A Tale of Two Waiting Rooms

This couch is the focal point of the waiting room in Clinic A.

At Clinic B, I wait in a row of chairs in the hallway.

Since my accident in July, I have spent a lot of time at two excellent clinics (I'll call them Clinic A and Clinic B) here in the Twin Cities, receiving therapy for different repercussions of my injuries. I am so grateful for the doctors and therapists who've treated me in both places, have been impressed by their knowledge and compassion, and will gladly recommend each of them to anyone.

I'm not sure I feel the same way about their waiting rooms, however. You see, I've spent a fair amount of time waiting at each of these clinics, and it's the waiting that sometimes has the strongest effect on me. Based on my waiting room experiences, I have to recommend Clinic B.

Don't get me wrong: I'm not complaining about EITHER clinic running behind schedule (especially not since I've had such attentive, helpful appointments once getting in). The actual waiting hasn't been the problem. Rather, the problem is my heart, and one waiting room seems to be much better therapy for it than the other.

Clinic A sports the most luxurious clinic waiting room I've ever experienced. It's obvious that an interior designer had a hand in its appearance. It's lovely. Some furniture still fits the waiting room mold, but the room is flavored with something akin to opulence.

Clinic B, on the other hand, ran out of waiting room space a long time ago. Patients wait in the corridors of this hospital-turned-clinic space. There is no classical music playing while you wait here. Instead, the constant bustling of patients being transported to appointments and clinicians conferring with each other as they hurry to their next assignment provides background noise.

The activity and noise in the hallways of Clinic B have not always been comfortable for my oversensitive brain; however, the things I've observed while waiting in those hallways have been good for my heart.

See, when I'm at Clinic A, I look around and see people who, like me, have choices about the medical care they seek and the places they go. In that waiting room, I'm often reminded of what I don't have. I find that suddenly I'm concerned whether I wore the right pair of shoes to match the jacket I chose that morning. I think deep thoughts like, "Why did I not switch purses before I came?" I worry about fitting in and measuring up.

That's not true at Clinic B. There, I see people who have limited choices, people who have injuries far more severe than mine. One man I saw regularly for weeks had just one leg. Another had screws holding his head and neck brace in place. Some people are there as inpatients because there is no one to provide support or care at home. I've seen people who are making it, but who face immense challenges.

And I'm reminded of how much I have. How much is still intact. How much I have to be grateful for. How much I have to give. Instead of discontentment, I often walk out of Clinic B with a profound sense of wealth. I pray that sense may turn to gratefulness and compassion. I hope that what I've seen while waiting there changes the way I see the world and live in it.