Page 203 – Pulse

Time Bomb

1 Comment / The Waiting Room / Cate Buley

A lot of waiting goes on in hospitals, and not just in the so-called “waiting rooms.”

I lie in bed waiting for the next day to arrive. It is a small room with an eraser board where, on the next day, I can mark the estimated gestational age at twenty-four weeks and two days, far short of a normal forty-week pregnancy. The bleeding that brought me here has stopped, and now I’ve started my “count up” ritual toward the day of delivery.

I start the next few days with a good attitude. I plan to use this forced bed rest to study for my board recertification and to catch up on friendships. It is hard to understand why each day ends with tears, feeling crazy and watching QVC, thinking that makeup is the thing I need to survive this maternity ward.

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Crying Booth

1 Comment / The Waiting Room / Rebecca Schultze

The waiting room is bad enough. But it’s what comes after the waiting and after the appointment that can be worse. I think there should be a second waiting room–I’d call them “crying booths.”

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Waiting for Godot

1 Comment / The Waiting Room / Stephen Schoenbaum

The Scene: The crowded waiting room of a busy, university hospital dermatology practice on a day when Mohs surgery and other treatments of skin cancers have been scheduled.

As a patient, you go to one of the business-like receptionists. After giving your name, date of birth, and insurance information, you are told that you can now sit down. No information is available about waiting times.

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A Satisfied Patient

Leave a Comment / The Waiting Room / Kurt Stange

“Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh God! Oh my! Oh my! Oh my God! Oooooh. OOOOOOOOH.”

I was sure that the groans of ecstasy must be piercing the exam room door and echoing off the waiting room walls.

“Oh. Oh. It feels so good! Oooooooooh.”

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Guinness

16 Comments / Stories / Linda Clarke

Linda E. Clarke

Once upon a long eighteen years ago, I got sick.

I was just finishing ten years of hospital-based ethics work, and at first I thought that the work had made me sick. I thought that the stress of hearing so many difficult stories, of witnessing so much suffering, was hurting me. I was wrong.

I was sick from a growth in my brain.

The growth was found after I’d shuttled from doctor to doctor, from appointment to appointment, from X-ray to scan. It took a long year. By then, my pain was clothed in shame. Undiagnosed pain does that: It draws the gaze of friends, family and providers. Everyone looks for the cause.

“Soul pain,” said one doctor. “Anxiety,” said another.

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ICU Horror

1 Comment / visuals / Jessica Sandek

Jessica Sandek

About the artist:

A native New Yorker, Jessica has been using art as her language of expression for most of her life. She earned her BFA from The School of the Art Institute of Chicago and now lives in the mountains of Southern California, where she works as a full-time artist. “I am always taking a visual dictation of my surroundings; I listen closely to the things I see. The intricate detail in my artwork is a result of my desire to record what isn’t always obvious. My goal is to capture the essene of these things in the most beautiful way that I can.”

About the artwork:

“ICU Horror is one drawing in a series that I did during my stay beside my father while he was in the ICU. Watching his vulnerability was horrifying. I saw him morph from a vigorous man to a defenseless child.”

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Joyce

Leave a Comment / The Waiting Room / Colleen T. Fogarty

I head out of the emergency department of our local tertiary care hospital. The waiting room seems pitifully small, probably twenty chairs, with the security desk, check-in desk, triage station and the entrance doors in close proximity. There’s no space for pacing here, and sometimes not enough chairs.

I notice a familiar figure, dressed in bright red, who stands out from the others. With a start, I realize it’s Joyce, one of my heroes. Joyce is the nurse practice manager at our sister health center, and she’s transformed the place into one known for its engaged staff and team-based care. Her warmth and enthusiasm are contagious.

Normally, seeing Joyce fills me joy and anticipation of what great news or interesting question she has for me. But quickly my anticipation turns to dread. She shouldn’t be sitting here, not at 11 pm on a weeknight.

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A Date with Mom

2 Comments / The Waiting Room / Jo Marie Reilly

I rush into the waiting room, trying to make it on time. Mom is sitting in the chair, patiently reading her romance novel with her ninety-nine cent bifocals. Calm and relaxed, in contrast to my frantic entrance as I juggle my schedule to try and make her appointment.

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Out of the Waiting Room and into the Paper

2 Comments / The Waiting Room / Andrea Gordon

I guess it was at least partly my own fault that I ended up talking to an office manager while half of me was covered in a paper sheet, but it was still uncomfortable–and cold. No one likes going to a gynecologist, even other doctors.

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We Pretend That We’re Not Afraid

15 Comments / Stories / Caitlin Bass

Caitlin Bass

We stand outside in the heat. We swat at the occasional persistent mosquito. We try to ignore the sweat beading down our foreheads and the backs of our necks. We retreat to the deepest recesses of shade we can find. We wish for a hint of a wisp of a smidgen of a breeze. We hold court on life and love. We laugh and tease and are determined to have a good time. We could be in Atlanta or Austin or Anytown, USA.

We pretend that we’re not afraid.

We are afraid, though. Our fear is legitimate: Some people hate us. And some of them are armed and dangerous.

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Cartoons and Shots

1 Comment / The Waiting Room / Paul Gross

I have vivid memories of the HIP (Health Insurance Plan of Greater New York, a prepaid health plan) waiting room on East 23rd Street in Manhattan, which I often visited as an elementary school child. I most remember two things about that room: the magazines, and the anticipation of a possible shot.

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Vinyl Cushion

6 Comments / The Waiting Room / Jack Coulehan

I arrive in the waiting room nearly a half hour early and confirm my existence with two insurance cards and a questionnaire that asks me yet again to list my illnesses, allergies, and medications. Most seats are occupied by old people, older than me. Or maybe the same age. It’s difficult to say who is with whom because those who are not making love to their cell phones are paging through OK!, People and Star. Nobody’s eyes are on anyone.

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