The Waiting Room

studying to pass the time

syd grenier, watercolour, 2022

The white walls adorned with motel art of apples in bowls was not the most unsettling aspect of the waiting room. The nervous energy that permeated the air like static was much more unsettling. The rectangular room was populated by many different characters, all passing the time in different ways. A mom and toddler were playing with blocks in the corner, an old man was reading the newspaper, and one girl was staring at the small tv installed in the corner playing the news on a loop.

Their passivity struck me as concerning. I was intent on preparing for the appointment. I knitted for 20 minutes, and quantum physics for an hour or so. Just in case, I tied and retied my shoes in perfect double knotted bows. I wasn't sure what to expect so I prepared and rehearsed everything-- I learned Mandarin, I memorised Shakespeare, I completed a sudoku book. I buzzed at the speed of a humming bird, completing repetition after repetition of random tasks.

All the while the ominous ticking of the waiting room clock ticked ticked ticked. With each passing second, I became more hurried. In my humming bird bubble, I didn't notice much outside of myself. Unexpectedly, a voice pierced my focus.

“Why aren't you talking to me?” asked the lady seated beside me. “Me?” I replied, confused. There were many others in the waiting room she could be referring to. You’re neglecting me.” she added, with a sad and worried look in her eye. My mouth hung open in confusion.  “I…” I started.

The woman looked familiar to me, though I had never been in this waiting room before. Her speckled grey hair sat thick on her shoulders framing her face. When she spoke her brow furrowed and a soft wrinkle on her forehead appeared. 

“I’m getting ready,” I uttered, trying to explain my distraction. “You don’t know when or what the appointment is,” she replied, matter of fact. Her familiarity was distracting--she smelled of lavender and sawdust, smells of my childhood.

“I know I need to be prepared,” I replied. “Being prepared won't always help you succeed in the appointment,” she declared. “Why not spend your time doing something you enjoy?” “I would be waiting a long time, it would be a waste not to prepare,” I explained. “It could be a short time, and you'll have spent it all preparing,” she quipped in return.

I contemplated her reply, and what had summoned me to the waiting room to begin with. I had found that morning a small, folded blue paper with the waiting room address and the appointment time printed in type-writer font. It read “Urgent: Your future waits for you.” Entering the sterile room, I was reminded of doctor’s appointments when I was young. The age when you are completely at the mercy of your parents’ decisions and your own boredom. Having no books or colouring on hand, and seemingly hours and hours to wait, I simply looked around. 

I puzzled over one man’s stark white sneakers, watched the AC breeze tickle the office plant, and stared at a magazine cover for far too long imagining the tragic life story of the actress featured. I had no choice but to sit in my own thoughts, and I didn’t mind since there was no alternative I knew of at the time. Now in the waiting rooms, I feel the pressure to use that time; as if it's a cherry on top of a cake, not to be wasted.

Now instead of imaging backstories for models on magazine covers I fret over the looming appointment. Yes, even though I don't know what it is. “Enjoying the time you have is not a waste,” the lady quipped, interrupting my daze, “In fact, it is the only thing you can be sure is not a waste. How do you know what you need to do for the future? It’s not even here yet.”With tears welling in my eyes I said to her, honesty cracking my voice, “I’m scared of what will happen if I slow down.”

“Why?” “Beacuse I’m running from what I don’t want to be.” “Which is?” “Stuck, unimportant, the same as everyone else.”

With that, the ominous sound of the clock ticking in the corner of the room slowed to a deeper, softer beat like hearing a person’s heartbeat with your ear to their chest. In my mother’s voice, as if playing from a cassette recording, the woman spoke; “You don’t want to be stuck with me?” “I just don’t want to be stuck.” I sighed. 

The receptionist shuffled, collected papers and cleared her throat to address the room of waiting people. When she opened her mouth, however, only the sound of the ticking clock echoed from her mouth, shaking the walls and the floors. The reverberating was unsettling, and the others in the waiting room hurriedly scrambled to the exit to escape. The ticking only got louder and more intense, but I couldn’t move from my chair. “I told you you wouldn’t wait long” said the woman with my mother’s voice.

“I am not ready.” 

“No one is ever ready.”

-syd grenier 14/1/2026