The “waiting room.” What a perfect name ... for a room where you wait.

Every medical facility has a place to wait. But hey, I’m not complaining. I’m lucky to be offered a chair. But waiting rooms have been on my mind lately.

I’ve been thinking about what I am really waiting for. I am not alone. I‘m with a small group who are waiting for the same thing.

There’s usually a TV that I pretty much ignore. The others around me are more interesting. We have a common bond that we don’t talk about. We just wait our turn. But I glance at each person, coming and going, and wonder about their story.

I think much of their story is also my story. Many, like me, are older. No surprise there. And like me they are waiting for what is considered good news. Whatever the lab results, whatever the problem, wherever the pain, there’s a fix for that. You’ll be OK … to come back another day. Whatever fears that linger – many unspoken – well, they take those home.

Sometimes the bond is visible ... like that day in the dermatologist’s waiting room. I was in line for surgery to remove some tiny “cancer” cells from my face. It’s a two-step process. They slice and then I wait for lab results to see if they got it all. If not, they slice again. So lots of time in the waiting room.

The room was a refuge for bandaged faces, all waiting for results. The scattering of white gauze and tape felt like a warning: Look at all the other places on your head where those little “C” cells can grow. Yeah, our common bond that day was clear.

I hadn’t thought much about such waiting room scenarios until author and longtime friend Bob Hill pulled me into his waiting room. He does that now and then. He posts on Facebook stories from his day and you can’t walk away without looking back. This is what he wrote:

“Sitting in the doctor’s office waiting to take routine, regularly scheduled blood tests, although at this stage of the game the routine takes on larger meaning. Already past the age the statistics say I should still be here, and miles to go before I sleep says my internal statistician.

“First job waiting in any doctor’s office is checking out the competition, the others most likely for the long haul judged by a layman’s view. Just don’t talk about it.

“Two elderly women sat off to my right, outside appearance and best guess was daughter and mother. One name was called and both got up, the older moving very slowly in her walker. Side-by-side they carefully made their way toward the long hallway where blood was taken, tests were given, life decisions were offered.

“As they approached me, still seated in my chair, they briefly blocked my view of the waiting room television, and the daughter apologized. My only thought was, ‘For what?’”

I kept thinking about those two women. The daughter, also feeling the aches of aging, was there to help and support her mother. There was a bond of love built over a lifetime.

Their story seemed obvious, but I pictured earlier chapters. When the daughter was a bundle of energy in a waiting room and the mother tried to distract her and keep her quiet as they waited for a pediatrician. How many trips to a doctor’s office had the mother made? How many hours spent in a waiting room? How many years had the mother been the one to comfort the daughter and assure her everything would be fine? How many years … before the daughter would become the parent?

Waiting rooms are part of the life journey. Can’t avoid them or why we’re there. They do remind us that the world suffers with us. I know many others have been where I’ve been and where I’m going.

Like that mom and daughter, I will be blessed and grateful to have someone who cares next to me in whatever waiting room I end up in.

• Lonny Cain, retired managing editor of The Times in Ottawa, also was a reporter for The Herald-News in Joliet in the 1970s. His PaperWork email is lonnyjcain@gmail.com. Or mail the NewsTribune, 426 Second St., La Salle IL 61301.