A sweet friend texted me last week from a waiting room.
Her son was in the room next door, undergoing additional neuropsychological evaluations.
She said she knew I would understand.
The mounting fear.
The beige decor.
The straining to hear what was being said on the other side of the door.
The not wanting to hear what was being said on the other side of the door.
The getting oneself ready to hear the diagnosis.
The desire to hurry up and hear the diagnosis.
The never wanting to hear the diagnosis.
The concern for your child – how is he doing in there?
The concern for the doctor – is she really seeing my child?
The silent, but urgent prayers.
I am in waiting rooms every single week, more than once a week.
I see the moms (almost always moms) fidgeting and trying to focus on anything other than why they are actually in a waiting room.
I feel the anxiety, mounting in waves.
I see the dark circles from sleepless nights – hoping, praying, wondering, planning – but not sleeping.
I see new moms, out of place and unfamiliar with how this works, how long it takes, the journey ahead.
I see other moms like me – we’ve been here before, we’ll be here again.
It’s a strange connection we share.
A waiting room is just that – a room that requires waiting.
And when the wait has to do with your child, their health, their comfort, their future?
The wait feels heavy.
The wait feels dark.
The wait feels wrong, like it’s not supposed to be this way. I don’t think it is supposed to be this way.
Florescent lighting and uncomfortable chairs.
Eventually, the door opens.
A child appears.
There is a bustle of activity, as one mom rises to collect her precious one.
Adding a child to the mix, even for a few moments, changes the room.
Suddenly, there is life again.
We can breathe.
We smile a bit.
We settle in.
It’s a reminder of why we are all in this one tiny room.
So much hope.
So much determination.
So much love.
The essence of a waiting room mom.