Azaleas

Julie

Fake Flowers

“Oh, this seat’s taken,” the old man said as I approached him after leaving the sign-in desk. He placed his hand gently on the cold, cheap chair next to him, “I’m waiting for someone.”

I don’t say anything as I take the seat directly across from him instead. The cushion on this one seems more worn and the arms of the chair are freezing, but the hospital waiting room is crowded and there’s not many options. I’d much rather sit in the other chair that’s a bit more comfortable, but the energy to argue with anyone left me long ago. I place my bony elbow on the cold, metal arm of the chair and run my hand through my thin, gray hair. I hate having to come here so often. It’s only a reminder that I’m old and that things aren’t so perfect anymore like they used to be.

“Julie.” I blink and look up feeling startled from my thoughts.

“That’s a pretty name,” the old man across from me says as he gestures towards my name tag I’m currently wearing.

“Thank you,” I say, feeling the hoarseness in my throat. The waiting room is silent, and I can hear the big analog clock on the wall ticking quietly.

“Well, so you’re not going to ask my name?” The old man says lightly with a smile and a bit of a laugh.

I smile sadly at him. This isn’t the place where I feel the desire to smile or laugh. “What’s your name?” I ask merely to be polite, not caring about the answer.

“Arthur,” he says simply and holds out his hand. I lean forward pathetically and shake it. His hand is cold yet soft.

“Nice to meet you, Julie,” Arthur says with the same sweet smile on his face. I give him a half smile as I lean my back back into my cold chair and shift my eyes to the tile floor. The cold, hard back of the seat hurts as my spine rubs against it. Each shift I make with my body only feeds the desire of wanting to get out of here, and Arthur is definitely not being helpful with trying to start a conversation with me when I’m feeling like this. I’m never in a mood to socialize when I’m trapped in this waiting room.

“Are you okay?” Arthur asks.

I look up exhaustingly. I’m sure he means well, but I’d rather not talk with anyone right now.

“Fine,” I say, “just tired of this waiting room.”

“Ah,” he says, “You must see it often?”

I nod, “Seems like I’m here every week now. I’m sick of it.”

Arthur nods, not sure of what to say. “Well,” he pauses, “I’m sure it’ll be okay - whatever it is that you’re here for.”

I sigh, “I don’t know if it will or not really.” I pause, debating whether to go on or not. It’s quite difficult trying to find the right words as I speak to Arthur.

“The doctor said it was only getting worse on the last visit,” I continued after a moment, “I just don’t really know what to do.”

“They always seem to say that, don’t they?” Arthur scoffs, “Almost seems like they just want to worry us more.”

“Seems that way sometimes.”

“Must be why this waiting room is so nice. They worry us so much and they always make us come back to hear the same words. The least they can do is make it a nice waiting room, right?”

I take a brief look around. The chairs are worn and seem to be long overdue for a visit to the dumpster. Dusty vases of fake azaleas sit on the few side tables that are placed at the ends of some chairs. The beige tile floor is smudged from so many shoes scurrying on it.

The waiting room really isn’t that nice, but I get the feeling Arthur is pathetically trying to find a positive in our situations of constantly having to see this room, though I do admit the painted walls are rather nice. The peaceful blue color displayed in strokes around the room reminds me of the sky, which is what I’d much rather be looking at than the old fluorescent lights that buzz in the ceiling.

“The paint on the walls is nice, I suppose,” I responded.

“And the azaleas,” Arthur says.

“Too dusty for my liking,” I say, “and the outdated vases don’t seem to go with them.”

“They’re just a little old, like us,” Arthur says positively. He’s much more positive than I am.

“Well, I’m also more fond of real flowers,” I say, raining on Arthur’s positivity.

“Oh, come on now. They’re doing the best they can. Wouldn’t be too smart to have real flowers in a hospital with there being dirt or bugs or whatever else flowers may track inside.”

Well, I think to myself, feeling a bit annoyed. I can’t argue with that. “I guess so,” I say, feeling the conversation coming to an end.

“I understand what you’re saying though,” Arthur says, deciding to continue the conversation, “Real flowers are much more preferable since they’re actually alive, afterall.”

I nod, giving him a small smile for trying so hard.

“But at least they chose a beautiful flower.” Arthur continues, “For as long as I can remember, I’ve loved azaleas.”

“I used to get azaleas quite often,” I say, “but I don’t enjoy growing them as much as I used to.”

“Why not?”

I sigh, feeling the tiredness in my body again. “They have a sort of bittersweetness to them, I suppose.” I pause, failing at attempting to find the words to say to Arthur right away again. “It’s not as enjoyable when I don’t have anyone to pick them off the bushes I’d used to grow and put them in a vase for me.”

“Ah,” Arthur nods in understanding, “Did you and your husband used to do that?”

I nod quietly, biting at my thin pale lips. I feel a twitch of pain invite itself into me, though it’s not physical this time.

“Oh,” Arthur says with a hint of regret in his eyes, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

I wave him off, “No, no, it’s okay. I’m alright.”

I admire Arthur’s positivity, but the aspects of this waiting room that he sees as positive only seem to be negative in my eyes. The old looking and fake azaleas with the dusty vases that don’t seem to go with them. They only remind me that I’m old and that the moments that used to be perfect in my life seem to have gone away now. They only remind me of when I used to receive those flowers also in mismatched yet thoughtful vases to display throughout the house.

I remember I used to wish my husband would have had some sense of style when choosing the vases to put my azaleas in for me. How foolish I feel now thinking about that. I’d give anything to see one of these ugly vases sitting here in the waiting room end up on the table when I returned home.

“Well,” Arthur says after a bit, “I hope maybe someday you can enjoy growing your azaleas again,” he pauses, “I’d love to pick them for you if that would make you enjoy growing them again.”

I feel a tear well up in my eye, but my shaky hand rubs it away before it can escape.

“Maybe I should just stop talking. I don’t seem to be helping,” Arthur says apologetically.

“No,” I say, “It’s just… that’s kind of you. Thank you.”

The desire to say more to him is strong and is screaming inside me. I feel it pushing through me as if all the words in my body are about to spill out of my mouth. I sit in this crowded and uncomfortable waiting room with this feeling I never thought I’d feel in a place like this.

I surprisingly feel this desire growing strong in me more often than one would think. The desire to talk to someone who doesn’t even know me and tell them my life story, not because I feel they need to hear it, but because I feel I need to talk about it. I feel the need that maybe if I talk about it enough, then maybe one day I’ll be okay that there are no more perfect moments for me anymore.

How I miss the perfect moments I used to have. The sweet perfect moments of my husband coming home with a new, ugly but thoughtful vase for the freshly picked azaleas he’d gathered from the garden, or the moments when we’d go outside and look at the beautiful view of the sky together. Many perfect moments that seem to be trapped and distorted now in this dreaded waiting room.

Now here I am, talking about these past perfect moments with someone who doesn’t even know me just to kill the tedious and tiresome time of waiting.

It seems time in this hospital waiting room grows longer with each visit, and the fake azaleas with the mismatched vases become dustier with every gaze.