“There are so many other places I’d rather be”
“I’m so tired of the things we’re going through”
“What is that smell?”
These were just a few of the barrage of whiny and entitled thoughts I had as I slinked into the chair in the waiting room.
As I glanced out and to my right, there was a man in what looked to be his early 50s listening to (and watching) the Joe Rogan podcast on his phone. It wasn’t max volume, but I could recognize it from across the room. Three chairs directly to my left, a man who looked to be about my age was enjoying a headphones-free viewing of an onslaught of mostly-standup-comedian TikTok-style videos, 4 seconds at a time.
Shortly after I sat down, a lady was wheeled into the room in one of those wheelchairs they give you at the front entrance. She took the strap of her purse over her head to reveal a Stevie Nicks concert t-shirt, opened the flap of her purse, and turned her phone on it’s side, picking up in the middle of what sounded like a TED talk on how to offend conservatives.
Aside from being mildly concerned about violence if she heard Rogan or he heard whatever-that-was, I was mostly just smug with a side of overprotective-of-my-lawn, where back in my day people had the decency to wear earbuds when in public.
I tapped out an attempt-to-be-funny Facebook status along those lines, and then just kinda sat there staring at the wall opposite me, reveling in how mature I was for not even needing my phone.
Four seats to my right, tucked into the corner beneath a hanging plant, a man who looked to be in his mid-seventies sat, rubbing his eyes. I decided that I’d pass the time waiting by striking up a conversation. I remarked how much better these waiting rooms would be if they just had a nice place to nap.
We progressed from there to the weather, eventually getting around to the bulk of his life story: worked in supermarket management, moved to Alabama, then back to the Greenville area just 3 months later because the supermarket “didn’t hold up their end of the monetary agreement.” He promptly resigned, started a construction business with his nephew, and worked for 13 more years.
“They still call me to ask how to do stuff, but they won’t let me get in the truck anymore.”
Soon after, his wife emerged from her procedure and we shared well-wishes as he ambled around the corner into the hall, holding his wife’s hand.
While I had been talking to my new friend, both Rogan-man and TikTok-man were called back one at a time for their procedures, leaving me alone with Stevie Nicks-fan.
She looked to be about 35, and had some special needs. I gave in and picked back up my quite-silent phone, and scrolled mindlessly.
Under her breath at first, then increasing in both volume and emotion, our wheelchaired friend began to complain.
“I’ve been here for an hour.”
“I have to drive all the way back to Spartanburg after this”
“They should have seen by my records that I have autism and I can’t stand waiting.”
…and then the tears began to flow.
“This is f*cking stupid”
“I just want to go home!”
As the only other human occupant in the room, my attempts to appear to not hear her were ignored. She directly asked me if I could go find someone to let her “back there.” There’s something beautiful about the childlike boldness of some folks on the spectrum: no need to let social convention get in the way of what she wanted.
I agreed, and set out around the nearly-empty facility (we were there after normal business hours) in search of someone to help.
When I returned minutes later, she had noticeably worsened, slumped over in her chair sobbing into her hands.
“Do you like Stevie Nicks?”
I didn’t know where to start, but this lady needed distracting from the spiral of waiting. So I literally read the room, and started with a softball question, lobbed directly over the plate.
She sat bolt-upright, and beamed. “YES”
“What’s your favorite song?”
She thought for maybe 3 seconds, and grinned: “Stand Back!”
For the next 10 minutes, I got a nearly song-by-song retelling of the time she saw Stevie in concert in Charleston.
“Because it was raining, a police officer carried me through a puddle and plopped me in the front seat of his patrol car to get me back to my hotel! For Free!”
She didn’t even stop talking about Stevie Nicks when the nurse started to wheel her away to her procedure. She looked back over her shoulder to tell me I needed to go listen to “Stand Back”
Indeed, there were so many places I wanted to be this evening. But it seems that God needed me in a waiting room, repenting of my grumpy attitude.