The Things You Notice While Waiting
Maybe it’s age, or maybe I’ve finally accepted that life’s greatest victories have become oddly specific. These days, finding a parking space exactly where you need one feels less like good fortune and more like divine intervention.
Today I found the last available space in the hospital car park. The last one. Better still, I reversed into it, which has always been my preferred method because Future Me deserves to leave with dignity instead of executing a seventeen-point turn while an impatient queue silently judges my life choices.
So here I sit. Ridiculously early. But experienced enough to know that hospital parking is a blood sport. There are around thirty-five spaces, perhaps a couple more if you count the optimistic ones by the entrance that aren’t really spaces so much as suggestions. There is an overflow car park somewhere within walking distance. “Within walking distance” is estate-agent language for “further than you wanted to walk”, and today I simply didn’t have the enthusiasm.
I’m here to meet my director before we visit one of our members, an outstanding consultant nurse. I genuinely enjoy meeting our members and hearing about the work they do. It’s one of the best parts of my job. What I don’t particularly enjoy is the setting. Hospitals and I have a perfectly civil relationship, but we’re not friends.
This is my local hospital. The last time I was here was just before Christmas, sitting opposite an ophthalmology consultant who calmly explained, in impressive detail, the seemingly endless list of things wrong with my eyes. He was exceptionally thorough. Unfortunately, so was the list. Still, I can read the words on my phone well enough to type this, so let’s call that a victory.
The hospital car park is its own little ecosystem. People of every age drift towards the entrance, some alone, others accompanied by spouses, children or friends drafted in for moral support. There aren’t many people of colour, something I notice almost without thinking.
A small group of elderly people greet each other like regulars at a village café. Some are arriving, others leaving. I imagine they exchange appointment stories the way football fans discuss last night’s match.
“Cardiology?”
“No, dermatology. You?”
“Knees.”
“Oh, Margaret’s on gastroenterology this week.”
I know that’s probably unfair, but people-watching leaves plenty of room for fictional dialogue.
It’s impossible not to wonder about everyone. What’s his appointment? Which specialist is she seeing? Is the gentleman struggling to walk here because that’s the condition he’s being treated for, or is it entirely unrelated and today’s concern is something completely different? Every person crossing the tarmac is carrying a story you’ll never know.
As two o’clock edges closer, I notice my anxiety quietly stretching its legs. It’s strange because hospitals don’t frighten me exactly. I simply wouldn’t choose one as a leisure destination. Nobody has ever said, “Fancy spending a relaxing Wednesday afternoon wandering around vascular care?”
Perhaps it goes back further than I realise. My earliest memories of hospitals are from when I was about twelve and my mother was seriously ill. Hospitals have never quite managed to shake that association. Even now, they carry a certain emotional weight, however irrational.
There was also the wardrobe drama.
Before leaving home my director messaged to remind me that sleeves below the elbow aren’t allowed in clinical areas.
“I’m sure you already know this.”
I did know it. I’d simply forgotten.
So I thanked her, went downstairs and changed my top with all the enthusiasm of someone who’d mentally committed to the original outfit. My long-sleeved blue shirt looked infinitely better with my blue-and-cream striped skirt than the practical short-sleeved white one. If I have to visit a hospital, I’d at least like to look how I’d planned. Fashion may not save lives, but it can salvage one’s mood.
Back in the car park, a driver opposite has managed to occupy approximately one and a half parking spaces. Whether this was panic, haste or abstract art is impossible to say. The woman trying to park beside him attempts several manoeuvres before wisely deciding to reverse in, all while casually sipping what appears to be a McDonald’s latte. A woman after my own heart. Parking first. Caffeine second. Success.
Eventually I make my way to the hospital entrance, where I immediately spot Avril from the after-school club at the school my daughter has just left after finishing her A levels. The randomness of life never ceases to amaze me. We say hello, exchange a hug and promise to catch up soon. She’s pushing a man in a wheelchair who looks genuinely unwell, so this is no time for a reunion. We smile, wave and carry on in opposite directions.
Hospitals are peculiar places. They are full of anxiety, hope, boredom, professionalism, awkward small talk, terrible parking and unexpectedly bumping into someone you know. They remind you that every stranger is fighting something, whether you can see it or not.
They also remind you that sometimes the best thing that happens all day is finding the last parking space.
