Worth the wait


Agnieszka Kluska




I notice him right before he approaches me, I search my bag and pull out a wrinkled piece of paper. I glance at it at the last second and a realisation hits me. He takes a look at my ticket and gives it back, right before suddenly asking for it again. No hope left. It has been 47 minutes since I validated my 40 minute ticket, and the controller has noticed. I plead, I shyly blame my distraction on the failure of the public transportation system; my tram randomly stopped for 10 minutes which made me miss my connection (true), I confess that I am already late to my doctor’s appointment (false). It doesn’t work, I should have put on more makeup today. He’s beaming with joy while filling out my ticket and I make a mental note to google if they get commission on the fines they give out.



I walk to the hospital and dwell on my own misfortune in a way that on a better day I’d consider utterly pathetic. I'm overtaken by a cloud of perfume of the woman sitting next to me in the waiting room but weirdly I don’t mind; the smell reminds me of nurture and kindness, of all the caring nurses and nannies and preschool teachers; I take deep breaths and let it expand my lungs, slow down my panicking heart and soothe my chest pains. I play my silly game, and write down my silly thoughts, and wait and wait and wait. The woman flirts with an older man that passes by; they share a familiarity of having complained to each other while waiting together in a long line. He has a kind smile too but, to both of our misfortunes, I get a stabbing pain in my left ovary at the exact second when he takes a glance at me, inevitably making my brain associate his smile with my pain. The doctor is an arrogant douche which I try not to take personally. The computer system broke, the patients are informed. It seems no IT guy was called but there is nothing a resolute nurse speed-walking in her crocks can’t fix. I made a ’is it friday the 13th’ joke to my perfumed companion in misery and we reason about the possible existence, or lack thereof, of the IT guy. A male 20-something year old in an oversized hoodie and messy longish hair approaches the door and she correctly identifies him as the hospital computer wiz while I mourn a stereotype coming true.

I listen to but don’t partake in the classic discussion of what takes precedence and organises the order of the queue: ‘time of appointment’ versus ‘patient number they provide you with at the ticket machine’; the lore of this debate puts ‘chicken or egg’ to shame. I am baffled at everybody’s absolute failure to comprehend that it doesn’t matter; the computers are down and nothing is happening to nobody from either side. The next 15 minutes are filled with personal anecdotes about how technological failure obstructs every area of modern life (an electrical scale broke once at the grocery store). My companion moves a seat away to talk to a woman who just showed up. They exchange pleasantries and get right into more complaining; they know each other from a line they both waited in two weeks ago. I feel a sharp pain of jealousy and rejection; I hate the ‘time of appointment’ thieving bitch with all my heart and briefly fantasise about all the long lines and broken electrical scales that await her in her lifetime. The IT wiz leaves the doctor’s room; I notice that my nemesis has an uneven buzz cut signifying a recently shaved head and expertly connect it to the oncological surgeon we’re both waiting to see. I feel terrible and apologise to all the gods I don't believe in for my evil scheming; I wonder what’s the karma for ill-wishing of cancer survivors. Some old woman’s wheelchair sounds like metal nails scratching on a glass window, it briefly distracts the crowd and provides it with a new topic to yap about which they do with a ferocity of starving hyenas tearing their prey apart. What a faux pas to have such a loud wheelchair.



Nanogram, level 764. Team ‘number on the ticket’ staged a coup using the never-updated board as support, which is great news for me as I move up to be second in line. I decide to lie about my time of appointment if asked, and protect my new position. Buzz-cut woman who stole my perfumed friend leads an offensive; I am ultimately forced to admit the shameful number but I make a sad face and evoke my current waiting time (the highest of the bunch) to plead for sympathy. The doctor reminds us of the impact of the technical failure as if we are to forget that this was already a shitshow before. Perhaps he hopes that all the cancerous moles on our bodies will impact our logical thinking and make everybody accept that a 30 minute long system crash caused a 90 minute delay. The regulars sigh with resigned half-smiles on their faces and inform the first-timers that this always ends up happening.

The man behind me complains to a fellow line-member that his son is not intelligent enough to lie to a judge in his favour. Truthfulness is the curse of a simple man, as are taxes and bad weather. I absorb the overheard lessons and hope that the buzz-cut woman, the soldier of the masses, doesn’t speak English, as she sits down next to me in the sightline of my notes app.

It's finally my turn. The doctor tells me he has too many patients today and I should come back next week. They may have given me an appointment in the hospital registration office but my surname is not in his notebook which he considers a scheme on my part, and he loudly states that he will not be played like this. I go down to the registration office and make an official appointment for next week. The doctor tells me to be there at 8:30; the office clerk proudly presents me with a 13:10 time slot. I blurt out an angry thank you and go into the toilet. The floor of the stall is covered in mystery puddles.

I stare down every hospital employee like they’re my mortal enemy, I whisper spells under my breath and observe, waiting for them to convulse in pain, turn into squirrels, grow long green beards. I blurt out another angry thank you to the woman at the coat check who gives me my belongings, we exchange looks of disrespect and hatred. She continues to observe me until I get dressed and leave the hospital as if I can't be trusted to do so without blaspheming her sacred workplace; she has the aura of a racist cashier staring down a black customer.

I make it to the tram stop, rain on my glasses. I take revenge on the oncologist by having a smoke, wondering if I can afford the fine without returning my recent zara order.

I board the tram and get a 60-minute ticket.





Illustrations by Katia