Re-post: For the Mom Alone in the Waiting Room

*Note: I’m re-posting this piece from a couple of months ago because it fits my theme for Write 31 Days: 31 Days of Being Broken Open (by God, for others).

A couple of weeks ago, L had an MRI. It might not sound like a big deal, but it was. And I wasn’t prepared for how it would make me feel, sitting in the waiting room alone while she spent an hour in the MRI tube. I hadn’t anticipated the fear, the helplessness.

Toddlers are put under general anesthesia for MRIs, because it’s impossible to keep them still enough otherwise. I was there when they put her under, and it ranks as one of the scariest moments of my life to date. I held her arms tightly to her side, both an embrace and a restraint, and rocked her back and forth as she cried in fear, the gas mask firmly over her nose and mouth. I put my mouth close to her ear and whispered, “It will be okay, baby girl. It will be okay. Mommy’s got you.”

Eventually, I felt her go limp, and I leaned back in time to see her eyes roll back in her head. Then the hospital staff took over, and I was led away from my girl, down a hallway to a dreary waiting room to sit alone for the next hour.

My fear, of course, was that she would have some adverse reaction to the anesthesia. Before they took us in, I had to sign a piece of paper that listed all the risks of general anesthesia, and by doing so claim that I understood and was okay with those risks. Of course, I wasn’t, but I signed it anyway, because – well, what else was there to do? We needed her to have the MRI.

I hated leaving her alone. I hated being relegated to the waiting room, even though my child was in capable hands. It was one of the toughest things I’ve ever done, walking down that hallway away from her, sitting alone in that silent waiting room as the clock ticked at what seemed like less than half speed, feeling helpless. I spent almost the whole time praying, the kind of prayers where you’re relying on the Holy Spirit to translate because you just can’t form the words into coherent sentences. Thank goodness God understands.

There are moms sitting in waiting rooms right now, this very minute, for far more serious reasons. Life-threatening allergic reactions. Surgeries. Transplants. Radiation treatments. There are all kinds of reasons kids get wheeled away and their mothers (and fathers) are left to sit alone in the waiting room. But it doesn’t matter how non-serious or serious the reason is. The waiting room is a hard place for a mama.

I have often thought that waiting rooms ought to have more comforting furnishings. Easy chairs. Plush sofas. Fluffy pillows and soft throw blankets. Shelves of uplifting, cheerful books rather than copies of Time and US Weekly. There ought to be fresh coffee and hot tea, platters of cookies and brownies, soothing music. Because mamas in waiting rooms need comforting. Instead, waiting rooms – especially hospital waiting rooms – tend to be sterile in nature, with hard chairs and unappealing wall decor and either silence or Muzak cycling in the background. Sometimes there’s a TV, but it often shows a news channel or something equally depressing (because let’s face it – the news is usually depressing). Why is this? Don’t the people who design waiting rooms know what kind of waiting happens there?

So. You, the mom sitting alone in the waiting room at the hospital or doctor’s office, I see you. I feel your worry, your fear, your struggle to place the life and health of your baby in God’s hands, in the doctors’ hands. And I’m here to affirm: what you are doing is not easy, no matter the reason. And it is okay that you feel the way you do. It is okay that you feel lost. It is okay that you feel powerless. It is okay that you can’t stop the tears that form or the racing of your heart or the shallowness of your breath. My ongoing prayer is that you will find comfort in the arms of The One Who Sees All, that he will hold you in the waiting room.

Photo Credit: Brandy Shaul, Creative Commons