This thread made me think of something I wrote awhile ago. I guess the waiting room nerves is a universal issue.




Through the wooden blinds that cover the window a small morsel of light breaks through. It glares at me through the slats and demands my attention, demands that I squint, demands acknowledgement. Instead I look away. I shift in my chair. I pick at my fingernails. Go away light.

I'm fond of the blinds that shut out the sun. That annoying, cheery sun. Within these four protected walls my thoughts can race-race-race. Race until I drop. Race until I scream. Race until I jump out of my skin. Race until it's couch time.

The blinds keep out the prying eyes of the normal as we sit and wait for our turns on the couch.

I glance over at the point of light and see it has shifted. A smirky "told-you-so" attitude blinks out a Morse code message.

You can't shut me out. I will not be blocked. I will not go away. I am the light and I will find you.

Perhaps this is what it's like when the spotlight of death shines on you. Perhaps it's a game of seduction and intrigue as you're led to the other side. A peaceful place where life is death and death is life and both are filled with light. And the light is warm. And the light penetrates your soul. Perhaps death is love. Perhaps...

The door opens and I'm startled. I tense up and wait for my heart to slow. I slide my eyes to my hands and swing my keys around my finger. Jingle-jingle-jingle. Legs walk to the reception window. A pen scribbles the time of arrival. Legs turn and walk to a chair tucked away in the corner. Far away from the rest of us who wait in different corners for our turn on the couch.

We'll come to know each other by our shoes. Miss High-Heels, Mr. Nike, Sexy Sandals. We won't make eye contact but we'll glance at each other when we know it's safe. We do this to see what a crazy person looks like. To see if there's a small chance we might look like them.

A quick flash catches my eye and I'm drawn back to the light. It sparkles through the glass like a highly-polished diamond. The white patterns it creates are ever-changing like a colorless kaleidoscope. I'm relieved to stare at something other than shoes.

Tapping feet, drumming fingers, eyes closed tight in thought. Flap-flap the magazine pages turn but the blank eyes do not read. I take my pen out and capture the moment on a crumpled scrap of paper. I will write about this later.

The door that leads to the couch opens. It's Nike's turn. I make a list of all the things I need to talk about. All the ups and downs, the highs and lows, the twists and turns. When it's my turn on the couch I will not sit on it. Instead I'll go to the corner and sit on the floor. I'll hug my knees close to my chest and rock back and forth. Share things I've never told another soul. Sob as I reveal my desire for the light. Sob as I reveal my fear of it.

My name is called. The others in the waiting room think, it's Casual Slip-Ons turn. I nervously walk the length of the hallway into the room where I sit on the edge of the couch. I'm vigilant and perched, ready to fly. Ready to cry. Ready to...

"So, how's it going? How are you doing?"

"Fine, thank you." I smile. "Everything is just fine."

My turn on the couch is here.

SJN © 2007