“Ponderings on scopes, waiting rooms and other uncomfortable situations.”

Scope. A nice harmless word when attached to other nice harmless words. Microscope. Telescope. But see, some smart folks have created teensy scopes called endoscopes that snake through your body armed with a camera. Then places all nice and private – places formed in your mother’s womb – spots you’ve never seen (or no one has for that matter, thank goodness) because they’re buried in the depths of your innards are broadcast on a 52” flat screen. Surely, not anyone’s most photogenic angle. Throw in a thread-bare hospital gown and shove all remaining self-respect down a shredder.

Last Friday with head high, I dragged my husband through an Athens hospital toward the scoping area. Rounding a corner, we came upon a tiny holding pen. We peered into see hundreds of people lining the walls wearing expressions that looked like an appointment before a firing squad would be welcome news.

I checked in, received my white wristband and found a lone seat. My husband fled out the waiting area to the lobby. If not careful, he is debilitated by the scents, sounds, and sights of a hospital. I encouraged his wandering realizing it best that my transportation home not faint. So sitting there, flipping through my “Runner’s World” trying not to think of tiny cameras, movie screens and ways to act dignified in one of the most undignified positions one might ever find themselves, I glanced at the fellow detainees.

Hospital waiting rooms equalize humanity. Everyone silently praying everything turns out fine for ourselves and the other slouched, uncomfortable souls waiting alongside. Brief glances, shrugs and slight smiles acknowledge membership for the moment a fraternal order that no one volunteered to be rushed. Amongst all the discomfort, we find forgiveness.

In the midst of traffic jams, preschool birthday parties and navigating the boat ramp at Fourth of July, why are we not as willing to sit there and patiently root for the other guy? When everything strips down to a hospital gown, “we’re all the same on the inside” becomes real. Like the father of five nestled against me who’s three months behind on his mortgage. Through waiting room eyes, his snores and slackened body tumbling onto my inch of personal space didn’t seem as irritating. That said, I drew the line at quietly acquiescing to stray flicks of his deep REM spittle.

Thankfully all went well. So twilight joyous afterwards, I apparently handed the nurse (a newbie runner) my copy of “Runner’s World”, business card, car keys and all bank account numbers.

 I am asking the Lord to open my “waiting room” eyes and ears all year long. Not just during dreaded medical procedures, Christmastime or days when unexpected $1000 checks arrive in the mail.

 And speaking of checks…has anybody around town happened to have seen my checkbook?