The waiting room I never left

I dreamed I was in a hospital waiting room, but it was also my childhood living room, and the TV kept showing the same loop: a thunderstorm approaching, never arriving. I wasn't anxious, just suspended, the way you feel in that last minute before induction — held, floating, knowing something is about to happen but not needing it to. Woke up before the storm hit. Mostly I'm glad about that; part of me wanted to stay.