by Bella Rum
My trip to the poke-in-the-eye doc yesterday was a mixed bag. The bad news is that my vision has declined; the good news is that the culprit may be a cataract instead of my condition. That’s good news because the cataract can be removed, but damage caused by IJRT is irreversible. The cataract is not to the point of removing it. So we wait. Waiting is a big part of life. Have you noticed?
I’m a people watcher and waiting rooms afford a great opportunity to satisfy this penchant. It was 35 degrees here yesterday, but a woman was wearing flip-flops. She had a great pedi. I couldn’t decide if she was trying to protect her pedi or had a problem with her feet or just liked flip-flops.
An old guy (everyone in that waiting room was old) fell asleep. When they called his name, he tried to stand. He wobbled like a Weeble but he didn’t fall down. His leg had fallen asleep. When he thought he had it under control, he started to walk again and almost collapsed. He looked like a drunken sailor on a pitching ship. Then he took another step and had to throw out an arm to catch himself. He laughed it off, and the nurse started telling him how to wake your leg when it goes to sleep, but didn’t catch what she said. I just shake mine. Don’t you hate when that happens, especially in front of a cast of thousands?
When I signed in, the receptionist told me that they were required to provide an interpreter for me if I needed one. That’s a first for me. Have you ever heard that at your doctor’s office?
Talk about waiting: on the way home, I finally took my car through the carwash. It was in desperate need. It snowed last week, and the chemicals and regular nastiness on the streets did a number on it. I hate to leave that stuff on it, but every time I tried to take it to a carwash, there were lines. Waiting is not my strong suit. I finally found one yesterday that didn’t have ten or more cars waiting.
How much of our lives are spent waiting?