The Waiting Room: One-Act Play
CHARACTERS
WOMAN: 30s. Female.
OBGYN: Any age. Any gender.
INTAKE NURSE / NURSE 1 / NICU NURSE 1: Any age. Any gender.
LABOR NURSE / NURSE 2 / NICU NURSE 2: Any age. Any gender.
AT RISE: Spotlight on WOMAN standing alone on an empty stage.
WOMAN: The waiting room. It’s a state of mind. Not quite a beginning, but a holding pattern. I’m stuck here for now, waiting for something to happen. Expecting. That’s pregnancy in a nutshell. Had I known what to expect, what to really expect, I don’t know if I would have done it. Can I say that out loud? (She shrugs.) Childbirth is a black box.
Lights up.
WOMAN: Welcome to the Hospital of the Holy Cross.
A gurney, unattended, is pushed from offstage towards WOMAN.
WOMAN: It’s a good hospital.
She walks around, taking it in.
WOMAN: I remember touring this place at 36 weeks. Wow, I thought, it looked so much nicer in the brochure! (A beat.) The maternity suite, with its muted tones and subdued lighting. A hospital bed, a TV, a shower that only spews cold water. There’s the chart where you rate your pain on a scale of one to ten. With those patronizing little faces . . . (Lost in thought for a second.) I was 41 weeks when I checked myself in. I was ready, I was healthy, I was secure in the knowledge that my body would do what it needed.
WOMAN climbs onto the gurney. She covers her lap with a hospital blanket.
WOMAN: I did not know this would be the last time I would walk untethered for a week.
Enter OBGYN and INTAKE NURSE. INTAKE NURSE wheels in an IV bag hanging on a pole and begins to strap WOMAN with a comical amount of wires, monitors, etc. Meanwhile, the OBGYN conducts a brusque assessment of WOMAN’s body.
OBGYN: Blood pressure slightly elevated. Fetal heartbeat regular. No contractions. I’d like to start you on the Pitocin. It’ll induce you into labor. Some women need a little chemical push.
OBGYN exits. INTAKE NURSE administers medicine through the IV bag.
INTAKE NURSE: Let’s hope the Pitocin gets things going. We don’t want you to need (whispers) an emergency c-section.
Nurse crosses her fingers ostentatiously.
INTAKE NURSE: Try to get some rest, if you can.
WOMAN: I have to go to the bathroom.
She gets up to move, steadying herself with the IV pole. As she rises from the gurney, red lights flash and there’s a loud beeping alarm. INTAKE NURSE rushes over and examines WOMAN’s belly, then starts readjusting the wires.
INTAKE NURSE: Careful! We need to monitor the fetal heartbeat at all times … Pitocin can cause hyperstimulation of the uterus, which can lead to hemorrhaging, uterine rupture, or worse. The strength of the contractions could cause brain damage to the baby.
WOMAN: But how am I supposed to use the bathroom?
Nurse doesn’t answer. OBGYN re-enters and conducts a visual examination under WOMAN’s blanket.
OBGYN: (To INTAKE NURSE) She’s not progressing. Increase the dose.
OBGYN exits. INTAKE NURSE administers more Pitocin.
WOMAN: Can I get something to eat?
INTAKE NURSE: Oh no, you can’t eat anything. In the event you need an (whispers) emergency c-section. (Chipper) You might choke on your own vomit.
OBGYN (O.S.): More Pitocin!
INTAKE NURSE: Third time’s the charm!
WOMAN: (To audience) It goes on like this. Two days of beeping, monitoring, and constant worrying about the fetal heartbeat. A feeling wells up in me, like something’s lurking around the corner. Something dangerous. But, no, this is the miracle of childbirth. I stay hopeful. What else can I do? Then—(tentatively, looking under the blanket) I think my water broke?
WOMAN is suddenly overwhelmed with contractions.
WOMAN: What the hell is happening to me?
INTAKE NURSE takes hold of the gurney.
INTAKE NURSE: Contractions. Pitocin can make them more intense than usual.
WOMAN looks terrified.
INTAKE NURSE: Let’s get you to Labor & Delivery.
WOMAN: I think I’d like an epidural now.
INTAKE NURSE wheels woman to another part of the stage, the “L&D room.” There is a disgruntled LABOR NURSE staring at a device. Her shift is almost over.
