The Wait

             The sour smell of disinfectant fills my lungs and my stomach clenches in protest as I wait impatiently for answers. It’s been well over an hour since I arrived in panic and almost just as long since someone has given me any sort of information. I received the call that my father was in the hospital shortly after arriving home from spending the night at a friend’s house. On my way here, it seemed that every stoplight was on a mission to slow me down, turning red just seconds before I reached the intersection. When I finally arrived, a nurse explained to me that my father had collapsed and was in surgery. She led me to the hard, plastic chair I’ve been sitting on ever since while reassuring me over and over that “everything would be okay.” I sure hoped she was right. Every few minutes I glance up as doctors and nurses walk into the waiting room, hoping they’re here to tell me my father has made it through surgery, but each time the news is for someone else. I watch as a young, pregnant woman is given the word that her husband’s brain damage was irreparable and he didn’t make it through the surgery. Her eyes, shining with hope only minutes ago, went dull. It was only a matter of seconds before she burst into hysterical tears. Another woman waiting for her son was informed that he began hemorrhaging during the surgery and he couldn’t be saved. She sat in silence and did not cry. Maybe she knew if she started to cry, there would be no end to it. Soon enough, I’m sitting in the room by myself. The only thing I can hear is the steady whirr of ventilators seeping down the halls. I think back to last night. My father and I had yet another fight about my continuous dropping grades and my future. We both said things we didn’t mean, leading to me leaving for the rest of the night. He can’t just die now. We haven’t made up. We have to make up. I realize as my mouth begins to pool with bitter, metallic blood how hard I’ve been biting my lip. But it’s as habitual as tapping your foot to the beat of a catchy song. Finally, an old looking doctor, with grey, thinning hair, calls my name as if I’m not the only one in the room. I rub my clammy hands down my thighs and stand up to face the results I’ve been waiting all day for. After a long explanation of complications throughout the surgery, I am relieved to hear that my father with live to see another day.