Meditations of a Waiting Room

  Today we meditated: father, son
  And waited on a Wednesday afternoon
  To see the doctor of attention spans
  Whom we had hoped to meet at four pm
  But found her overbooked and in demand.
  We found ourselves within a waiting room
  Of fellow patients of psychiatry
  (And those of us along for the support)
  For two full hours, and ironically
  Amid the stacks of social magazines
  And with a background television on,
  Among a sampling of the population
  Listening to hear their names be called,
  We meditated. Unexpectedly
 
  My son, the one who never could sit still,
  Is starting to mature before my eyes.
  He’s waiting here more patiently than me,
  And I begin to wonder anymore
  If he’d been diagnosed with ADD
  A bit to hastily back in the day
  When he was acting all of eight years old
  And telegraphing his apparent need
  For Adderol, if we have come this far
  Again to have his old prescription filled
  More out of habit than necessity,
  And if there isn’t better therapy
  In meditations of a waiting room
  Than medications of amphetamine.

 Today we meditated: everyone
  Who waited with us had a different need,
  A different habit, if their trials be told,
  And yet we seem to be so much the same,
  At least as far as anyone reveals.
  I don’t begrudge the doctor for her role
  In getting us to recognize ourselves
  And realize how simple life can be,
  How we all need this opportunity
  Of time, however given, to reflect
  On simple things, like having empathy
  Or understanding our maturity
  Or sitting in positions of support
  Or being patient in a waiting room.
 
  My father once was in a waiting room
  For me. The wait was relatively short
  And our trial was a different one to tell,
  A different diagnosis, but the same
  Prognosis: Give it time, give it time.
  The doctor didn’t specify these words
  Or scribble his prescription b.i.d.,
  But as he had my father wait outside
  He talked to me a while, and then he asked
  If I played chess. This took me by surprise,
  But I said yes, and so the troubled teen
  And the Psy.D. played chess while the old man
  Was waiting in the hall, more patiently
  Than I appreciated, until now.