Here we sit, a set of four, waiting to hear news to see how you are. We aren’t supposed to be a set of four, you know; we are a strong set of five. We have been this group of five since 1983, when the youngest of us came screaming into the world. Sure, we have been knocked around a bit, but we dust ourselves off and stand up again and again. Now we, the unfortunate quartet, sit on the other side of the door waiting to hear how you are. Nerves confuse our sense of sleep and need for food. Restless? Hungry? I’m not sure.
Twitching in our vinyl seats, staring out at the city landscape, the smell of Purell tickling our nose, and watching the clock barely move adds to our tension. My feet are growing roots from being in this position for so long. We glance up at the screen rhythmically and often, hoping to see where you are. No one has talked to us and it’s been hours. The weight of the wait is heavy. My mind bounces between everything being fine and catastrophic errors. Every person who walks by us in scrubs gets the official quartet stare down, following them until they are out of sight.
I hope you are oblivious in your medical slumber, and wake up ornery and asking to go home. Your need to see your dogs (and maybe the cat, but probably not) fuel your desire to leave. At least one night here, but then they promise you can go home if you are good. Please be good, rest, and heal. Secretly, I want to see you protest the wheel chair when it’s time to leave or wave your hands about when the nurse fuses over you. Once in the car, a sigh of relief will sing through all of us, uniting us again. Family of five.