So much time has passed — too many years to count. My sister and I sat in the waiting room outside the Intensive Care Unit where my mother sat with our dying father. The room was as sterile as a concrete bunker. I am sure we sat on folding wooden chairs, but that may be Memory insisting that the misery of the experience be emphasized. What was and is certain: each person who shared the room with us sat alone in silence or in small groups of quiet grief. No one spoke. No one made eye contact. I told my sister that we were being forced to join a dreadful club that no one wanted to belong to, and for which certainly no one wanted to pay the dues.

Since that time, waiting rooms — some of them — have become a little kinder. The main waiting area in Brigham and Women’s Hospital puts out baskets of wool with knitting needles and instructions. There are comfortable seats, couches for naps, tables for work. Yale added cookies and coffee.

Waiting rooms can still be places where sorrow and fear have leached into the walls. Several years ago I discovered a way to temper the hours of anxiety. My sister was scheduled for surgery and I went to Connecticut to be with her. After she was taken into the operating room, I went to the waiting room, registered with an overworked, tired nurse, and settled in to wait. Instead of a book, I had brought a quilt. In moments, the nurse came and sat with me. She had always wanted to learn how to quilt.

A little while later the couple across the room came to chat. The hours passed and people came and went. There always seemed to be someone who wanted to see what I was doing. Several people shared stories of their hobbies, their families, and finally who they were waiting for and why they were there. I have come to believe that there is nothing so seductive as a quilt spilled over a lap, dripping onto the floor. I finished that quilt, but I realized that what I needed was a quilt that would always be in progress.

That quilt made its debut when our neighbor was scheduled for a procedure at Brigham and Women’s. She had no family close by so I went with her. The waiting room was small, crowded, and had no amenities. Every uncomfortable straight-back chair was taken. I took out my quilt. It is bright yellow and brighter green. There are frogs with foolish expressions and a label that proclaims, “So Many Frogs… So Few Princes.”

Within minutes I had company. The worn-looking woman who huddled with two older men came over and told me about her mother’s quilts; when she returned to her group, I saw that they started talking to each other. A couple in the row across from me came, and after asking about the quilt, told me about their son. Two young men came and examined the quilt. We talked about quilting and crafts. They told me about their friend who was ill. Suddenly one of them reached into his briefcase and brought out a beautiful piece of embroidery and it seemed as if everyone wanted to join in the conversation. There was a sea change in the atmosphere of the room. It was astonishing.

That same quilt has gone to a number of other waiting rooms. It does its work more times than not. I know the quilt doesn’t magically change the outcome for patients. And it doesn’t affect the inevitability of grief. But perhaps the distraction is enough. Sometimes we need a break.

Sometimes we need a respite. We need to keep the darkness at bay. This silly quilt reminds me and I hope it reminds others who find themselves smiling at the display of frogs that the waiting room is not the whole of our world.