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Sarah's avatar

You know those big clocks they have in institutions - schools, hospitals? You know how they go when the batteries are almost dead? The second hand keeps flicking forward and dropping back. It counts the seconds, but the hands don't turn. It can fool you - you look up and think "Oh, it's 9.30" or ten past two, or whatever, and then when you look back half an hour later it's still 9.30, or ten past two, or whatever.

Time in waiting rooms is like that. It ticks by, but somehow it doesn't move. It becomes liquid - pooling, eddying, slipping between your fingers.

Waiting rooms are liminal spaces. You sit there, suspended between health and sickness, barrenness and pregnancy, hope and fear. Everything is different. Footsteps resonate. Conversations happen in lurching whispers. Your heartbeat might be the fiercest thing in the universe. You hold your most private fears in your lap in a relentlessly public space. Out there in the real world you have multiple roles. in here you only have one.

The last consultant I had used to have ridiculously overbooked clinics. It must have been hard for him: there's a limit to how quickly you can see a patient, listen to them, examine them, and then work out a plan with them. Once you got in there you were never rushed, he gave you all the time you needed. You just had to wait for it.

We expected to wait a couple of hours. We took books and people-watched. We kept our conversation light and meaningless. What is there to say, anyway? I love you. I'm scared. How long have we got in the carpark? Do we need to get milk on the way home? I love you. I'm scared.

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Amy's avatar

So, so very late to the game...mind and body are just having a rough bit of it so stringing words and together is possible for only the briefest of moments. Still a work in progress this piece, but as always, your words Tanya beget others.

****************************

August 2021

mess

clutter

dust

hearts on wall

in a frame and

hanging from strings

raindrops like lace on screen

fern under glass

cat sniffs air

eyelids close

eyelids open

light pierces left eye

shoulders sink

so..heavy.

h e a v y.

h e a v y.

single words

fragments

half thoughts and no end

in this room

with shades down

beneath blanket

breathing—

in

out.

nine years so far

of breathing

and watching

others move on:

chronic illness is

hard time

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