The Things We Read in Waiting Rooms
With apologies to Donna Tartt and Guy Fieri, who have done me no wrong.
On March 7, in New Orleans, I am hosting an event for superstar Lauren Groff on behalf of her phenomenal new story collection BRAWLER in my backyard. Tickets (which include the price of the book) are available here. If you’ve been wanting to visit New Orleans, this would be a great excuse.
Hi friends.
I spent ten hours in the hospital the other day while my mother got prepped for surgery, had surgery, sat in recovery, and then finally got sent to a room for the night. During that time I ate a sandwich from a machine. Two damp pieces of bread, one piece of white cheese, one piece of ham. Neither a shelf- or emotionally stable meal. I had no choice and yet I still haven’t forgiven myself for this.
For most of it I sat in a waiting room with other people. Eventually we would receive a phone call telling us when our loved ones had been moved onto the next phase. The hospital had been running hours behind schedule all day. As people moved in and out of the room they left behind bits of information about themselves. A puppy had been waiting at home alone in a cage all day. A sister-in-law was flying in from upstate New York to help. Everyone shared what time they had arrived at the hospital, how long they had been sitting there, even if no one had asked or was even listening.
On the television they were playing back-to-back episodes of Guy Fieri’s “Guy’s Grocery Games” which I learned that day has had forty-one seasons. A fact I shouldn’t have to know, yet may never forget. Might bring it up sometime at a cocktail party, see if I can pass it on to someone else like a curse.
Of course I always notice what people are reading around me. I clocked an older woman who had brought a copy of Donna Tartt’s much-loved and Pulitzer Prize-winning novel The Goldfinch. This was a thin, tidy-looking woman wearing a sundress with a cardigan over it. Neat gray bob, pearl necklace, pale, powdered skin. A snowbird: New England all over her. She hefted the book from her purse. It was from the library, laminated in plastic.
After a while I heard her tell another woman that The Goldfinch had been assigned to her for her book club. She hadn’t chosen it, she explained, but she always read her book club picks no matter what.
“But look how long it is,” she said to the other woman. “Sure it’s large print but even still.” (The large print edition is 976 pages, another new useless fact in my head.)
“At least you didn’t have to buy it,” said the other woman.
“Why did they pick such a long book though?” she said to the other woman, to the air, to god in the heavens above.
As time went on, she would pick the book up and read just a few pages and then put it back down again. But there was nothing else to do. Guy Fieri was still Guy Fieri-ing it up on the screen. (I have no beef with the man but you know what I mean.) She had no choice but to read it. I could tell this woman did not care about instagram or social media or anything else that might be going on in her phone. She was a book club member! I saluted her. She would read that book.
A few more hours passed. One by one, everyone else in the room got the call and left the waiting room to visit their family members, and eventually only the two of us remained. Which of us would get the call first to leave? I knew I personally had become incapable of speaking with anyone and felt very soft and weak; I could only imagine how she felt.
A nurse came to the room, poked his head in, and called out a name that belonged to neither of us. We shook our heads.
After the nurse left, the woman pulled The Goldfinch out of her bag one more time and attempted to read it again. After a few minutes she began flipping through the book angrily.
“THIS BOOK IS GARBAGE,” she said. “I HATE IT.”
A few minutes later I got the call that my mom was out of surgery. I left the woman there, alone in the room, with the very long book. Not quite as long as Guy Fieri’s game show career. But close.
I pictured her showing up for her book club in a few weeks, with a few things to say about The Goldfinch. Someone will pay for this choice, I thought. I tried to picture the book club member who dared to pick this doorstop of a book. Oh, they’ll pay.
Anyway, I leave tomorrow. Bye, Florida. I can’t believe how much time I spend in you. I wish you only the best and I hope I don’t have to come back too soon.
Jami
You are reading Craft Talk, the home of #1000wordsofsummer and also a weekly newsletter about writing from Jami Attenberg. I’m also on bluesky and instagram.
I read ‘Weyward’ in the hallway of the ER while my dad was evaluated, waited for admission, and eventually was admitted. I read a little in the chair of his ICU room each day and finished just before he died. I don’t think I’ll ever forget its connection to that time. I’m so grateful for fiction that can transport you to somewhere that is not the everyday hell of hospital experiences (ironic since I work in one). Hoping you get a long break from them.
I always bring a book to read in those situations, but I find it hard to concentrate on the words. Mostly because there's always some version of Guy Fieri cooking or renovating a house or playing some inane game. Those shows grate on me; I hate the volume, the sharpness of the hosts' voices, the incessant banter. Ugh. It's like someone decided every waiting room should be a Hollister circa 1998. I guess noise-cancelling headphones are a must, but then how do you know when your name is called?
That being said, I thought The Goldfinch was pretty well-received across the board...
Best wishes to your mom. I'm glad you're not in that waiting room anymore!