Waiting Rooms

We have three children altogether. Four, if you count the miscarriage I had at nine weeks, before our oldest daughter was born, which was nearly five years ago. I call her Alice. 

The phrase, “God only gives us what we can handle,” is one commonly spouted to mom’s who have lost a child to cancer. A complete cliche. A  “fill in the awkward silence” type of comment as you stand facing one another both respectfully crawling out of your skin. Tell me, but why did God give me this? I mean, did it really have to be something this horrendous? Couldn’t it have been a broken wrist, maybe a cast? Maybe one or two nights stay in the hospital, but two-hundred? Tell me God, why a tumor? Not even a small tumor, why God, was the tumor the size of a grapefruit? Tell me again, how has God hurt you? What is your threshold for what God thinks you can handle? I’m guessing a child with cancer didn’t make that short list.

Typically, the message is delivered with empathy and comes from someone who hasn’t lost a child to cancer or otherwise, and has little or no experience with the subject. To be fair, there’s nothing that can be said to change the circumstances, and so I’ve decided there’s no right thing to say. We are all damned the second our mouths open. While we constantly worry about the “right” thing to say, we repeatedly rehearse the wrong thing. For this, I now have patience and empathy. Besides, how could we say the right thing when our only exposure surrounding childhood cancer comes in the form of a St. Jude’s commercial which we aren’t capable of watching without writhing in our seats or quickly changing the channel. 

Several months ago our son had an ear infection, and needed to be taken to the pediatrician. This is something utterly detrimental to my health, so I texted my husband who was at work. While he works, I am also working. Every second of the day, I am trying to take care of myself and my nervous system so I can be supportive of my family and present with my children. Taking care of myself does include doing laundry in a timely fashion, and mowing the lawn which creates a communal harmony. For our well-being, we need both the clothes we wear to not smell like mildew and for our neighbors to not think our house is condemned. Personally, I can’t do anything about the chipped paint. By completing these tasks, we meet the expectation of societal norms, or pressures, or whatever you want to call them. Part of my daily work is trying to care about things like laundry and lawns again.

“I can’t take him this time. It might push me over the edge.” The edge of what I am not sure, however I believe it to be a metaphorical cliff where my sanity drops off into an abyss. Also, there’s a lot of water, perhaps a Niagara Falls caliber of falling water. Will my sanity be recovered after such a disastrous fall? We don’t know. Husband doesn’t push it to find out. Instead he promptly responds like the great husband he is, “You can pick up my truck at the dealership, it’s getting repaired, and I’ll take him to the doctor.” Not fully understanding our deal, I agree. 

The air conditioned waiting room in May in Maine is a little overkill, and I’m wearing shorts for the first time this year because at any hint of summer after nine months of winter, that’s etiquette when you live in Maine. Even when your legs are the color of a fluorescent light bulb. 

I’m still practicing being in a public space since June died. A kind man with buttermilk skin, but deep lines showing his true age, checks me in from behind a counter in a room that smells like tires, dirt ,and cleaning products. I can faintly smell his cologne from across the desk. He’s being so kind I wonder if he knows June died. “That’s complete lunacy,” I’m thinking as he asks me to follow him to the waiting room before asking if I’d like a coffee. “No, thank you.” I shoot him a polite smile as I start to skim the waiting room warzone. He tells me as soon as the truck is ready he will let me know. I nod as I pinpoint my seat and start to make my way there. I now understand, this was the exchange. Husband will take our son to the doctor, but I am going to forfeit my entire first sunny afternoon in nine months in return. 

The room is encased by glass. Every which way you turn you can see the happenings of the dealership: people working, welding, scrubbing. I feel a little exposed, although I imagine everyone that works here does, too. There are four other people in the waiting room when I arrive. They’re positioned in chairs set in a rectangle surrounding a large flat screen television hanging on the wall. I brought my big quilted bag filled with snacks, drinks, and a book. I promptly use the bag to hide the whiteness of my legs. 

I’ve had practice in waiting rooms. I know you don’t show up empty handed because your mind will slowly burn holes in the backs of your eyes while you wait. I’ve almost gone blind from the fear, anxiety, and sheer aggravation of it all, and also from the waiting that has to be done in a waiting room. I imagine what my brain looks like while I sit in a waiting room: it’s definitely on fire, it’s swollen which has created a skull space entirely too small which is creating immense pressure, it’s deprived of sufficient oxygen (there’s only enough to maintain the fire), all while it’s violently shivering despite the burning hot flames. The body tries to exterminate the fire by dousing it in cortisol, lots and lots of extra and endless cortisol, but turns out cortisol is flammable! Ha! Who knew? Activities like knitting, coloring, and the million sticker-by-number puzzles are the key to avoiding torturous thoughts that ignite the brain. Snacks you can choke down like stale crackers, ginger ale, and peanut butter, are necessary to keep your blood sugar stable if you want to be able to stand when the nurse comes out to greet you and take you back to your daughter. Just get back to her, you think. Suddenly, this feels like a field sobriety test. For god sakes, just eat the stale saltine.

Twenty grueling minutes into my latest and newest waiting room experience, a St. Jude’s commercial comes on the television. You’ve got to be kidding me. Not here. Please, not here. God, why? My eyes flash to the four other people in the room. Two men immediately pull out their phones, and one shifts around uncomfortably in his chair. Another man stands up and walks out. I watch him as he paces back and forth on the other side of the glass. Can’t hide here. The woman in the corner puts in earphones and makes a phone call. People become scarce. Every single person looks away from the television. It suddenly dawns on me, this is why these commercials are five minutes long. Aside from it being a marketing scheme, it’s also a ploy to engage those who have disengaged. Once the initial discomfort of the commercial has worn off, and you’ve left the room, you circle back to continue your show, however, surprise! It’s still the St. Jude’s commercial. You say to heck with it, and settle back into your chair, with no other option but to wait because your show will be back on in a matter of seconds, you hope. Perhaps this time the commercial will get your awareness, your investment, your empathy.  I can feel myself sinking into and becoming the plastic leather chair which is now sticking to the backs of my thighs and pulling uncomfortably at my skin as I sink lower and lower to the ground. My reality has been exposed in this awful dealership waiting room. No one knew, but I know. I know that little bald head. I know that weary mom because I am her. I know those tubes, drains, and lines coming out of that baby. I know I’m alone, too, as I watch strangers scatter at the mere flicker of a St. Jude’s commercial. This is what life feels like after losing June. Everyone else can go about their lives once the commercial ends, except for me because this is my life.

Although, I’ll have to admit, like every good rumor or catch phrase, “God only gives us what we can handle” holds a kernel of truth. In part because women are inherently able to cope with more bullshit than anyone on this planet. And when it comes to our children, we are fiercely capable of overcoming every single one of life’s hurdles. Both a blessing, and a curse. Mom’s are able to absorb the shock, pain, sadness, and terror of their children and then put a home cooked meal on the table by five o’clock. And thank goodness we can handle what is dished out by God, but it's not because of “what” it is God is dishing. The “what” is irrelevant when you're a mom because you’re capable of handling anything and everything. Bring it.