In the Waiting Room

"In the Waiting Room"
By Carlin E. Wing
You will not think, my mind firmly informed me; you are much too busy being nervous to think. I sat in the mother of all waiting rooms. My pen traveled frantically across the pages of my black book, recording every detail of the room in fragments that passed for poetry. I tried to write something deeply insightful about the procedure I was about to undergo but failed to produce even an opening sentence.
These were the final minutes before my hand would be separated from my pen for
ten weeks. Even if I could not think, I needed to write. My eyes became my pen and I wrote:
Waiting Room
The name dictates the atmosphere
The walls, papered in printed beige,
Are dotted with pastel picture.
Two square columns interrupt the room,
Attended by brown plastic trash bins.
An undecided carpet of green, black, gray, red, blue
Mirrors the undecided feelings of the occupants.
And none of these mask the inevitable tension of the space.
I paused and lifted my head to stare at The Door that led to my fate.
My fate was to have wrist surgery. Three years before, I had been told that the fracture in my wrist would heal. Earlier this year, I was again sitting in front of X-rays and MRI results listening to the doctor say that the old fracture had been an indication that the ligaments and tendons were torn. I could have declined to have surgery and never played competitive squash again. It was never an option.
I am a jock. My competitive personality finds a safe place to release itself on a playing field. My strongest motivation is the prospect of doing what no one expects
I can do. However, the hardest competition I face is that of my own expectations.
Squash allows me to put the perfectionist in me to good use. The beauty of squash, and sports in general, is that I never reach an anti-climax because there is always a higher level to reach for. Squash requires a healthy wrist. Surgery would make my wrist healthy. My immediate reaction to the doctor's words was "Yes, I want surgery. How soon can it be done? How long until I can play squash again? Can I watch?"
No one understood that last part. My parents jokingly told their friends about my desire to observe the surgery, and the doctor was adamantly opposed to the idea.
But I had not been joking. It was my wrist they were going to be working on. I
thought that entitled me to watch. Anyhow, I had never seen an operation and was
fascinated by the idea of someone being able to sew a tendon back together. I had
this image of a doctor pulling out the needle and thread and setting to work, whistling. Perhaps subconsciously I wanted to supervise the operation, to make sure that all the little pieces were sewn back into the right places (admittedly not a
very rational thought since I wouldn't know by sight if they were sewing them
together or tearing them apart). I understood the doctor's fear that I would panic
and mess up the operation. Still, I wanted to watch. I felt it would give me a degree of control over this injury that had come to dominate my life without permission. Unfortunately, the final decision was not mine to make and the surgery was to go unrecorded by my eyes, lost in the memories of doctors who perform these operations daily.
The Door opened and I looked up, tingling with hope and apprehension. In response
to the nurse's call a fragile elderly lady in a cashmere sweater and flowered scarf
was wheeled towards The Door by her son. As she passed me I overheard her say, "Let's rock and roll." The words echoed in my ears and penetrated my heart. As I watched her disappear beyond The Door, I silently thanked her for the sudden dose
of courage she had unknowingly injected in me. If she could do it, I could do it. I was
next and before too long I was lying on a gurney in a room filled with doctors. I told the anesthesiologist that I did not want to be put to sleep, even though a curtain hid
the actual operation from my sight. I said "Hi" to Dr. Melone an, as the operation began, sang contentedly along with the Blues Brothers.
ANALYSIS
Chronicling an intimate moment or other personal experience requires particular
attention and care in the essay-writing process. An author must be conscious that
he or she creates an appropriate sense of balance that at once captures the reader
while allowing for a sense of genuine personal reflection to show through. To be sure, the risk of turning the reader off with overly personal details or unnecessarily deep
conclusions is a constant threat. However, "In the Waiting Room" reflects a
successful attempt at convincing the reader that the author's wrist surgery merits his or her attention. Although unfocused, this work demonstrates that an essay
about an otherwise insignificant topic can in fact be insightful and even touching.
By establishing a strong sense of tension at the beginning of the essay, "In the
Waiting Room" succeeds where other personal reflection works often falter. The
author does not begin with a topic sentence or other device that states the essay's point right away. To do so in this sort of essay would be to make the piece too much like a "what-I-did-last-summer" narrative. Instead, the reader is kept in suspense until the second paragraph of the piece of that which is causing the author's angst. Only then does the author spell out that it is his impending wrist surgery – and not
a shot or test results – which has caused such great anxiety. As the essay continues, the author uses the occasion of waiting for the surgery to reflect on many of his complementary attributes: writer, athlete, coward and stoic. Overall, the writing is clear and unpretentious.
Yet in illustrating his multiple roles, the author tends to lose focus of the essay's
overall point. Where it seems like the author portrays himself as an avid writer from the flow of the first paragraph, the reader is surprised to learn that the author is actually a self-described "jock" who plays squash. Before returning to the topic of the operation, the author takes another moment to reflect on his motivation for
participating in sports. The essay loses significant steam and regains it only with the announcement that the author hopes to observe his own surgery. While interesting independently, these complications distract from the overall point. An essayist must
be aware of the need to ensure that the flow of writing maintains a definite sense of direction – and doesn't meander too far from that path.