An elderly man sits at a piano in the lobby of the hospital, singing opera. A middle-aged long-haired man pushes an elderly woman in a wheelchair, most likely his mother, outside to sit and wait while he smokes a cigarette. An entire family accompanies a family member to the doctor's office, waiting anxiously and sharing her concern.
And behind me, people enter and leave the hospital. I see them rushing down the sidewalks. They run to catch trains, buses, and cabs. They hurry to meetings, appointments, classes. Medical students, businessmen, doctors, and nurses.
And then, here I am. Sitting on a bench outside the hospital, waiting for my turn. I'm not rushing anywhere...I'm just waiting here, people watching. I could be frustrated that I forgot to bring a book (although I did go to the next door Barnes & Noble and read a book from off the shelf until employees started giving me funny looks), or impatient, because I've been here for two hours already. I could be sleeping (I did think about lying down on the bench for a quick cat-nap), texting, talking on the phone, or listening to my headphones. But sometimes, it's nice to disconnect, to unplug myself from all of that and just exist in the moment, time, and place that I currently find myself in. You can make some interesting observations just doing that.
I watch people from different walks of life. The people you see on the train, on the street, so different from the people you see in the hospital, the people in suits, the people in scrubs. The train station smells like cigarette smoke, but the woman passing me and my hospital bench smells like expensive perfume. The train is peopled by backpack-toting medical students wearing harried, tired faces; by middle-aged blue-collar workers, carrying worn looks; the rare businessman makes an appearance, but he looks out of place with his tailored suit and leather briefcase. The hospital sees some of these types, but is more widely populated by elderly men and women whose wrinkled, aged faces bely their years; by mothers chasing energetic children, looking hassled; and everywhere, by busy doctors and nurses. But on the faces everywhere, I see worry. Fear. Concern. On the train, people wonder, "Will I be able to pay the bills this week?" "When can I get my next smoke?" In the hospital, they think, "What will my prognosis look like today?""Will my medicine help?"At least, that's what I imagine they are thinking. One part to people-watching is the story part. The part where you wonder why that hobo lives on the street, or how that teenager broke his arm.
Today, I notice the worries and the cares, imagining that many of the people I see have momentous events taking place in their lives. You don't really go to a hospital for good news or with celebratory reasons. So today, I sit and wait and watch for two hours. And I notice the worried looks, and wonder why they are there, and what I should do to pass the time.
And so, I smile. I smile at the people who pass, and say hi when I can. I ask the rushed radiologist taking x-rays of my legs if their short size makes his job easier. He surprises me, letting a laugh light up his tired face, and says, "Yes, actually, they do." I open a door for a woman in a wheelchair, her husband appreciative that he won't have to struggle to get the chair through the unwieldy door. I nod hello at the gardener and ask, "What's up?" For a brief time, I live in the moment and appreciate the good things in my life as I reach out to strange people. In a little bit, I'll plug back into my other life, the life not sitting here on this bench. The life at school and home. I'll read and sleep and text and call people. But for right now, my life is centered in this moment, among these hospital people, and I'm reaching out, not pulling back into my own world.
Incidentally, I did receive good news at the hospital today - bone scans proved that I actually don't have a stress fracture, more likely strained tendons. So maybe I was exaggerating, sometimes you do get good news at a hospital. So maybe I was imagining all the worry.
