The Doctor Said What I’d Been Saying

When I parked the car, there were only one or two others in the lot.

I’d brought a friend to the emergency room. There was no line and no waiting. Before we’d finished explaining why we were there, someone was walking us back to a room with a real bed in it.

Everything moved. Tests were ordered, and people came in and out. They were patient and kind.

Then the hallway got louder.

There were more footsteps and more voices. The nurses moved a little faster each time they passed our door.

I walked to a window and looked out at the parking lot. It was almost full.

Here’s what I noticed. Everyone was working harder, and we were waiting longer.

Nobody had done anything wrong. We just weren’t the only ones anymore.

The test results came back. Then we waited for the doctor. When he finally came in, you could see the rest of the building on his face. He was rushed, but he didn’t rush us. He did what he needed to do and told my friend she could go home.

As he headed for the door, I said, “Man, you got busy.”

He stopped. He actually stopped.

“Yes,” he said. Then he told me what it’s like. Nothing for a while, then everyone at once. If it would just come in at an even pace, he said, everything would go smoother.

“I would actually enjoy my work a lot more.”

I almost laughed. That’s my line.

I work a customer-facing job. Some days it’s nothing, nothing, nothing. Then five or six people show up at once, and I think, can’t we spread this out a little?

I’ve grumbled it more times than I can count. I’ve been sure it was a problem somebody ought to fix.

And here was a doctor, in a building full of emergencies, saying the same thing.

For one afternoon, I was on the other side of the counter.

I was the one waiting. I was the one wondering where he was and when this would happen. From that chair, I could see something I can’t see from my side.

The people waiting on me don’t know about the five who came in before them. They only know they’re waiting.

The doctor didn’t know about my afternoon, either. He didn’t know about the empty lot, the quiet hallway, or how smoothly it had gone before the rush. He just knew he had too many rooms and not enough of him.

We were both right. That’s the hard part.

Which leaves grace.

I don’t mean the kind that pretends nothing’s wrong. I mean the kind that remembers there’s more going on than what’s in front of me.

When I’m the one waiting, grace looks like patience. It assumes the delay has a reason, even when nobody explains it.

When I’m the one being waited on, grace can be a few words: I see you. I haven’t forgotten you. That doctor gave me ten seconds he didn’t have, and it changed how the whole afternoon felt.

I’ve received a lot of grace I didn’t earn. The older I get, the more I think the point of receiving it is learning to pass it on.

I’m 71. I’ve stood on both sides of a lot of counters. You’d think I’d have learned this by now.

Maybe I needed to hear my own complaint in someone else’s voice.

Next time you’re waiting, someone is probably working as fast as they can.

Next time someone’s waiting on you, they probably don’t know that.

Give a little grace in both directions. It costs less than the wait.