A coffee table covered with the latest magazines.
1 love seat.
After over a year of treatments and planing my exit, I always opt for a seat near the door because I’m still in denial that I have to be here at all.
Couples sit close enough to touch or are clasping hands.
Coffee is provided on a table, which also houses a plastic container full of pamphlets on pharmacies, insurance coverage and coping advice.
The majority of the patients are tapping away on their phones or have their heads buried in a magazine pretending to be engrossed in an article. Some just stare at the floor.
The uptempo jazz being pumped into the room does zero to alleviate the desperation in the air.
No words are ever spoken apart from the rare, but polite bless you after a sneeze.
Eyes never meet.
Smiles are never shared.
All of us are waiting on the edge of our seats for good news.
The instant the front door is opened, we all jump a little and then silently wonder to ourselves, where is she in her cycle.
One of the cruelest jokes of all is the nurse that calls out our names when it’s our turn is 5 months pregnant.
I loathe the waiting room.
But I continue to have hope.