The Prayer Circle

“The doctor is running behind schedule,” said the receptionist, a dour woman who clearly did not enjoy her job, at least that afternoon. “There are two people ahead of you.”

She flipped my paperwork into a basket over her left shoulder. I scanned the sunny lobby for a chair that looked semi-comfortable and an area that would afford me enough room to spread out. I’d brought my Kindle, but as the waiting area began to fill, eavesdropping on the conversations between and among patients and those who’d escorted them seemed like much more appealing entertainment.

From a quick head-count, I surmised that the two patients ahead of me were a wiry Latino man who walked with a cane (nearly everyone in the lobby walked with a cane, or with crutches, or at least with difficulty) and a large black woman in a blue dress who had come alone and seemed to be having an especially bad day. The pain all over her face and body tore into my soul as she stiffly worked to pull her tote bag toward her on the seat between us (although I hadn’t asked her to) so I’d have a place for my pocketbook as well. She settled back with a mighty, world-weary sigh that spoke of medications that didn’t work, doctors that hadn’t helped, hampers flowing over and dishes spilling out of the sink.

“I hear that,” I told her.

She gave me one of those knowing looks, the ones that might pass back and forth between people stuck in line at the DMV in hell at 4:00 on a Friday afternoon. Because in essence, we were there to share an equally unpleasant experience. We were all in that lobby to be poked and prodded and bent and stretched by an “independent medical examiner.” One who was indifferent to our comfort. One that would, hopefully, report to our automobile insurance carriers that we still needed them to cover medical expenses related to our accident-related injuries.

I slid my glance around to my compadres. No slackers here, I thought. No oxycontin-poppers, no work-shirkers. Some things you just can’t fake, at least by my account. The heaviness of their faces from living with the pain, day by day, moment by moment. The depression from having the satisfying routines of their former, busy lives ripped out from under them. The dread of having another doctor’s hands on them, knowing they’d be sore for God knows how long afterward. But we have a tacit understanding that this exercise is necessary to weed out those – it’s always other people, in other areas – who try to milk the system.

A door behind the receptionist’s desk opened; a patient exited and the Latino man was called in. After about twenty minutes, he left and the black woman’s name was called. She rose with great effort – I ached extra just from the tautness of her jaw - and hobbled her way toward the examination room. She was in there for a long time. I feigned interest in a novel but eavesdropped on a conversation two white women were having a short distance away about God, faith and prayer. One woman in particular stood out; she wore one of those long, floaty dresses I often see in Woodstock or at women’s retreats, and her hair fell in a frizzy, golden mass halfway down her back. They hadn’t arrived together, but their exchange seemed quite intimate. It could have been from the shared religion, their shared condition, but it also could have been that unique and wonderful thing that so often happens when two women collide, full of unspoken words and straining to hold back their verbal dams, and spill those words all over each other.

They were still going strong when the black woman hobbled out and, with resignation, lowered herself into a lobby chair, landing harder than she probably intended. She sighed as if she’d been saving up breath for a lifetime.

Then the tears started. Almost before the first drop could spill over onto her mottled cheek, the two formerly chatting women were up and reaching for her. And again, I didn’t know if the two women knew her or it was just the situation, but the black woman let out her story so softly or with such difficulty that I could barely make out the words. Clearly she was suffering. Yes, it was her body, but it also had something to do with a child. I conjured up stories in my head. Couldn’t have any more children because of the accident. Couldn’t take care of her children because of the accident. And the one I didn’t want to let myself think about – that she’d lost a child in the accident.

The two white women, standing above her now, gently pressed a hand on each of her shoulders, enveloping her in a circle of flowing dresses and hair and love.

“Let’s do a prayer circle,” one of them said.

All three women lowered their heads. I couldn’t hear all the words of the prayer, but I caught the gist. The two standing women asked God to protect their sister, and heal her wounds from head to toe.

I watched in awe, especially at the alchemy that had made this event happen. At one point, I felt compelled to ask if I could join in. I longed to join this circle, to add whatever healing energy I could to help this woman, whose initial sigh of pain had touched me deep in my heart.

I didn’t move. I didn’t speak. I didn’t want to intrude, I told myself. I’m not traditionally religious and don’t know the prayer, I told myself. It seemed like some language everyone on the planet spoke except me. But truthfully I’d been scared. Didn’t want to insert myself where I felt I didn’t belong. How easy it is, from the relative anonymity of my office chair, to comfort my PNN family when they need it. Yet here was this woman, who shared a bond of vulnerability with me, sitting right next to me, and I couldn’t do a thing.

The doctor called my name.

I’d lost an opportunity, I thought, as I walked out to my car after my exam. It’s just the kind of thing that I promised myself I would work on – offering comfort to those in need, inserting myself into places and positions where I “think” I don’t belong.

I hope the two women were able to help her with their prayers. I hope that when the next opportunity comes along to comfort one of my fellow travelers, I’ll have the courage to move forward, offer an ear, a shoulder, a hand. Or even, should the moment move me, a prayer.