A lot of times, the quotes I like to write about are philosophical and I need to process them through writing. Sometimes, they inspire me spiritually and I want to share them. And other times, they just make me laugh.  

Today, the quotes were overheard in an anonymous hospital waiting room in Birmingham. Please note, I was “not droppin’ no eaves” as Frodo’s friend Samwise might say.  The waiting room was small and the voices were loud. No attempt was made to conceal these words…

“Begin your independence with a Quickie powerchair!” A few minutes after I noticed this charge on a box of pamphlets in the corner, I heard a 60-year-old-man say, with an air of stubbornness, “The older I get, the more independent I am.” I wonder if he has any idea what he’s missing out on without a Quickie powerchair. His life could be transformed!

Signs always amuse me–not just the ones on churches. This sign was a typical list of rules for a hospital waiting room. But one rule in particular made me wonder why it was there:  ”No lounging furniture, appliance, or coolers may be brought into the hospital.” I mean, who doesn’t have their pool chair or recliner in the trunk of the car for occasions such as these!?

I haven’t really ever waited for someone who’s having surgery.  But apparently, surgery requires multiple stages of waiting.  The initial “waiting” room is one, which is only the beginning.  And you’re grateful for that if you are partial to personal space and warmth on a 20-degree morning.

The next stage involves waiting while the patient is prepared to be “taken back.” And after that, four people cram into a tiny room while you wait for someone to take the patient back. The chaplain comes by, then the anesthesiologist.  Then, you move on to the official waiting room, which brings its own little tests of patience.  

First, you have to wait for the volunteer to show up so that you can register with the waiting room. Because for some reason, he doesn’t have to be there at 5 when everyone else does.  Then, you wait for a call from the operating room to say the surgery has officially begun.  Then, after the phone rings about 10 times, you hear the waiting-room volunteer say, “They’re waiting for the doctors to find their goggles so that the surgery can begin.  They don’t have any in the operating room even though they’ve had this scheduled for a few weeks.” Huh?  

After they find their goggles, you begin waiting for the surgery to be over, the only reason you came in the first place!  The doctor comes out when you’re almost ready to panic. By this time, the phone has rung so many times for another family, you’ve had plenty of time to imagine all of the things that could go wrong.  So, the doctor comes out to tell you that you can start waiting for the patient to be out of recovery–at which time you can cram four more people back into the tiny room.

And finally, you get to wait for the patient to complete the tasks required of someone leaving the hospital–standing, walking to the nurse’s station, drinking a glass of juice, eating a cracker, etc.–while your stomach growls viciously and you stare at the clock trying to be supportive but really just wanting it all to be over.

So, a 30-minute surgery equals about eight hours of waiting.  Who knew?

Well, the man sitting next to us with his wife was only in the initial stage, while we were in the second stage. We had no idea what waiting lay ahead of us, but were trying to be supportive of our family.  A little nervously, he commented, “Th’only reason she’s here is cuz Wal-Mart’s not havin’ a sale.”  Hey, if I had known, Wal-Mart might not have needed a sale!