WOMAN: (To audience) There’s this poplar conception of a woman in labor. She is fierce, she is loud, she gives no shits. She is powerful in her mastery of pain, deeply rooted in the miracle that is her life-giving body. This … was not my experience. I had hoped that labor would open up something magical within me. Some untapped reserve, some primal part of me. It did not. I was still the same unfierce, unpowerful, shit-giving woman.
WOMAN lies back down. WOMAN is in extreme pain. She moans demurely.
LABOR NURSE: (not moving from her seat) Just breathe!
WOMAN continues in her pain, but more quietly.
WOMAN: (Timidly) When is the epidural coming?
LABOR NURSE: The anesthesiologist has a lot of people to see.
OBGYN enters and conducts another exam while WOMAN speaks.
WOMAN: (To audience) With the epidural comes some relief, but I am learning that every intervention has its price. This one comes with a catheter. And a catheter comes with its own complications. A terrible chain of cause and effect.
OBGYN: Your blood pressure’s elevated. I’m afraid you have pre-eclampsia. It’s a very serious condition. I’ll need to administer a magnesium drip. With magnesium, you might experience some side effects: nausea, vomiting, blurred vision …
OBGYN continues listing side effects in the background as WOMAN speaks over them directly to the audience.
[ … headache, dry mouth, muscular tightness, flushing, chest heaviness, lethargy, low blood pressure, increased sweating, heart disturbances, circulatory collapse, respiratory paralysis, weakness, confusion, anxiety, loss of control, sense of powerlessness, existential crisis … ]
WOMAN: Now this … this is when things unravel, when I am confronted with the absolute terror of my body and what it is capable of. When I lose sight of what is helping me and what is hurting me. I keep telling myself: everyone here is trying to help. This is for your health. This is what keeps you safe.
OBGYN: … essentially, it’s a safety risk.
WOMAN: A safety risk?
OBGYN: Yes. Hospital policy. You can’t hold your baby until 24 hours after the last dose of magnesium is administered. You’ll be too out-of-it. You might drop the baby, or worse.
WOMAN nods uncomprehendingly. OBGYN nods to LABOR NURSE, who injects something into the IV bag. LABOR NURSE exits.
WOMAN: And so the magnesium was administered. Once again, one thing led to another.
WOMAN throws up over the side of the gurney. OBGYN conducts another visual exam, while WOMAN speaks.
WOMAN: I can’t see. It’s like everything is double.
OBGYN: I can feel the baby’s head—she’s in brow presentation. She’s not budging. I’m going to prep for an emergency c-section. (To WOMAN) We did everything we could.
OBGYN dons blue surgical attire. NURSE 1 and NURSE 2 enter and wheel WOMAN across the stage into the “OR.” NURSE 1 and NURSE 2 hold a cloth divider over the stomach of WOMAN, blocking her view of the procedure. OBGYN stands on the other side, miming surgery.
WOMAN: (To audience) This is where they cut me open. On the cold, clinical steel of the operating table. There was this tugging sensation where my stomach used to be. And then a stabbing pain in my right shoulder—reflected pain, the anesthesiologist called it. It’s pain that’s perceived at a different location than its source. Scientists don’t understand how it happens. But it’s nice to think there’s a logic to it. The body’s complicated like that, all these nerves connected. Maybe, in another play, the pain would have been protective. Here, it’s just—
The sound of a baby crying.
WOMAN: Did I even get to see her? Did a nurse bring me a small bundle while they were stitching me up, hold it close to my head? Was I allowed at least a parting glance? Did I even look? I don’t remember. I don’t remember turning my head. I only remember the doctor, behind a barrier, counting the surgical instruments so nothing was left inside me.
OBGYN: One … two … three … four …
NURSE 1 and NURSE 2 drop the divider. NURSE 1 wheels WOMAN to recovery room. OBGYN and NURSE 2 exit. WOMAN sniffles quietly.
NURSE 1: Shhh. It’s okay. Can I tell you a secret? My labor didn’t go like I wanted either. I was devasted. I felt like my body had failed me. But, you’ll see, it’s just one tiny piece of the larger puzzle of motherhood. It doesn’t define you.
NURSE 1 exits.
WOMAN: (To audience) But it did. (A beat.) They took my daughter to the NICU. She didn’t look right. They worried she had some genetic abnormality; they needed to test her and monitor her. So I sat, stitched up, still sick off the magnesium, and waited to see her.
