Maybe it’s because it was Friday the 13th. Maybe because it was the waiting room of a Cardiac Surgical Center in one of the largest hospitals here in Augusta. Maybe because you are sitting in a room with people who share the same heavy anxieties. But fear stalks a hospital waiting room like a hungry lion.  

Heart procedures have that effect.

In my case, it was a so-called minimally invasive procedure labeled as an ablation. Though “minimally invasive” hardly sounds like words that should share a sentence with “heart procedure.” I am only guessing here, but “procedure” sounds so much softer than “surgery.” 

An ablation is a procedure in which the doctor inserts two catheters from your groin area and navigates his way into your heart.  One catheter aims to block faulty electrical signals and restore the heart to a normal rhythm. The other catheter carries an ultrasound camera to the heart to take pictures, giving a whole new meaning to mini-camera.

So, here I was on Friday, June 13th, checking into the highly regarded Cardiac Center at Augusta’s Piedmont University Hospital. From the moment my wife and I walked in, I was impressed. Admitted in record time, the nursing staff was attentive, professional, and compassionate. I could not have been more surprised or satisfied with the whole experience.

I usually handle such events in a calm manner. Knee surgeries, Achilles tendon repairs, and kidney stones have become unwelcome experiences in my retirement years, though there is nothing calm about kidney stones. Alas, I digress. My point is that I tend to approach these medical procedures with faithful confidence, keeping the worrywarts at bay. That’s just my nature. However, I was keenly aware that the emotions of the day weigh heavier on those waiting than on those in surgery. After all, I was the one going under anesthesia. My bride was the one waiting, waiting, and waiting almost two hours to hear how things went.

When my cardiologist entered my room before the procedure, he reviewed everything he planned to do and the minimal risks involved. I noticed how he quickly added, without taking a breath, “stroke and death.”  He then sought my permission to proceed with “other” things should they discover any additional issues. He informed my wife that he would speak to her after the procedure to share how things went. He would meet her either in the waiting room or in one of the private counseling rooms. My wife and I glanced at one another, fully understanding what “private” usually meant.

These concerns only intensified as we waited for the nurses to come and take me away. Over the hospital speaker, we heard several code announcements, including the mention of a stroke in room xxx. After I was transported to the operating room, my wife sat alone in the waiting room. As the minutes ticked by, they felt like hours. She later told me that she heard not one, not two, but seven or eight more code announcements,  all referencing strokes. While she knew this was a BIG cardiac center, the fear that lurks in every hospital waiting room amplified her worries and anxieties. She admitted to struggling to keep her emotions in check. Finally, a nurse came by and escorted her to a private counseling room, telling her the doctor would be there shortly. The privacy of the room only heightened the nervousness growing inside her. Fortunately, when the doctor arrived, he quickly explained that everything had gone as planned. There were no complications, and as a bonus, he checked out the back of my heart, and it looked great.

Fear had left the room.  Gratitude replaced it.  

Over the years, I have spent countless hours in waiting rooms, praying and hoping for successful outcomes. It is said there are no atheists in foxholes.  In much the same way, hospital waiting rooms become unofficial chapels where loved ones find prayer as their only weapon against rising fears. Although the repeated Code announcements heightened my wife’s anxieties, threatening to overwhelm her heart, she fought her private battle through prayer. Seeking the peace only Christ can provide.  Her prayers, on this day, were answered. Everything went well.

One interesting side note: As I lay on the operating table and the anesthesiologist prepared me for sedation, he noted that I was retired and asked me the secret to a successful retirement. I jokingly replied, “To save a lot of money.” But then I told him how the key for me was waking up every morning with a purpose. I fill my time with my grandchildren, volunteer work at my church, gardening, traveling with my wife, and the occasional round of golf. Close to retirement, he chuckled, admitting that all he does is work.  “Oh my,” I thought.

That’s the last thought I had before waking up about three hours later, grateful the Lord isn’t finished with me yet… and with a renewed sympathy for those who fight the battle with fear in hospital waiting rooms.