The Waiting Room

    As I entered the waiting room, I slyly glanced around; surveying the relative safety of this particular location. I noticed the awkwardly aging head of the receptionist siting oddly on display behind thick plane of safety glass, like the glass barrier often used at zoos when displaying the animals. Her head sat under a LARGE orange arrow, which nonchalantly pointed directly at her. I reluctantly walked up and pressed a red button which sat underneath a sign that said “Press here!” Just as quickly as I had pressed the button, a nasally voice bolted from the dried, curled up mouth that was attached to the front of the head. She requested for me to ante-up with both my name and payment for admission, going on to say that today’s festivities were only free for “those type of people”, apparently I didn’t qualify. Our transactions were solely done through the use of a microphone and a drawer that up until then I had only used when corresponding with my bank teller. I added my name to the long list of those who had came before me and to those who will sadly come after I am gone.

With that uncomfortable dealing done with, I took my rightful place amongst my new sorority sisters. While teeter tottering upon my seat, in an effort to get comfortable, I noticed the down gazing eyes of the young women I shared the waiting status with. Although I was not surprised of the lack of responsibility shown by the absent males who engaged in the activity of which we were all here for, I still felt a twinge of resentment towards them. I began to become quietly agitated, possibly by the situation I found myself in or more than likely, by the lack of men standing alongside their women. As I scanned the room I became aware that the strong women, whose bodies outlined the room, gave it an odd appearance of a college classroom. The course that was being taught, “Sexual Education”, was new to many and a refresher for some, I fell in the latter category. As my name was called, I was jolted from my trance. I was led to an even smaller room by following the jingles of the nurse’s bracelets and the clip clop of her hoof like feet.

The once trance-like state I had induced myself in, was abruptly ended by the noisy nurse. As she shoved a small container into my clenched hand, she asked me if I had to urinate, I quickly responded, “Yes!” There was a time in my life when an oddly rude question like that would have made me uncomfortable and would cause my bladder to clinch up, afraid to give up the answer it contained, thankfully that time was not now. Her request for my urine was something I had come prepared for, with the massive intake of fluids leading up to this moment, I was able produce on demand. I reluctantly yet carefully handed the liquid answer to the nurse who then in turned left me alone inside the room. I listened as she scurried away from the door, leaving me with an eagerness for her to pull from the liquid the answer.

The humidity inside this smaller room was stifling; I began to feel as though I couldn’t breathe. I found myself pacing back and forth, eager for the “fortune teller” nurse to return, bringing with her the secret answer my urine held. I became aware of my shallow breathing and tight chest, caused by my anxiety. With a slow, deep breath in and an even longer one out, I began to regain control of my thoughts and emotions.

As I relaxed into a comfortable position upon the uncomfortable chair in the corner, the “fortune teller” nurse returned. With the sterile-ness of the environment, she delivered the answer to me. Although her words were fading in and out I was almost positive that the nurse had just confirmed what I already knew. Even though it had been five years since my last confirmation, I knew what the word looked like as it passed through the lips….positive. I sat silently, absorbing that fact. I couldn’t believe I had found myself in the same situation again. While the nurse continued on and on with her obligatory spilling of words and babbling of nonsense, throwing in a pamphlet every now and then, for good measure; I began to daydream of my future. A future filled with baby diapers and bibs, car seats and highchairs, laughter and cooing, my husband and I happily raising our children together. Just as easy as it was for me to decide so few of years earlier, I knew what my answer would be, without question, I would keep my baby.