The patient is the one who is suffering. Really. But the attendee, spouse, loved one, caring friend, whoever it may be who takes the patient to the appointment has a certain amount of misery to endure as well.
The mind grows numb, the butt grows numb; the stomach can only ingest so much cold coffee from the courtesy thermos which has been sitting on that table for six hours. The third trip to the restroom should be a break from the tedium, but that has become tedium as well.
The people that pass by on their way to their own appointments with poking and prodding for diagnosis, or for twisting and turning for therapy present a picture of the human condition at its most tenacious. Each one seeking that which he does not have, working assiduously to gain that which he desires. Well-being.
The magazine collection on the table is the donation of the philanthropic minded, that is to say, it is detritus that Mrs. Meddoc has cleared from her own premises. Two of the many, many items here are possible candidates for perusal. It would be a favor to all if one would tote the rest of them to the dumpster behind the boiler room. So now, every page, every advertisement in each of these two rags have been read, the coupons torn from the books. (Our hero hates coupons in magazines. There oughta be a law.) This attendee to the patient now knows how to get out of the bunker and how to strike the ball so it arcs around the tree. But of course he doesn't golf. He knows how to select and plant hydrangea or coleus, but nor is he a gardener.
What he doesn't know is why in blue blazes is this "procedure" taking all afternoon. And yet eventually it is over, patient is released, and away we go! Tra la.