Waiting

I walked into my optometrist’s office — it was packed with people — and you know that feeling: They really overbooked this time. I stood, waiting for a chair to free-up. That’s when I saw her in the corner. She was old, in a wheelchair, her head was down, she had a bald spot. She didn’t seem like one who expected much from life anymore. A young woman sat next to her, looking at her phone. A nurse, a companion? Why wasn’t she talking to the old woman? Briefly I thought, I could go over there. And say what? The sense of her loneliness hit me. I wondered — would that be me some day?

A chair opened up. I sat down, read a little, but mostly I felt this woman’s presence in the corner of the room. I was stuck with the thought that she’d not always been this age, she’d had a life. What kind of a life? I would never know, but I began thinking, if I were to write her as a character… maybe she’d taught kindergarten for decades. How many children had she soothed, how many blocks had she put away? How many class gerbils had she taken home over the weekends, how many times had she wanted to do more, so much more, when a small child said to her, “We’ve got to move cause my mama doesn’t love my daddy anymore…” Back home did she label things in big letters? Could she quiet a room of shrieking children by opening a book and reading them a story… ?

The technician came out, walked to the woman’s wheelchair, and said, in the kind of voice you use with a young child: “Mrs. B … and how are you today?”

I’ll tell you how she is — she’s tired, she’s being ignored. Don’t diminish her!

Mrs. B briefly raised her head. She had a distinct, long nose. The young woman with her had the exact same nose. Ok. They’re related. The young woman said nothing to the technician; she sighed and got up dutifully. I did not like this young person. I didn’t like her coat, either. It made her look pale and sullen, which might be her natural state.

Mrs. B was wheeled past me; I bent down and tried to see her face. She looked up, and despite it all, she gave me the loveliest smile. It reminded me of my grandmother’s smile, which is really saying something. I grinned back. We had our moment.

I got a C minus on my eye exam (every E — and there were lots of them — seemed like an F). At the front desk I looked for Mrs. B, but couldn’t find her. My husband was waiting for me in the car. He was on a business call. “We can’t do that,” Evan said on the phone, “because the whole thing will blow up.” Evan is in IT, not the military. As he drove out of the lot, a driver with an eye patch almost side-swiped us. Another driver almost hit our rear bumper. Driving in the parking lot of an eye doctor is not for the faint of heart. But the waiting room! I thought of Mrs. B. and the gift she gave me. Sometimes a smile stays with you, and opens the gates of thanksgiving.

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