The Waiting Room

The waiting room is something that will never leave your mind. You are never there for a good reason, and when you're as tightly wound as I am, each second passes like the seconds after the pin from a grenade is removed. You hold your breath without actually realising you're doing so, and the silence thuds in your ears. Every approaching footstep is one approaching you, delivering the bad news. Your head snaps up so often, you should be admitted to a ward yourself for whiplash. The squeak of plastic shoes on linoleum floors echoes in your head like a scream in a cave. My hands stretch before me. I can still see the blood under my short nails- apparently I didn't do such a good job of cleaning my hands. Another approaching squeak, and another lift of everyones heads. For I am not the only one in these unfortunately uncomfortable seats. Every face I look into looks like a mirror image of my own. These faces stare expectantly at the nurse, who is walking slowly towards us all, from beyond the swinging double doors that do not permit us to pass. Theatre- I know this from the many medical shows that flood the television these days. Each step is watched, by every pair of eyes in our macabre gathering. Who would die? Who would survive? Who would get to hear their terrible piece of news first? For it was never good news. A full recovery would drive just as insane as a horrific death. As I said, nerves are wound so tightly here that a mere nudge in any direction would explode us.We sit, impatiently waiting, all trapped in a hell our head can't hide from us. The last words said, the last mood, the memories, they all flood back now, chasing each other around in circles and making us dizzy. Or is that the fumes from the bleach used to mop the too-clean floors? Either way, here we sit, all together in our misery, yet all so very separate. No one talks; no one moves.So lost in my thoughts I am, that I don't hear my name. All I notice is every head turning towards me, and I can feel the blood leaving my head as I turn white. My eyes leave my shoes, and slowly- achingly- lift to meet the nurse's. I can't even see her. She is a green blur, and I'm sure it isn't because I'm crying. I know I'm not crying, but my vision blurs. Without being conscious of even doing so, my hand delves to my pocket and withdraws the life-saving bottle. The dark humour in my mind laughs in it's very dark manner as the thought flies around- It's only lifesaving for you my friend. And it might not even do that. All eyes are still on me and I suddenly feel a rage towards them all. Why are they staring? I swallow the pill that keeps me sane. Or close to sane. I think. And I rise from my seat to follow the nurse. My own shoes move without a sound, and, so consumed by my own thoughts, I wonder if I'm actually alive. Perhaps I'm in purgatory. Called up one by one, judged, and then sent to the firey pits of hell. I'm led through the forbidden doors, despite the thick letters in (ironically enough) dark red.A second later we turn down a corridor labelled, in the same blood-red writing, INTENSIVE CARE UNIT. My blood freezes. It is silent here. There is a faint bleeping from hundreds of machines keeping dead souls alive, but even the nurse's feet seem to glide over the floors. Endless amounts of doors flit by us like lights down a highway- one on the right, then one on the left, then one of the right, and another on the left. The sudden stop outside Room 409 paralyzes my brain. There's no more thinking now, just simple registering of facts. The door is pushed open and I'm pulled inside. The bleep of machines is louder here, but there's only one bleeping noise. There, looking like a stranger to me, lies my love. She is white, like the sheets, like the floors, ceilings and walls. Only the head of mahogany hair tells me there is someone there. The nurse is talking to me now, and my ravaged brain searches for words I know. Blood loss, brain damage, life support, choice to make... I can't make sense of these words, but then the nurse is leaving. I'm alone in this lonely room. The woman on the bed isn't mine, she belongs to no one now. I see the bandages, I see the machine keeping her alive. Being in this room is contaminating me. I can feel the weight of my impending decision crawling all over my skin, and I just want it to end. I draw close to the bed, my choice made. “Goodnight, my love, I'll see you so very soon.” I kiss her forehead, her nose and her lips, trying to find the scent I know better than anything but it's gone. She is dead now, only artificially alive. I rush from the room to call back the nurse.
*****
No one found me. The pills took their claim, mixing provocatively with the alcohol in my bloodstream. I was relieved she had left me enough to join her, and I took the whole lot. I sunk slowly into the permanent sleep, and heard her then. Her voice sang out to me, and I joined my love in the life after this one.