The Tale of Patient #996275

A surgical waiting room is nowhere you want to be. Though I will say the one at the UCLA hospital in Santa Monica, a newly built facility that was quirkily designed to look like an old mission style building, is surprisingly comfortable.

The room is fitted with a huge flat screen TV. Once your loved one is admitted into surgery you are given a 6 digit number. And you can follow the progress of each patient's procedure as it is broadcast over the TV. If you've ever been to Vegas, it's like a big Keno board. 

And there is ample Wifi. So that the tortuous wait can be relieved, momentarily, by iPhone distraction.

None of which can erase the tension, anxiety and dread that fills the 1000 square foot room. 

I watched as a teenage boy with his arm in a cast, was nervously waiting to be admitted. Despite his massive size, about 6 foot 3 and weighing in over 300 lbs., he was tearing up like a baby.

An older woman, sporting fancy pearls and aided by her emotional support dog, escorted her frail husband into the room. I couldn't help overhearing her as she chided the admittance nurse over some billing questions. 

I get it. The bills and paperwork of modern healthcare are today's equivalent of the Gordian Knot. Nevertheless her outburst was uncalled for. 

To top it all off, I noticed I had a minute long message from an unrecognized number. My wife's doctor had butt-dialed me during the operation at the precise moment my wife was having an adverse reaction to the sedatives. That freaked me out. Particularly when the doctor turned to the nurse and said my wife "freaking out."

I found out later that the nurse literally had to slap my wife in the face to snap her out of whatever was going on. We laugh now. Actually, we're still laughing.

And then, later in the day, having sat and squirmed in my chair for 7 hours, I noticed a tall, skinny Asian doctor, still in his scrubs, walk into the room and kneel by a young African American woman sitting alone in the corner. He was sharing the results of her ,loved one's surgery. And even though she was wearing a mask I could tell she was hanging on every word. 

Finally, he delivered the good news. 

Her shoulders dropped. And as if to counterbalance that huge weight, her face lifted. Her eyes smiled. I mean her eyes literally smiled. I don't know if I've ever seen a purer expression of Joy in my life. I do know I will never forget that moment. 

For a brief minute, I selfishly stole her joy and imagined our doctor bringing me the same good news. 

An hour later I was summoned to the Surgical Recovery Room to see my wife, whose procedure, with the exception of the anesthesialogical mishap, went "perfectly. 

I grabbed my bag and made my way to the recovery area, but before I did I walked over to the young woman and thanked her. I told her why. And through our blue paper masks, we smiled at each other and exchanged a human moment.

She thanked me. 

And we went back to being strangers.