These interactions with the nurses occur at a brisk tempo, a revolving door. This tempo can continue to ramp up until the end of the play. NURSE 2 enters.
NURSE 2: You need to get your blood pressure under control. There’s a reason they call high blood pressure the silent you know what (NURSE 2 makes a knife-across-throat gesture).
NURSE 2 exits. NURSE 1 enters.
NURSE 1: Have you peed yet? You need to pee. Now. The catheter’s dulled your sensitivity, so it feels like you don’t need to, but you do. You’ll get a bladder infection if you don’t. Bladder infections become kidney infections. Trust me, you do not want a kidney infection.
NURSE 1 exits. WOMAN begins crying silently. NURSE 2 returns.
NURSE 2: Is everything okay? (She comes closer to inspect WOMAN). Post-partum depression is very serious. It’s not healthy for you or baby. If you’re having trouble adjusting, there are plenty of treatment options …
WOMAN: (Lies, wiping her eyes.) Oh, no. I’m just so happy.
NURSE 2 exits. OBGYN enters.
WOMAN: Can I see my baby now?
OBGYN: (Checks clipboard) Looks like your blood pressure is stabilizing, but we usually keep the magnesium going for 48 hours after delivery to be safe. How are you feeling?
WOMAN: (Lies) Great.
OBGYN exits. NICU NURSE 1 rolls in a wheelchair, helps WOMAN into it, and wheels WOMAN to “NICU,” where NICU NURSE 2 tends to the baby.
WOMAN: (To audience) With the magnesium out of my system, I felt a little better. I spent the next two days wheeling my surgery-ravaged body down to the NICU every 4 hours to feed my daughter. She had an IV, an oxygen tube, and monitors taped all over her six-pound body. A precaution, since no one knew what was wrong with her. Every time I’d try to hold her, a heartbeat monitor would get dislodged, triggering this flashing siren on the machine.
NICU NURSE 1 hands baby to WOMAN. WOMAN begins to breast feed, wires trailing, and caresses the baby’s cheek.
NICU NURSE 1: (Watching her closely) Don’t touch her cheek like that. You’ll hurt her. A newborn’s skin is very sensitive.
NICU NURSE 1 wanders away. WOMAN readjusts baby and the siren goes off. Both nurses rush over and fuss over the baby.
NICU NURSE 2: (Taking baby back from a reluctant WOMAN) You don’t need to keep coming down here. We’ll bottle-feed her. You should rest. You’ll look back on this time and wish you’d taken advantage of it!
NICU NURSE 2 whisks the baby away.
WOMAN: Two days later, my daughter was allowed to stay with me in the maternity suite. After everything, her genetic tests were normal. She was fine. Turned out, she was just a little beat up from the trauma of being born.
NICU NURSE 2 hands baby back to WOMAN.
WOMAN: After two more agonizing days of monitoring, we could finally go home.
Everyone exits except WOMAN.
WOMAN: I thought we’d never get out of there. I guess I haven’t. (Looks around) I come back to this place all the time—on sleepless nights, or whenever I hear a siren, or feel that inexplicable pain in my shoulder . . .
Spotlight returns on WOMAN, who slowly removes the wires that are attached to her as she speaks.
They tell me all’s well that ends well. I should be grateful. The baby was healthy, I was healthy. And I was: grateful. But it doesn’t end here. All these years later and I’m still here, in the waiting room, replaying these same old scenes. Hoping this time someone will hear me.
CURTAIN
EPILOGUE /
PROGRAM NOTE:
The maternal mortality rate in the U.S. is far higher than other high-income countries. And it’s getting worse over time. The mortality rate is especially abysmal for women of color. These harrowing statistics don’t even touch on the larger number of women who have been hurt, traumatized, and disempowered when giving birth.
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About the Author
Brittany Micka-Foos is an autistic writer from the Pacific Northwest. She is the author of the short story collection It’s No Fun Anymore (Apprentice House Press 2025) and the chapbook a litany of words as fragile as window glass (Bottlecap Press 2024). Her work has been published in Ninth Letter, Witness Magazine, Epiphany, The Forge Literary Magazine, and elsewhere. Read more at Brittany’s website at www.brittanymickafoos.com.