.trevor.

seg.2. (S.C.A. ward)
monday, january 9th, 2006

Everyone hates waiting rooms.
But I hate them more than most other people, and today I hated this particular waiting room more than usual. It was painted a horrid shade of pink, the kind of color that would make you sick… if you weren’t already; which I was. I had been waiting almost a full hour, and read everything on the rack, including Parenting Magazine and The Business Journal. Now I was sitting with my arms crossed, leaning back on the (ridiculously uncomfortable) pink vinyl bench, watching the kid next to me pick his nose and wipe it on his jeans.
Pick. Wipe. Repeat.
Sometimes, when he thought no one was looking, he would sneak his finger into his mouth.
My mind was all over the place, trying to relax about the needles, x-rays and prescriptions I knew were coming. Anticipating my reasons for being here made my empty stomach drop to my ankles. I had not eaten; I had not slept. The purple circles under my eyes represented weeks of troubled thoughts; the beltless jeans hung low on my hips, sagging more than I remembered. I shivered under the layers of two sweatshirts and a thermal jacket.
Poor circulation.
It’s a curse.
The boy next to me was still picking away at his nose, stealthily sneaking his dirty little finger between two equally dirty little lips. As I looked on, I wondered if he was here for the same reason I was. If he was, I felt sorry for him.
Pick. Lick. Repeat.
The boy’s mother, a scrawny brown-haired woman totally immersed in a copy of People magazine, finally lifted her eyes up long enough to notice her son’s behavior. She shot her hand out just in time to intercept the finger on its short journey back to his mouth.
”Trevor! Didn’t I tell you not to do that? Honey, that will make you sick.”
She patted his knee and gave her son a quick, sad, smile, full of parental concern. I could tell she was nervous. Could tell by the look in her eyes.

For whatever reason, I felt a slight hint of jealousy.

I was trying not to focus on the empty seats stretching away from me on either side, or the fact that when I left this morning, no one even bothered to ask me where I was going.
No one cared.
It didn’t help that this waiting room, like all hospital waiting rooms, had triple the necessary seating. I guess this is because no one wants to sit next to the flu virus or strep throat, and as a general rule, adults will not take a seat less than two seats away from the next occupied chair. This provides enough space in case your neighbor suddenly bursts into a coughing fit, or spontaneously sneezes all over your shoulder. From that distance, people seem to feel safe.
I just felt abandoned.

At 10:36, the nurse came out with her clipboard… for the seventh time that morning. My heart was racing, fists clenched, knowing this had to finally be my name. I was subconsciously perched on the edge of the bench, my fingers tingling in anticipation. I was one step closer to getting the f*ck out of here.
“Trevor Berkstaff?”
Two seats away, Trevor withdrew his snotty finger from his nose in shock, and began to cry.
Smart little Trevor. He knew what was coming.
I wanted to cry too.
It took his mother a full five minutes to coax him off the bench. Burying his face in the vinyl upholstery, Trevor cried hard, and the seat was smeared with snot and tears. No promise of candy and no soothing words could comfort him. His screams grew louder and more desperate, and everyone in the waiting room just sat and stared. Even the nurse stood awkwardly by the door, unsure whether to help or wait patiently.
Finally, the mother reached down and whispered something softly into Trevor’s ear. His screaming slowly subsided and he nodded, face still buried in the pink vinyl.
”Okay, sweetie, give me your hand.”
Grabbing his grubby little fingers, she pulled Trevor up from the bench, and they marched together towards the door. Behind it there were probably the same tests, pills, and x-rays waiting for Trevor as were waiting for me. The last glimpse I caught of them as they disappeared was Trevor’s little hand, knuckles white with fear, holding onto his Mommy for comfort.

I felt very, very alone.