The Blessings That Hide in Your Hallway
by Stacey Harvey

We proceed to the waiting area. I know it well. In fact, I could write a fifteen-page essay about it. If I had a dollar for every minute I've spent in that waiting room, I could buy a small Third World country and declare myself queen. 

I take a deep breath, blow my hair out of my face and look to the Heavens for perseverance. No, we're not embarking on a long road trip. No, we're not headed to the airport to pick up some long-lost relative. Our endeavor far exceeds road trips and relatives in both anticipation and rigor. 

Every parent knows the story. It was one of those routine visits, nothing serious. Although he is currently very healthy, my middle child has a chronic illness, and we make periodic visits to the Cystic Fibrosis clinic to keep his condition in check. No matter -- you take any child to any clinic for any reason and it's all the same result. 

Doctors' offices aren't what they used to be, are they? Today, you spend lots more time in waiting rooms. The staff at the CF clinic comprises some of the nicest and most skilled medical professionals I know, but of all their skills and talents, I'm afraid time management isn't one of them. Whatever the reasons (and I'm sure there are valid reasons,) we always end up waiting for what feels like eons. As the laws of probability would have it, the number of eons is directly proportional to the number of kids you've brought along.

"Where are we going, Momma?"
"To the doctor so you can stay healthy."
"Am I gonna get a shot?"
"I don't think so, honey. Now, be a good boy and take this antihistamine." 
We make our way to the hospital through road construction and lane closures, and pull into the crowded parking garage. It's a children's hospital. Sick and injured children file in and out all day -- ill children who need special care and protection. So, am I the only one who finds it curious that the parking garage sits half a block away with no elevator, no clear pedestrian path and no protected walkway to the hospital building? I unload my three darlings, pack up the stroller, and walk them across the dark garage and busy parking lot onto the curvy sidewalk, which eventually deposits us at the main doors. 

To get to the appropriate clinic, we must get on the appropriate elevators. They aren't the elevators closest the entrance; those don't go all the way to the floor we need. To get to the proper floor, we must take the elevators located down the hall and to the right. 
While we're on the subject of floors, don't confuse the lower level with the first floor. The first floor is the second floor; the lower level is the first floor. The basement level is the same thing as the lower level; it depends upon which map you reference. We take the elevator to the third floor, which is the fourth level, as I ponder why anyone would call the lower level the "basement level" when everyone knows we don't have basements in Texas.

The kids try to get off the elevator at every stop, but I manage to keep them contained until we reach the correct floor. We enter the clinic and stop to sign in. 
"How are you?" I say to the receptionist as I pick up the pen.
"Tired. And flustered. But, you don't need to hear about my problems."
"Oh, I can definitely relate to 'tired' and 'flustered.' By the way, we have new insurance. Here's the card."
"Don't give that to me now! I'll lose it. I'll bring you your paperwork in a minute and you can give it to me then."
"Very well."

We proceed to the waiting area. I know it well. In fact, I could write a fifteen-page essay about it. If I had a dollar for every minute I've spent in that waiting room, I could buy a small Third World country and declare myself queen. 

The usual routine goes like this: the receptionist brings us our paperwork. I fill it out and return it to the front desk. Seasons pass, and we get called into the room where my son is weighed and measured, etc. We go back to the waiting room. Our clothes go out of style, a new president gets elected, our clothes come back in style, and we get put in a patient room. The construction on Highway 75 gets completed, NASA finally gathers information about Mars, my hair grows six inches and the doctor comes in. We see the doctor, check out at the front desk and get sent to the lab. We sign in again and sit in another waiting room. My youngest, who was two when we arrived at the clinic, looks like he needs to shave and asks if he can drive on the way back home. We get called into the lab for blood work. After a few tears and a Scooby Doo bandage, we finally pack up and head back out to the curvy sidewalk, busy parking lot and dark garage where our red van sits impatiently awaiting our return. That's the typical course of events. Today's visit would prove no different.

The receptionist brought us our paperwork, and she and I were both very happy that she didn't lose my new insurance card. My oldest wanted me to read her a book about the seasons. My boys wanted to investigate the fish tank.
"In Autumn, the leaves turn beautiful colors and fall to the... Connor, don't knock on the fish tank; they don't like that... ground. In the mountains, you can see their reddish hues... Danny, don't put your mouth on the glass... the air turns crisp and cool as the days grow... no, Connor. You can't tickle the fish. They're not ticklish... shorter and the nights grow long. Pumpkins grow in the pumpkin patch... OK, yes the fish is 'smiling' at you; that's nice... and scarecrows appear in the fields."

