In the Waiting Room

There were 17 of us between the ages of 1year and 81 years old crammed into the small waiting room during Mom's surgery 3 weeks ago. We cried, we laughed, we hugged, we ordered pizza for supper, we entertained the children and alternated between appreciation for their beautiful innocence which helped ease our own discomfort and a sense of how unfair it was that their Nana was in surgery.

And we waited.

Together.

A million things were running through my head. About how long I would stay at my parents after the surgery. And if I would be able to adjust my work schedule to return again soon. About whether or not I should move back, depending on what happened after the surgery. And if I really was strong enough to continue to pursue a career as a counsellor, supporting people through their life struggles while coping with my own Mom's illness. And of course the worst kind of “what ifs...”, the ones I don't even want to say out loud for fear they would become true.

Three hours later Surgeon came to tell us that all had gone well with this surgery. But then he started using other words. Scary words. Words I don't want to type out. Words that, though official confirmation was still needed, meant this really was only the beginning of a process requiring further treatment.

We cried and hugged some more, trying to process the vast amounts of developing information we had learned in a mere 2 days.

A young woman came into the room during this time and took a seat among us. I felt annoyed at this violation of our privacy. But quickly realized she must have a loved one in surgery. And this was the waiting room. Really, it was us who was invading her privacy. It was her turn to wait.

Dad was the first to formally acknowledge her presence, asking who was in surgery. Her Mom. We asked her name and invited her to join our prayer. Leave it to my family to reach out to someone else during our own time of crisis!

We asked if she had someone coming to wait with her. With her response of “later, after work” I immediately knew, if she would allow me to, I could not leave this woman alone to wait.

It was somewhat of a profound moment for me for a couple of reasons. One was a reminder of how blessed I and my family are to have each other. Not only the 17 of us in the room that day, but the countless members of our extended family and friends who have offered support in as many different ways. I cannot imagine sitting in that room alone, waiting. No one should ever have to.

The other was a realization that waiting with this woman, reaching out and offering support in that way was never a question in my mind. It is part of who I am and something I must continue to pursue, supporting people through their life struggles. It is in part what gives me strength and inspiration to face and cope with my own.

Since that night there are times when I feel like we haven't fully left the waiting room. We waited for test results that confirmed what Surgeon had told us. And now we wait for a treatment plan and treatment itself. During which time we will wait for results, for healing.

I often think back to that woman who walked into the waiting room on her own. I admire her strength. I really don't know if I would have been strong enough to do so. And I am glad that I don't have to find out.

Because we wait,

together.