Alone again with his thoughts, Joseph felt as if the waiting room he was in was more than just a space where people go for a quick break or to have a private conversation out of earshot of their loved one. It wasn’t a place of comfort, like heaven, nor a place of torment, like hell. It was somewhere in-between; a place for reflecting on the good, the bad, and the ugly of life. A place where unresolved emotions linger, waiting for absolution. It was purgatory. — From The Waiting Room
How Life Inspired Art
On June 20th, 2023, I found myself in a waiting room at Sloan Kettering Hospital in New York City. I had spent the day with my brother, Greg, and had just been informed by his doctor that the game plan had changed—we were now focusing on his comfort. It was devastating news. My sister-in-law, Carolyn, and I received this news together. Wanting to give her and Greg some time alone, I stepped out into the waiting room.
There, I faced the difficult task of making three heartbreaking phone calls. The first was to my wife, to let her know what was happening. The second was a joint call with my twin brother, Jimmy, and sister, Mia. Hearing them sob as I delivered the news is something that still haunts me. The final call was to my father, who had just returned to Florida after a family wedding. Telling a man that his firstborn child was going to die demanded a strength I didn’t know I had. I could hear my father cycle through the stages of grief—denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and finally, acceptance—all within the span of that one call.
Greg passed away the following day, quite literally in my arms.
A little more than a year later, I found myself in a similar situation—this time at Holy Cross Hospital in Fort Lauderdale, where my mother was in hospice care. I stayed with her through the night, and early that Sunday morning, I noticed a sudden change in her breathing. I knew time was short. I called my father, who lived nearby, and my siblings. They rushed to the hospital, but Mom passed just before they arrived. Once again, I found myself in a waiting room, making another series of painful calls—first to my wife to share the news, and then to a local funeral home to arrange the next steps.
Now, this might seem like an unusual way to tell you that I have a new book out—but in truth, this book wouldn’t exist without these experiences. For the past few years, I’d been working on a completely different project—a 90,000-word dramedy called Visiting Hours, about a tropical troubadour’s final adventure. But this past Christmas, while sick with some virus, The Waiting Room poured out of me in what felt like a fever dream.
Holidays are especially hard when you’re grieving. This past Christmas was my first without my mother and second without Greg. Saying I was in a funk would be an understatement. Honestly, I was grateful to be sick—it gave me an excuse to stay in bed (which, truthfully, I’d wanted to do far too often these past two years).
One night, I began writing a story about a man spending Christmas Eve with his mother in a hospice unit during a snowstorm. I poured my own experiences and emotions into it, trying to bring an authentic voice to the page. To deepen the story, I introduced a second narrative about a young woman caring for her grandfather in his final hours. And, in typical Carlonian fashion, these two storylines eventually intersect in a way I hope readers will find both surprising and moving.
The first draft came together quickly—mostly between late December and early January. I then spent several months working closely with my editor to shape it into a finished novella. It’s designed to be read in one or two sittings. My hope is that this story, born from my personal experiences with end-of-life care and the grief that follows, will bring some measure of comfort to anyone walking a similar path.
Writing this book helped me process emotions I had long kept buried. It also reminded me of a profound truth: love is the most powerful force in the universe. In Greg’s and Mom’s final moments, I witnessed love in its purest form—between Greg and Carolyn, and between my parents. With that love came the courage to look someone in the eyes and say goodbye. And as this story suggests, I truly believe that love never fades, and that in time, we will all be reunited.
The Waiting Room is now available wherever books are sold (though you may need to ask your local bookstore to order it). It’s available in both paperback and eBook formats for all you Kindle readers out there.
I hope it speaks to your heart as much as it did to mine.
