We Are the Waiting

There is far too much white and the smell of antiseptic burns your nose. You never were one for hospitals.

You pace back and forth on the linoleum, the tile-count already memorized from one wall to the other.

You blindly step over a schoolbag and out of the corner of your eye, you see Puck move it out of your path and under the seat.

It's too quiet.

The kids had arrived shortly after they learned why you missed rehearsal. They piled into the waiting room and waited right along with you.

You flex your hand, still feeling her grip on your own. She was so scared and you can't do anything to comfort her. You're so scared, as well.

Rage battles with sickening worry inside you. You hate the doctor for kicking you out. You might throw up if you keep thinking about why he did.

She's in trouble. And there's nothing you can do about it. They both are. So you continue to pace because sitting is not an option. You run your hand through your messy hair and reach out for your father's hand as you pass him. He grips it tight before letting it slip through his fingers as you continue on your rounds.

You give Finn a tight smile as you pass him. You avoid Rachel's eyes altogether – the pity in them just might break you. Puck holds Quinn's hand and he looks like he wants to say something to you but as you get close, his mouth opens and closes silently. You're comforted by the thought, anyway.

You glance at the clock, like you always do. You've been out here for mere minutes, but it feels like a lifetime. You stand in the middle of the too white room clad in blue scrubs as you wait for word on your wife. Your wife. You need your wife.

You press your palms into your eyes, hoping to quell the sudden urge to burst into tears. Your shoulders rise and fall under the scratchy blue cotton and you can't help but think that Kurt must be judging your fashion sense. It's a ridiculous thought, but it brings a ghost of a smile to your face. You find his head among the sea of students waiting with you, waiting for you, and you watch as he stares unblinking at a spot on the wall opposite. You wonder if he's thinking about his mother and how he lost her.

You hope your daughter will never have to know that kind of hurt. Your daughter. You wait for word on her. You need your daughter. You hope that she will never ever have to feel the bone-crushing pain that you are in right now or the suffocating fear that grips your lungs and wrings them out like a rag.

You haven't seen her; you haven't met her but you need her. You need them both like you need air.

Artie wheels up to where you're standing and hands you a paper cup full of water. You hope your eyes convey more gratitude that the weak smile you're able to offer. Your body feels like it's on fire – every nerve hums – and you're thankful for the cool liquid as it makes its way down your chest. The empty paper cup is heavy in your hand and you crush it in your fist and throw it into the trashcan. You take comfort in its destruction. After all, you'd love nothing more than to tear this waiting room apart, but then where would that get you?

You can tell your mother is trying very hard to hold herself together. She sits next to your father, his arm around her shoulder. She'd probably love nothing more than a stiff drink right now – hell you both would – but she's sitting quietly, a tissue pressed against her nose. You can see the pain on your father's face. His heart hurts for you. He loves his daughter-in-law and his granddaughter almost as much as you do and his eyes follow you around the room, probably making sure that you don't do something rash. He knows you're about to lose it.

Your hands are shaking and your heart is hammering against your sternum. When did everything fall apart? The day started out normal enough: you made coffee, woke her up, helped her out of bed, took a shower together, made the daily commute, taught Spanish to the freshmen and the juniors, and then all hell broke loose. You were sitting in the rehearsal room, preparing for glee when she called you from her office. You wondered why she was calling you when you were only one corridor down. But the minute you answered the phone, you knew something was wrong.

You ran out of that room so fast, you didn't bother writing your kids a note. Your kids. They really were. You finally get the courage to look around at their faces. Tina fidgets in her seat as Artie places a calm hand on her back.

Mercedes sits with her hands folded and her head bowed. You wonder briefly if she's praying for you. You hope to God she is.

Brittany leans against Matt and Santana has her arm looped through Mike's. For once, the cheerleaders sit in quiet contemplation.

Quinn grips Puck's hand tightly and plays with the gold cross around her neck. Puck nervously runs his hand through the tuft of hair on his head, his eyes darting around the room like a frightened animal. It can't be easy for them being here.

Kurt continues to stare at the spot on the wall and you place a hand on his head as you walk by. He glances up at you and you can see the question in his eyes, wondering why you are comforting him when it should be the other way around. You simply squeeze his shoulder in response.

Finn sits with his arm around Rachel's back. She presses a hand on his bouncing knee as he leans forward and puts his head in his hands. You know you are more than just a teacher to Finn and his worry for you is obvious. Your heart swells.

The seconds feel like hours. You gravitate towards your father again. You watch him stand as you approach and you sink into his open embrace. His hands grip your scrubs tightly and you inhale the comforting scent of his sweater. His palm holds the back of your head and you feel eight years old again. Eight-year-olds don't feel this kind of fear, though. They fear monsters under the bed or prowlers in the dark. They don't fear losing the one person you can't live without.

