A colored woman, with super-short salt and pepper hair, is slouched against the wall. Using her faded red denim jacket as a blanket, she closes her eyes and blocks out the world. Every so often, when the room becomes too quiet, a quiet rumble from deep within her signifies the depth of her rest. Those sitting near her shift uncomfortably, embarrassed for her.
The music being played overhead is the only thing that rescues the building from uncomfortable silence. Every melody sounds the same, with lyrics crafted to conjure up feelings of nostalgia and remorse. No one seems to pay much attention to it. Two women, both in their mid-twenties, page through the provided magazines, swallowing up celebrity gossip in an attempt to speed up time. They do not look up, even when the quiet is interrupted by the ringing telephone.
Large windows remind patients of what they have to look forward to beyond this visit. However, most of the dark purple pull-down blinds that cover them can no longer be raised, causing the outside world to be a concept that is just beyond reach. Cracks of sunlight can be seen through them if enough effort is exerted, but the attempt is so stressed that it becomes quickly unjustifiable. One window, however, stands proud and completely uncovered. The result is a harsh contrast between darkness and light, causing a flood of sun to pour onto one half of the waiting room.
The walls, clad in peach and purple, aren't ugly yet aren't fashionable, either. Posters, placed randomly, attempt to provide a sense of decoration. An oversized clown smiles over the play area. Abandoned winter jackets hang beside the door.
An angry looking man sits, with crossed arms, in a chair across from my desk. He looks everywhere but at me, most likely feeling my gaze every so often and not wanting to meet it. He must have read the "Autism" poster about eighty times by now. Even when his name is called he refuses to smile. I lead him down a short hallway and try to make brief conversation, but his response is short and he looks directly through me. I wonder what his story is, what happened that causes him to avoid eye contact and conversing with those who really only mean well.
The atmosphere is tinged with a sense of sadness. No one really wants to be here, even the ones who are paid to. Smiles are plastered on, hiding the fear that is struggling to reveal itself as a genuine emotion. The small treatment room just down the hallway filters hundreds of patients in and out every week, each of them hoping for the process to be as quick and painless as possible. News, both good and bad, of both life and death, are announced in this room.
A girl, who is about my age, enters the clinic. She is with a young man, who is about the same age. She replaces the seat in which angry man was sitting previously, and the young man sits beside her. Their seats are perfectly separated from the other patients; one seat on each side of them. Her face is pale and she moves slowly; clearly she is the one seeking treatment. The man speaks to her and she responds without smiling, yet you can tell that she loves him. She places her face in her hands and stares at the old brown carpet, and the man clasps her hand. When she sits upright he rests his head on her shoulder in an attempt to comfort. A classic love song comes on overhead, crooning the words "I need your love, God speed your love to me". The young man tells her how much he loves the song, and she smiles the first smile I've seen yet. The two change the atmosphere of the room ever so slightly. Even though the sadness remains, something else has entered. Support, perhaps. Or is it love?
People come and go, some shouting back their thanks as they exit.
After a wait, it is time for the girl to be called. She expresses relief as she lifts her head from its ten fingered resting place. I walk ahead, attempting to relieve at least one of the stares fixated on her as she tries to stand to her feet. I wait beside the treatment room, just outside of the gaping door. As I glance back to gauge how she is doing, I realize that she is pregnant, and at least six or seven months along.
I hadn't noticed her pregnancy bump when she had entered the clinic, but now everything made such sense. The love between the boy and girl, the connection that they shared, was so evident. And now I understood the beautiful truth of what had bonded them so closely. Perhaps now I also understood what it was that had changed the negative atmosphere of this place.
I was encouraged by this new life within her, the little human whom I’d never even met. I felt excited for him or her. This little child hasn’t yet had a chance to become afraid of eye contact or experience the wear of grief, and doesn’t yet see death as something that must be feared. In a way I was also envious. Oh, to come to a place of restored faith in humanity, in love. To return to that state of childlikeness, a place in which some are blessed enough to exist before cynicism slithers in and begins to harden and age.
