself. On the wall of the restroom I visited before leaving was a poster with the following message:

BEFORE YOU GO...

YOU MAY NEED 

A URINE SAMPLE

PLEASE CHECK WITH THE FRONT DESK

THANK YOU

I wish I had the chutzpah to actually have followed through with those instructions. I wondered why I would need a sample to take home, if they keep a stash at the front desk for our convenience, and what I am to do with it once they give it to me. Grammar isn’t the old woman who sits on the front porch, and judicious choice of words matters. Maybe next time I visit, I’ll check at the desk before I leave. I may get ushered out, but it would make the dangling worth it.

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