"Momma, I gotta go the bathroom," said Connor, the patient in question, who's three years old.
"Uh... OK. I'll lead you to the ladies room." He only uses the potty as an occasional form of entertainment. After I put him in the stall, I told him to wait while I went to get a new diaper. He took off his pants. He took off his diaper. He took off his socks and shoes; I'm not sure why. When he was finished, he walked out of the stall, out of the bathroom and into the waiting room where he stood with all of his shortcomings in plain view and proudly announced to me, "Mommy, I'm done."

Every five minutes, somebody wanted a snack. Luckily, I'd come prepared. The diaper bag almost burst at the seams. (Diaper bags come in three sizes: small, medium and Catholic. Ours is the last kind.) I spent the next thirty minutes picking up Doritos crumbs from the carpet, doling out Dr. Pepper and saying, "What do you mean, you're still hungry?" We endured the obligatory wait, and finally reached the patient room. If you've ever sat in a tiny room with three small kids, then perhaps you are sitting in a padded room now as you read.
"I want up there."
"I want down."
"Look, Mommy! There are pills in this drawer!"
"I want some raisins."
"I wanna wash my hands."
"I wanna go home."
"Can I stick this in your ear?"
"What does this button do?"
"What's in this cabinet?"
"Cool! There's a phone in here!"
I was a prisoner, not a parent. Just as I'd resorted to making balloon chickens out of exam gloves, the doctor finally entered my "cell," looked me square in the eye and inquired, "How's his activity level?" 
There was a long pause. I stared at him blankly. Was I delirious from blowing up exam gloves, or had he just asked me about Connor's... activity level? He quickly realized he'd asked an unnecessary question, and we both smiled as he proceeded to questions that made more sense.

We were sent to the lab. All three kids jumped around like drugged monkeys as we waited, waited and waited some more. Does it seem like it's only everyone else's kids who'll sit still and listen to stories? Why is it usually just my kids who are climbing the walls, despite my best efforts to ward off boredom, hunger and frustration? After a blood test, which left both my son and me in tears, we were finally up for parole and granted permission to leave the hospital. We'd been there four hours, and all the way through lunch. 

I felt very "put-out." I'd now invested half a day into a simple check-up appointment. It was two o'clock and I hadn't even eaten lunch. It was past naptime and everyone was crabby. "Why should it take so long? Don't they know people have things to do?  How hard can it be to keep things on schedule, anyway?" I thought to myself as I huffed down the hall with my stroller. 

"Mommy, what's wrong with that little boy?" inquired my daughter as we made our way through the corridor. I looked to see a tired young blue-eyed boy thinner than air. How was I to answer my daughter? As I walked by this little boy with leukemia, it suddenly wasn't so important that I hadn't eaten lunch. As I hurried past the pretty adolescent girl with a heart condition who's had multiple surgeries, it wasn't such an inconvenience that I had to spend half a day at the hospital. I stood next to the mother who looked as though she'd been awake for half a week, yet still had hope in her eyes, and I realized I was lucky that all I'd had to do was watch my son get a blood test. 

We walked past the hospital chapel. I stopped to think of all the prayers people must have ever offered there for their children -- prayers to do the very thing I was then doing with my son -- leaving for home.  I thought of all the parents who'd spent nervous hours pacing the same halls. Would I be one of those parents someday? Perhaps. But not now. Today, my children are healthy. Today, I only had to spend four hours at the hospital. 

Does it make sense to waste time in breathless exasperation if that time could just as easily be spent enjoying my kids? There are blessings all around us, if we take a moment to look up from our rushed and flustered walk through the corridors of our days and weeks. Blessings are not only the things that happen to us, but also the things that don't happen to us. Even at the end of the worst day, perhaps we can at least say to ourselves, "Today I didn't get in a wreck, didn't get diagnosed with leukemia, didn't eat any bad fish and my house didn't burn down. It was a decent day, after all." Of course, that doesn't mean I'm looking forward to our next trip to the doctor, and I know for fact the fish aren't! But today, we're going back home where I will joyfully watch my kids spit, hit, scream and throw things. 

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