You want to break down. To sink to the floor on your knees and tell your father how scared you are. But you can't because if you lose it, they'll lose it. You hold it together for the kids waiting with you, for your mother, for your father, and for the woman by herself on the other side of those swinging doors.

Your father pulls away and cups your face in his hands. You can see the unshed tears in his eyes as your own fall down your cheek. He pulls you in and places a kiss on your forehead. You let out a shaky breath and nod. He didn't need to say anything but his words were in his gesture all the same. You continue your trek around the room. The kids have cleared a path for you. They don't speak to you – they just let you walk, lost in your own thoughts. If it looks like you're heading for an inanimate object, they move it out of your way. You're grateful for the care they show.

Across the room, a new mother is wheeled to the front entrance, her baby nestled in her arms. You want to look away because the sight slices through your heart, but you can't. The new father bounds in, car seat in hand. You feel sick thinking of the empty car seat waiting at home in the empty nursery. You didn't have time to bring anything with you.

This time, it's Rachel's turn to bring you water. For a moment, you fear she'll say something in an attempt to comfort you. You would appreciate the gesture, but empty words are the last thing you need right now. You don't want to hear that it'll be okay, because it's not. You don't want to hear that they know how you feel, because they don't. Your fears were pointless, though, as she wordlessly passes the cup over, her hand lingering on your forearm. You place a hand on top of hers. It's the only way you know how to express your thanks.

It's still too quiet. You can hear the second hand ticking its way around the clock and the tapping of Finn's foot against the floor. You sit down for the first time since you were kicked back into the waiting room. You saw the fear in your students' eyes as you were restrained by the nurses. You hated their hands on your arms, hated the doctor for giving the order to remove you, hated the machines that were being hooked up to your wife as you were led away. It took your father grabbing you and shaking you by the shoulders before you were able to coherently explain what had happened.

You feel someone's hand on your shoulder. It's small and warm and you guess it's Quinn's because, last you checked, she was sitting behind you. Without turning around, you place your hand on top of hers and squeeze it before standing up again. The cold, plastic chairs can't hold your worry, your pain, your fear. You can only sit for so long before you truly think you'll go insane.

The blue scrubs feel claustrophobic despite how loose they are. You suppress the violent urge to tear them off and throw them across the room.

The kids continue to sit silently. You've never seen so many teenagers sit still for so long. Most can't even make it through their midterm let alone pass the time in a monotonous waiting room. You glance around at them and think back on all the things you taught them, never once expecting them to return the favor. But they have.

You've thought about this day for 8 months. It's not going quite how you had imagined. You've dreamed about the moment that you would become a father and you're praying to every immortal being possible that they don't rob this of you. You need your wife. You need your daughter.

"Mr. Schuester?"

The world stops. You turn and stare at the doctor waiting for you on the other side of the room. You don't notice when the students stand up with you or wonder how your father manages to be at your side almost instantaneously. You don't realize that your feet are carrying you over to the man in the white coat who holds your entire life in his hands. You're too focused on the feeling of the blood draining from your face and the ringing in your ears. You're too distracted by the pounding of your heart and the way you've started hyperventilating.

But four words change all of that.

"Come meet your daughter."

Your voice croaks from lack of use as you ask, "My daughter?"

The doctor nods, a smile gracing his tired features. "She's tiny but she's a fighter."

You feel your father grip your hand as you ask, "And my wife?"

"She lost a lot of blood…" and for a second you zone out, thinking of your perfect wife losing more blood than she can afford to, but you snap back to attention in time to hear the doctor say, "She'll be just fine. She did beautifully."

It's become too much and your legs finally give out. You sink back against your father as he holds you up. Over his shoulder, you can see your kids smiling and hugging. A few of the girls have tears in their eyes and you can't believe they're crying them for you. Your father holds you tighter and whispers something in your ear but the relief is so palpable, you don't register much. Your mother makes her way through the sea of celebrations and grabs you for a kiss. You finally let go and sob into her shoulder, not caring who sees or hears.

"Go, Will. They need you." Your mother pushes you away and wipes your tears with her thumbs. You look over her head at the many faces smiling back at you. There are so many things you want to say, so many thanks you want to give, but your throat constricts, holding your words hostage. You swallow hard and place your hand on your chest over your heart, hoping to show them just how much their presence has meant. They seem to understand as they return your watery smile, waving at you as your mother pushes you toward the doors.

You manage to take two steps before you hear your father say, "Tell my granddaughter Poppy says Happy Birthday" and you can't help the smile that explodes across your face. You turn around to face him and you see the pride that practically beams from him like a beacon. "And tell her she's got one hell of a Daddy."

Your throat feels tight again and try as you might, you can't help the trembling of your lower lip or the few tears that slip down your face. You have never felt so much love in a room before. It warms you and buoys you as you push the swinging doors open to greet your daughter and kiss your wife.

The End