As night neared, the hospital began to transform.
The gift shop lights faded, the doors locked and the subtle music hushed.
The Admissions waiting room for scheduled surgeries is now empty - closing as the last credits of Oprah run on the screen.
I sit here waiting and watching - listening to the repetitive news on a TV whose channel can't be changed. The stories blare on about how the world and its people are out of control.
The surgeons with their big watches walk to their cars as the nurses arrive for their evening shifts.
I study the worried faces of those surrounding me - all of us holding our breaths for some word of our loved ones.
I sit here now, the last one waiting; over five hours I've watched people come and go as my life has stood still. Some leave with balloons, and others linger for a lonely cab ride.
Earlier today, I pushed an elderly woman's wheelchair to the restroom - she'd been left on her own to wait while her daughter went shopping. She didn't know what to think of me, she had an alertness about her as she tried to figure out what I wanted. I returned her back to her space on the carpet and walked back to my seat, aware of the strange looks from others.
Now, sitting here alone, I wait for word. After-work visitors begin to arrive for those who have been checked-in awhile.
This day has been a depiction of compassion and obligation.
Whispered tones trying to understand the fate of those they love.
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