Life is Not a Waiting Room
The Waiting Room
Yesterday morning, I helped my husband slide his wedding band off his finger and I slipped it onto my left thumb for safekeeping. I gave him one last kiss before he was wheeled down the hall and out my reach. It was a simple surgery. Brief. Yet my hand trembled as it placed his belongings in a locker and secured them with the twist of a key. A tear made its way down my cheek when I slapped my fist against the plate to open the door to the waiting room.
The waiting room.
The stone-trimmed walls and bistro complete with a Starbucks put a cheery spin on what it really was – a powerless limbo. A place where the minutes ticking by water the fears. The uncertainties growing taller while the rational mind hold hands with the worries and mutters platitudes interspersed with statistics and chances.
I kept glancing at his ring on my thumb, the sight both comforting and alarming. For some reason, it felt wrong to send him off without it, as though it was some talisman against trouble. I hoped it proved effective when worn on my hand as well.
I tried to occupy myself with people watching, filling in the stories of their lives. I listened to a college age girl talking to her grandmother. The younger one had faced years of surgeries and was losing her sight. Her words spoke of wisdom and acceptance beyond her years. I saw another woman sign in for surgery, unsure who was going to pick her up or who to call with reports on her progress. I felt sad for her and wished I could provide comfort. I saw two women in their 60s who take turns nursing each other through the ailments of advancing age. The one facing surgery that day seemed matter of fact about the ordeal.
But mostly, I saw people like me. People who were waiting for the call that their loved one fell on the right side of the statistics and awoke from anesthesia without complications. People who felt powerless and impotent while their loved one was kept away. People who tried to hide their unease with small talk and pinched smiles, while distracting themselves from the wait.
It took me a moment to realize that the receptionist was talking to me. She had called out my husband’s last name. The name I never assumed.
She ushered me into a private room, “The doctor would like to come speak with you.”
I fervently swatted away the fear that swarmed my brain at being taken into a private room. I assured myself that the timing was perfect for the surgery to have concluded without error. And the news was good. I even laughed with the doctor as we talked about martial arts and the traits of those who practice.
And the wait continued as he was sewn up and prompted to breath again on his own. I had just settled into a book when my phone trilled an incoming call.
“Hello?”
“Is this Lisa? I’m the nurse who’s taking care of your husband. I just had to give you a call. Just as he was waking up, his first words were, ‘I love my wife so much. We’re two peas in a pod.'”
The smile that swept my face that time wasn’t pinched by fear. It was carried wide by relief.
It’s funny, those words, “I love you,” have meant less to me after my first husband could say them and yet not mean them. Those words yesterday, the first uttered after unconsciousness, meant something. No, not something. Everything.
Half an hour later, my alarm buzzed, messaging me that I could go back and see him.
I kissed his lips, stained with blood from the intubation, and slid his ring back where it belonged.
The wait was over.
The Marshmallow Test
In the Stanford marshmallow experiment, young children were placed alone in a room with a single marshmallow. They were told that if they left the marshmallow alone until the experimenter returned, they would receive two marshmallows. Further studies indicated that children that could delay gratification had better life outcomes in terms of educational attainment and other life measurements.
If I had been administered the marshmallow test as a child by an absent-minded researcher, I would probably still be sitting in that 70s-themed room waiting for the return of the person in the white lab coat.
But is that a good thing?
Are there times when we are better off enjoying the single marshmallow rather than waiting for the promise of two?
I don’t know how I would label this trait in myself. I’m not sure if it is willpower, stubbornness or a fear of not playing by the rules. Probably a bit of all three. Regardless of its origin, I have never had trouble slogging through the muck to get to a goal. I might detour and I’ll certainly complain at times, but I will get there.
In my former life, this trait was put to the test many times. I drug myself through grad school for the promise of an increased salary that would benefit us both (or so I thought). I lived with a decaying deck for over 8 years until we had saved (or so I thought) to build our dream deck. I put off trips so that we could save money (or so I thought). I worked extra jobs, often tutoring 20 hours a week, to help save money for our future (or so I thought). I made sacrifices for the betterment of the marriage (or so I thought).
I was okay ignoring the single marshmallows on the table, confident that the promised two would soon be coming.
Except they never did.
While I was waiting, my ex, who I thought was waiting with me, was raiding the marshmallow stores. When I discovered his multiple betrayals and deceptions, part of my anger was that he was doing those things while I was making sacrifices. I gave and he stole.
As a result of all of this, I’ve changed my approach a bit. I am much more likely to balance decisions between the future and the present. I have learned how to spend money instead of squirreling it all away. I have learned how to enjoy the present instead of always waiting for the future. But I also haven’t really been tested. I’ve been able to live more for today, since my tomorrows have been so unknown.
I’m being tested right now.
I know part of it is that I’m a bit grumpy and frustrated over recent events. We usually go camping over spring break, but Brock had to be out of town for business. Then, strep throat cut short my Asheville trip. We were supposed to be camping this weekend, but this time weather foiled our plans. Hell, even the festival last weekend was impacted by my ex’s unexpected appearance. I’m whiny. I’m pouty. I feel like a kid proclaiming that it’s not fair. All I want is a trip. A break. It doesn’t have to be extravagant or prolonged. Just time away.
So, coming from that place and looking forward to the approaching summer, I brought up the idea of summer getaways with Brock over breakfast yesterday.
It was not the conversation I expected.
He kind of snapped.
He told me that he didn’t have time for trips. That just because I was off work, it didn’t mean that he was. He started talking about the house we intend to buy this fall and the need to save. Underlying these words is the pressure he feels as the primary provider and soon-to-be first time husband to support his family. In his job, unlike mine, more hours and more travel usually equate to a larger paycheck. He is currently choosing to sacrifice time for money for our future.
But he also said he understood my past and my fear of waiting for a future that never occurs.
It ended up being a really good conversation, even though I hate it when I realize how much my past still impacts me. So much of this comes down to trust. I have to trust that he isn’t stealing the marshmallows from behind my back. I have to trust that the promised time and trips will occur after the house has been purchased. I have to trust that we’re in this together.
Damn.
Why is this so hard?
How do I find that balance between waiting and living? Learning from my past and being limited by my past? Trusting and being?
I am ready for a home. I have tired of my nomadic existence over the past four years. I yearn for a place to put down roots and a garden for them to spread. I have only recently allowed myself to get excited about the prospect, however. Even as I have directed funds towards a down payment, the future home seems like a mirage that will disappear before it becomes reality.
I need to trust.
I can wait for the promised two marshmallows, trusting that they will be there. Trusting that Brock will be there.
Life is Not a Waiting Room
Lessons From the End of a Marriage 