TOO TRUE - SITTERS

The rooms are filled with patients. The walls droop with diplomas, honors. I am in a complex of eye associates, 10 ophthalmologists, each with specialties, technicians, assistants, and I feel overwhelmed, want out. This is my 8th visit and each time I read the same eye chart until I think I have it memorized and may cheat a little. Each time the tech tells me I did great, writes down numbers, and when I eventually see the main honcho, I am told I have cataracts in both eyes and should have surgery.

Repairing the right eye is supposedly a piece of cake, but like hell it is. Aside from an emergency visit when I thought I was being murdered with a knife in my eye, I have done quite well healing and await surgery on the other, only a week away. In the meantime, I can now read with squinty eyes, drive with no glasses at all and see outside colors brighter than ever. Come on Dr. Jarvis. I’m here and am tired of waiting for you.

Things begin to get creepy as the canes, walkers, oxygen users come in the front door, sit, are finally called into tiny, well equipped rooms and never come out. My depression thickens. Yet at a healthy, busy time of my life (I’m 89) my hearing has abated a lot so I wear my hearing aids even when myT.V. is at its highest volume.

My 11 a.m. appointment today found me, the constant early bird, here at 10:35. I sit waiting, waiting, waiting. It’s noon, Dr. Jarvis, call me in or I’m going to EX you out. The room I am taken to has a T.V. playing but no sound. It shows what can happen to one’s eyes if this or that appears. The nerves, the makings of eyes, is not for me. I go back to my writing book to reconsider my decision.

A woman, almost a cadaver, sits across from me wearing a cheery blue pair of slax, a neat lighter blue knit top, covered by a bright blue and gray print open blouse. On her feet are new white tennies and white anklets. If she is under 85, I’ll chew her shoes. Her silvery cane has tiny patterns on it but I can’t see them. If I could, I wouldn’t be here looking at her. Around her neck is a delicate silver cross on an almost invisible chain. I see myself in her sallow, drawn cheeks, slightly rouged. Other than that she wears no make-up. I wear only lipstick and must look like I am not long for this world. She and I are the only ones left in this area that had 15 when I walked in. With little else to do, I glance at her again. White, fine as silk hair, cut short, straight, no bangs. My inward opinion is her home must be immaculate. There may be a votive candle here and there and her children surely call her every day.

Ah, I see another T.V. at the other side of the room. It is black, silent and wears a notice of ‘PLEASE DON’T TOUCH.’ Somebody, somebody, hold me back. I have an overpowering urge to touch it. I take a deep breath and control myself. This Miss Blue Lady is called in. Varicose Legs Lady and I are alone. We smile to each other for the first time, barely nod when each of us is called in. I sigh again as I expect to wait in yet another cubicle for Dr. Jarvis. He is a charmer, patient, clear, helpful and somewhat persuasive. ‘O.K, Dr., I’ll not put it off. I’m going for the whole deal. This time next Thurs. most of my eye worries will be over, won’t they.’ I hope for an ‘of course, you’ll be fine’ but hear only a soft, ‘Yes,’ and that is with my hearing aids in. My purse, is on a chair near the door. It, along with pre-op instructions are in my hand.

I am almost knocked to the floor as patients again fill the waiting room. What’s their hurry?