It looks like a social club. We’re all crowded in together in a cramped little waiting area and we wait. That’s all. Our turn will come. Some are chatting, others listen in. One or two, embarrassed that they have no-one to talk to, wait nervously for their turn and gaze fixedly at the blue linoleum. I too scrutinise its edges and corners to see if they are any cleaner than the ones in English hospitals. These hospital infections are killers – uncontrollable, it seems. Why is it that linoleum always looks so grubby?

I glance at the posters on the wall: ‘Marc Chagall - 147 works’, it tells me in French; a more inspiring subject to contemplate than my visit to the doctor. I shift my gaze along the wall and my eye alights on ‘Claude Monet: Nympheas de l’Orangerie des Tuileries – a wonderful water-lily kind of painting - art therapy, I guess - calming and distracting … It works.

The voices murmur on all around me. It’s mostly in Dutch and muted so I cannot catch what is being said. Every now and then someone walks past me up the corridor and I look up to see what this activity means, wondering if someone has come to call my name. Looking at my watch, I see that it is time. Now I feel nervous. I start to go through the usual routine in my head… what if I don’t hear when my name is called? I try to tune in better to all the noises around me. No, no-one is calling my name. In my head, as always on these occasions, I am composing a little speech in Dutch. It helps to be prepared. I look at my watch again. Time moves slowly.

Two names are called out. No-one answers and the call is repeated. At least I heard it okay, but it was not my name. I go back to my speech. I try to anticipate the questions I will be asked. I practise so hard. I don’t want to be caught out and end up floundering, unable to express what I need to say in a language that is not my own. Sometimes I am offered the chance to converse in English. “Maybe it would be easier for you if we spoke in English?” My speech will be wasted, but I grab the opportunity thankfully. “Thank you. That would be so much easier,” I reply (for me, that is!). Sometimes the questions are not what I anticipated.

Again my preparations are wasted. However, on rare occasions my hard work pays off. I open my mouth and out pours my torrent of prepared Dutch sentences. I feel proud. My listener nods enthusiastically and pours out another torrent of Dutch in return. My pride turns to confusion. This time I was not able to choose the words. I have no dictionary handy to decipher the answer. I say, tentatively “Nog een keer, alstublieft? Is het mogelijk een beetje langzamer?” There is an instant replay: same words, same speed, a bit louder. I feel stupid. “I’m sorry”, I say. “Could we maybe try that in English?”

I am bored. I do another survey of what surrounds me. I catch sight of a fire extinguisher on the wall. In desperation I start reading the notice, in Dutch, of what to do in the event of a fire. I wonder how I would react in a crisis. Would I dither, not know what to do, wait for someone else to take over? Or would the adrenaline kick in and I would leap into selfless, heroic action?

Waiting. Why do most of us find it so hard? Are we really so busy that we are unable to spare even a few minutes to just sit and enjoy doing nothing, watching the world go by and contemplating our navels? Waiting in checkout queues, waiting in line at the petrol station, waiting for the bus, waiting for a dental appointment… it drives us crazy.

Human psychology seems to be partly to blame for turning this potentially relaxing and blissful interlude in our busy lives into an uncomfortable experience. Is it just me? Am I the only one who is racked by doubts when waiting? In my mind I am the only one waiting at the wrong bus stop… I am waiting in a ‘cash only’ queue and I need to PIN… the bus does not run on Sundays… I am in the wrong hospital department and am queuing up mistakenly for a hearing aid to be fitted… I am too late – they called my name early whilst I was in the toilet…!

My reverie is interrupted. My name reverberates around the waiting room and I am sure they can hear it downstairs in reception too. “Mevrouw Duke?” booms an encouragingly efficient administrator and I jump to my feet. No worries! I heard it! It’s my turn! I wasn’t too late! I am in the right place! Of course I am – I just hate waiting. I learned something today – I must try to remember it. How often is it that none of my small worries turn out to be justified? Maybe next time I’ll just settle down and enjoy reading a magazine!
 

Julie Duke

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