It’s all honey blonde and pinky red tones with shafts of sunlight making geometric shapes on the floor and warm curved walls to hug you as you sit and wait. But there’s also creaky hard seats and noisy floors that echo with the rhythm of shoes and boots and runners making a cacophony of sound that ebbs and flows.
The door opens and in they go. The door shuts. You’re left outside to wait. Your stomach churns as you wonder how the appointment will go today. You try to read something, write something, concentrate on something, anything that will distract you from fixating on what is happening behind that implacably closed door.
You listen to the sounds of others waiting: cranky children, the lower murmur of women chatting, the rustling of paper and doors opening and closing, voices raised in excitement as gossip is exchanged. The ring of phones and the coughs and splutters of the sick and old.
You sit and wait and wait and wait. How did it come to this?
You’ve become the person who knows almost nothing, but is expected to do almost everything.
Then the door opens. All looks well. Phone away, fix welcoming smile on face, drive home. Another hour spent in the waiting room is over. For another week.
NB I’m cheating slightly as this post is not about my disabled daughter.