When I started working as a labor and delivery nurse, the waiting room was where the families awaited news on new life.

Usually, it was the husband and wife in the room, along with the RN, and once the baby or babies were born, the excited father would run to the waiting room and tell the new grandparents or aunts and uncles, and other extended family, about the newest member of the family.

The waiting room was filled with flowers and balloons for the new parents, and a great expectation filled the air. The TV in the wall was muffled as the families talked excitedly, in a gleeful conspiracy of impending joy. Bright light poured in from windows that faced open spaces. It was a cheerful place, for the most part.

The surgical wards and ICU’s also had waiting rooms, but these were different spaces.

The family members there sat in tense silence, or they would speak in hushed tones, glancing over their shoulders or towards closed doors, waiting for them to open, and a doctor to bring them news of their loved ones.

Coffee flowed freely, and magazines were strewn about haphazardly, picked up and glanced through, to be tossed down again. There were usually no windows here – this was the heart of the hospital, where the business of medicine was happening, night and day.

When a physician came through the doors from the surgical suites, every conversation stopped, and every eye cut over toward the door.

The surgeon would search for the waiting family, and he would approach as they would huddle in a quiet conspiracy of privacy. Everyone held their breath.

Sometimes, the surgeon smiled, and the shoulders of everyone in the waiting room relaxed as a unified exhale echoed through the room. Tears of joy were spilled, hugs given, intermittent laughter from relief was heard. The rest of the families smiled, hoping that their news, too, would be good.

Other times, the surgeon entered the dim room with a stoic face, their shoulders set. The families gathered around the surgeon slowly, cautiously, at the same time not wanting to know…and needing to know.

This news came with outbursts of shock, quiet crying, or wails of despair. The surgeon would try and calm the family, who were already comforting each other. The other families in the room would look away, ashamed to be inadvertently present during such an intimate moment. Those who prayed, did so. No eye contact was made with these families, as if in fear that the bad outcome would rub off on their loved one, too.

Last year, waiting rooms stood empty.

Families that heard of a loved ones trauma raced to emergency rooms, only to be turned away.

They gathered off in the distance on hospital grounds, or huddled in cars in the parking lot. Often, they went to their separate homes, knowing their wait may take hours.

The worst news ever was given over a phone call, or a video chat. Loved ones never got to say goodbye.

Even the waiting rooms in the delivery wards stood empty. Families waited at home, while their daughters and sisters labored alone, or eventually with a partner. No newborn met a family member until they had gotten to their own home.

The waiting room was a safe place, a cushion between life changing experiences, whether good or bad.

The waiting rooms are still empty.

The void remains.