Hospital waiting rooms house different feelings — worry and confusion, hope and clarity. Normalcy, neutrality. Extreme joy, undue despair. Relief.
I've been through so many of these rooms in so many years of my existence. First it was the operation theatre when an inguinal hernia was observed and plucked out, then it was the emergency room as blood spilled through a point near my eyebrows. A few years later it was the broken left ankle. Then it was a scraped knee, betadine and a tetanus shot. Once it was a father on the operation table with a broken hip. Some years later it was a grandfather in the ICU on a ventilator. Blood tests, MRIs and physiotherapy. Scans, X-rays and surgeries. Every event has been a life-changer.
Now it's nothing much and everything else.
The body weakens when it's at its strongest and the mind sways to the tunes of whatifs. The seas roil and the lakes still. Doors swing open and rooms empty, only to be filled with newer tenants who thrive in the lull or take in the thrill. A waiting room is an observant owner of this and that and everything else. Only difference now — the chairs are 1.5 meters away from each other.