the women in the waiting room
Today, I went to visit my gynecologist. It was a routine checkup scheduled just before the anniversary of my IUD insertion. That remarkable day last June when contraception and I became one. It had been a year since we united so my doctor needed to make sure the ol’ girl was stable in her new home.
I typically enjoy my appointments here, even with all the poking, prodding, probing, and “No chance you’re pregnant?” quibbles. I enjoy these scheduled trips because I believe there is no other place on earth where you will find a group of women so far apart and differentiated by their stage in life. This group of women is so interconnected yet unrelated. The waiting room at my gynecologist’s office feels the closest one could get to a physical, natural example of the circle of life. It is both beautiful and terrifying.
I saunter into the waiting room, car keys clinking in my hand. I’m wearing jeans that don’t fit right around my waist and a crop top, my leather purse swinging at my side. Sneakers too. Dirty, white sneakers. Some women don’t look up as I walk in and some do. They eye me as I walk towards the receptionist and give her my name. I switch my hips a little bit thinking, “Yeah, remember this? Remember when you had freedom?” But then I curse myself for thinking that, knowing that one day, I’ll be sitting right where they are.
There are women sitting hunched over in their chairs, pushing toy cars across the carpet for their toddlers to crawl after. I see their nail-polished toes peaking over the rim of their sandals and their flannels falling to the side to reveal a thick, nude bra strap. They look exhausted but they’re smiling.
Women are sitting alongside their husbands, cradling their big bellies. Their husbands fidget back and forth in their chairs, unsure of how to act in a space that is made for women. But they’re there. The excitement shines through the couple's faces as they guess what fruit their baby is the size of.
There is another couple on the couch, sitting side by side, not touching or speaking. They are a bit older, their faces more solemn. The woman’s hands are folded neatly in front of her. The man scrolls on his phone.
There are women with gray hair flipping through magazines, their cheeks rosy from days in the sun, and teen girls with their moms whose legs nervously shake as they discuss weekend plans.
There is a man sitting alone at the end of the room. He’s wearing his glasses on the tip of his nose and a blue polo that’s too small. He does nothing but stare at the wall. My first thought when I see him is “This place isn’t for you! Go back to your alien spaceship where your people sprout tails out the front of them!” But again, I curse myself for thinking this man is intruding although a part of me can’t help it. He’s just waiting for his partner. Trying to be supportive.
Although I know nothing about them, why exactly they are there, or what their stories are, we feel connected in this place of pamphlets and pap smears. We are envious of each other and empathetic towards one another. Just being there, sitting and waiting, is a subtle acknowledgment of what binds us. I don’t know if they think of it this way, but I do and feel that I always will. When I’m sitting there with my stomach in knots awaiting test results. When I’m excited for the new life I’ll get to be a part of, for the future, for what has been. I tip my metaphorical hat to these women for living all these lives. I wonder what they think of me. I wonder what memories my being there brings to them, if any. A nurse pops her head into the waiting room and calls my name. I smile at them all as she leads me to a room to put on a gown all of them have worn and to greet the silver jaws of a speculum they’ve all had the poignant pleasure of knowing.
