Now that You’re Gone, I Sit In This Waiting Room Alone

I lay in bed this morning, sweet boy. It is Saturday. Seven of them since you left.

Half awake, I turned over and saw Grief staring right at me. She pounced then stood, haughty, on my chest. I couldn’t breathe. She yelled that she would be close today. If she feels like it, she might even be relentless. She is cruel.

You were the reason, sweet boy, for me to get out of bed on a Saturday morning. Actually, every morning you were my purpose from the moment I opened my eyes until the moment they shut. I knew on any given Saturday morning, until seven ago, you would be waiting for me, ready for an outing. This morning, I felt the full weight of not having my purpose to get out of bed.

Do you remember, sweet boy, all the doctor’s appointments you had? You had a specialist for most of your systems—cardiology, liver, urology, endocrinology, nephrology, orthopedics, and neurology. Then there were always blood tests, ultrasounds, and X-rays. The waiting room was the worst part of those visits. You and I would both grow impatient. No one was ever on time.

On top of the unpleasantness, there was the anxiety of what they might find. Would they tell us your body had gotten worse? Was it the same? How I hoped ‘the same’ was the answer. I didn’t even hope for improvement—just for your body to not get any more compromised.

I am in the waiting room of my life.

My purpose is gone. I am in the after. I have arrived at a new building and am waiting to discover what is next. On the other side of the now-closed door, sweet boy, awaits my new purpose. I don’t know what time my appointment is or when the door will swing open, calling my name. You are not here to keep me company while I wait anymore. It is agony to feel purposeless.

For 24 years, my occupation was caring for you. I have not worked in the “professional” world since 1999, aside from our non-profit food truck. You loved coming to visit us. We always made you a bowl of grits and gravy. You hummed while you ate.

Still, I will need to get a paying job to make ends meet. The income that sustained us —Social Security and sponsored residential—ended when you left. I am praying it will be somewhere God’s new purpose for my life exists, but I don’t even know where to begin looking, sweet boy.

When we were in waiting rooms together, we never just sat there idly. You wouldn’t have that. So, we would often look out the window and wave to the cars. We would watch whatever was on the television—unless it was Paw Patrol. You never liked that show; it reminded you of the month we lived in the ICU. I would push you through halls to pass the time. We entertained each other. It was rare the door would open and the nurse would call, “Wesley,” shortly after we checked in. There was always waiting.

As I sit in this quiet Saturday, missing you, I am reminded of the man who sat on his mat for 38 years waiting, recounted in the Gospel of John (5:5-9).

When Jesus saw him lying there and learned that he had been in this condition for a long time, he asked him, ‘Do you want to get well?’

Interestingly, the man doesn’t reply with a resounding “Yes!”

He explains to Jesus why he still sits on the mat.

Jesus heals him anyway.

I wonder what the man did as he waited for the water to stir. Once it did, tradition had it, the first in the pool would be healed. But he didn’t have anyone there to help him get to the water. He was alone in his pain.

Was it unexpected that Jesus walked by and told him to get up? Did he have any notion that would be the day his suffering would end? What must it have felt like to wait all that time? Did he just watch the people walk by? Did his hope falter day after day waiting for help, wishing it would come? Why did he give Jesus the reasons he wasn’t healed instead of recognizing the One who could heal him, regardless of whether the water was moving? Why did Jesus heal him anyway?

His faith was not perfect.

He was in the waiting room.

Sweet boy, I want to get well.

I have been incapacitated for only seven weeks.

I am ready to get off my mat.

In some ways, I am alone. There is a pain so deep within me no one can reach it but God, but some days the pain is louder than Him. It almost feels blasphemous to admit it. God should be the loudest, but sometimes He is not.

Our family, sweet boy, has tried so hard to join me where I am, but they just can’t. I am alone in this. Though they feel their own deep pain, it isn’t the same as mine.

I cried to Grandma this morning. My son is dead. The very child I carried in my womb and in my arms. The one I cared for 24/7, even at 24 years old. I don’t know who I am if I am not Wesley’s mom. It isn’t supposed to be this way. No one should endure this pain. No one.

Yet here I am.

Sitting on my mat.

I am incapacitated.

I am in pain.

I am alone in this.

I am waiting.

At a seemingly random and unappointed moment, the door will swing open. He will tell me to get up and take my mat. And I will gladly walk into whatever room He wants.

Until that glorious moment, I wait. Grief sits on my lap. She is too heavy and, on this Saturday, the seventh one, I fear, sweet boy, she wins the day.

But only the day.

I am still here waiting.