Not Waiting
I sit in my car in the parking lot.
I’m so tired.
My eyes feel swollen.
My body aches.
I close my eyes for a second, leaning my head back against the headrest.
My lower back pops twice.
Damn chairs.
Killing my back.
Deep breath.
The coffee is getting cold.
I pay for parking through the app, gather my purse, the snacks I won’t eat, and the coffees, and head out of the parkade into the hospital.
I’ve been here every day.
For hours.
For weeks.
For months.
Just sitting.
Helpless.
Just an observer.
Waiting.
Didn’t Dr. Seuss write something about waiting?
Sometimes she’s okay enough to wrap in layers of warm blankets, nurses lifting her skeletal frame into a wheelchair so we can go for a small walk, sit in the sunshine, or watch the setting sun together.
She weakly holds my hand.
Sometimes I sit and read to her.
Sometimes she just talks nonsense.
It’s the meds.
I listen, nodding.
Sometimes asking questions.
She can always tell when I’m humouring her though.
The front doors whoosh open and I enter the lobby.
The overly bright, overly expensive gift shop is already open.
The nice old lady who works there waves.
I’ve bought too many overpriced treats from her over the past months for her not to recognize me.
I wave back.
Cheerful.
Fake.
And turn toward the elevator.
I see him again.
The man sitting in the blue plastic waiting room chair.
Just outside one of the many closed first-floor clinics.
Brown hair. Perfect suit. Newspaper in hand.
Not a hair out of place. Not a wrinkle in his suit.
I used to think he was a doctor.
But he doesn’t have a badge. No white coat. No devices.
They all have one of those.
He never looks tired. Never stressed.
There was a cold running through staff last month—everyone sniffling, exhausted.
He looked untouched.
I’ve seen him in hallways, the atrium, the cafeteria.
Once even on a floor I wasn’t supposed to be on.
The nurses ushered me straight back into the elevator when they saw me.
“What about that guy?” I asked, indignant.
“You are who we are concerned with right now, dear. Off you go.”
And she hit the close button.
The man has never acknowledged me.
Never looked at me before.
He does now.
Right into my eyes.
My steps falter.
The coffees almost slip.
“Whoops,” he chuckles—perfectly measured.
He steadies the cup holder before it spills.
“Thank you,” I say, feeling stupid.
He looks at me again.
And something inside me breaks.
No.
Keep it together.
I close my eyes tight.
When I open them—
He’s gone.
Great.
Now I’m embarrassed.
Frick.
Better than sobbing on a stranger, I guess.
I’ve had enough people sobbing on me lately.
Family after family.
There’s enough of that upstairs.
And she can’t see me fall apart now.
I make it to the elevator.
Alone.
I punch the button too hard.
Damnit. That hurt.
The elevator slowly grinds upward.
I breathe deep.
Swallowing it all down.
No sobs. No sniffles.
Man.
I hate this place.
The mixed smells of disinfectant and sickness.
It smells like radiation, tears, and palliative care.
My floor dings.
The doors take too long to open.
I always panic when they do this.
I don’t want to be here anymore.
After an eternity, the doors open.
And there he is.
Arms folded. One ankle crossed.
Waiting.
Like he’s been there the whole time.
My stomach drops.
He looks at me directly.
“Please,” he says and holds out his hand.
I don’t know why—I take it.
My coffee hand starts to shake.
We walk.
The hallway feels too narrow. Too dark.
The nurses don’t look up.
We pass carts, monitors, med stations.
My mouth feels too dry.
A sob catches three rooms away.
Too loud in the quiet.
He squeezes my hand.
“Not now,” he says quietly.
I clamp my mouth shut so hard my teeth click.
We keep walking.
Lindsay is at the nurse’s station.
I love Lindsay.
She’s been so kind to us.
She doesn’t look up.
I inhale to greet her.
He squeezes my hand again.
“Shhhh,” he says softly.
So I don’t.
We reach her room.
The instinct takes over.
I let go of his hand and start singing softly from our favourite movie.
“Good morning, good morning…”
Her eyes open.
She looks past me.
At him.
“You came…” she whispers.
“Hello, beautiful,” he says gently.
She reaches.
For both of us? I don’t know.
“I’m here,” I say, taking her hand.
Too light.
Too fragile.
He moves closer.
Not rushed. Not looming.
Just there.
Like he’s always been here.
She looks at him again.
And her face softens.
Everything unclenches.
“I was getting tired,” she whispers.
“Yeah,” I say, swallowing past the lump in my throat.
“I know.”
He takes her other hand.
For a moment I almost stop him.
But I don’t.
Because she isn’t looking at me anymore.
She looks at him like she trusts him.
Completely.
“Ready?” he asks.
She nods.
Just once.
Certain.
He helps her sit up.
Easier than it’s been for months.
And something in me cracks.
“No—” slips out before I can stop it.
She’s mine, she can’t go now. I need her.
He looks at me.
Not cruel.
Just knowing.
“I’ll take care of her,” he says.
And I believe him.
I hate him for it.
She squeezes my hand.
Weak.
“I’m okay,” she says.
And I think she might be.
My grip loosens.
Not because I want it to.
I can’t hold onto what’s already letting go.
He helps her stand.
For a moment, she looks like herself again.
Beautiful.
Not the bed. Not the machines.
Just her.
They move toward the door.
I don’t remember deciding to let go.
But my hand is empty.
The room feels too big.
Too quiet.
Too still.
At the doorway she glances back.
Just once.
A small smile.
Then they’re gone.
I stand there for a long time.
Staring at nothing.
At everything.
At the place she isn’t anymore.
Eventually I sit.
In the chair I’ve been sitting in for weeks.
For months.
My hands rest in my lap.
Still.
Empty.
And for the first time—
I’m not waiting.
And for the first time—
I’m not waiting.