"The Art of Waiting"

 

Subliminal artwork on watching your time?
David Chapman, artist

         Punctual people spend a lot of time waiting. I haven’t figured out yet why doctor’s offices and dental office receptionists state firmly, “Arrive ten to fifteen minutes before your appointment” when they know the schedule consistently runs at least half-an-hour late. Because I don’t want to be the cause of any inconvenience, I arrive promptly at the assigned moment where I then sit and wait for almost an hour.
         Punctual people wait on friends and family. We arrive at the time designated on the invitation for a party and end up setting up tables, icing birthday cakes, or running a vacuum as the host and hostess (known for their lackadaisical approach to everything) takes a quick shower. They always look bemused as they ask, “Would you mind?” Although tempted to say, “Yes. I’m a guest, not a maid,” I’ve always bit my tongue and pitched in to get the final preparations complete for the guests who arrive “fashionably late.”
         Punctual people arrive at mandatory meetings and get the choice seats because the room waits in emptiness. I always hated the principal who delayed starting a meeting until the majority of the faculty sauntered into the cafeteria or library. My favorite administrator demanded butts in seats at a certain time, started her meetings at precisely that second, and had another administrator note down who strolled in late. Many of my peers hated her approach because they felt she wasn’t treating them with “respect.” I never could figure out how coming to a meeting five or ten minutes late (or later) should call for anything other than a reprimand.

         Punctual people learn coping strategies quickly. My husband, the only punctual child in his family, spent plenty of time sitting in the car while he waited for the rest of his family to show up. He sang songs to himself, wrote lyrics in his head, and perfected his daydreaming technique. I’m certain this practice makes him a better artist today. Once I knew which friends or family members dallied, I learned to bring along a book. I don’t know how many times I’ve pulled up in front of someone’s house, on time, and had to wait. By escaping into a paperback, I turn a possibly stressful situation into something pleasurable.
         Punctual people find other punctual people. It doesn’t take long for someone like me to cultivate friendships with other people who respect time. I realize that people who run late can be on time when it’s important to them. Once I know that their tardiness is a general disrespect that they hold towards other people, I give myself permission to pull away from these individuals. When I discover that a person even uses time as a means of controlling and manipulating me, I begin avoiding invitations or events with this person.
         Punctual people call on the rare events when we do run late. At work, I’d email my administrator if I had a conflict with her meeting with the specific reason for my tardiness. If I’m running late to rendezvous with a friend for drinks or dinner, I call or text immediately and give an accurate ETA. If I get stuck in traffic, the electricity goes out, or the dog throws up on my outfit, I take a moment out of my time to notify the person who will end up waiting on me. I cannot even begin to count the number of times someone hasn’t shown up at the appointed time and not bothered to call. I’d like the option of saying, “Hey, let’s just forget it! Maybe we’ll get together another day.” Instead, I find myself sitting on the edge of the couch in my Sunday best waiting, waiting, waiting.
         Punctual people get labeled as “Type A” and uptight, but in reality we simply have manners. We’re able to put the needs of others first. We respect their time as well as our own.

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman
             
  

"There's A Pill for That"

 

headache or heartache; weight up or down

fungus or fever; face in frown

helpless or tired; skin with a red rash

anxious or cold; a nighttime hot flash

grab a cure-all; or rub a lotion

pop an antidote; or down potion

drink elixir; or chew sweet tablets

suck a lozenge; or swallow pellets

foolish and stupid; minds closed to truth

shallow and stubborn; creeds blight our youth

righteous and pure; their justice is small

cruel and petty; their views destroy all

grab a cure-all; or rub a lotion

pop an antidote; or down potion

drink elixir; or chew sweet tablets

suck a lozenge; or swallow pellets

Copyright 2019 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Waiting for Results”

         “This is the doctor’s office. Your mammogram came back abnormal. We need you to schedule two more tests, a spot compression and an ultrasound.”

         With these words I add to my growing layers of stress. My worrisome molar with a possible new crown now fades to insignificant. Like most women, getting any kind of call for further tests means anxiety driven days and sleepless nights. I’ve done this drill on several occasions. Right before David and I got married, I had a pap smear come back with a “code” that required a second test. Everything turned out normal, but I had a tense couple of weeks while I waited to reschedule an appointment and get the results. I had a mammogram come back years ago with a “thickening” in one area that needed another look, so I’ve actually experienced this particular call back before. Still . . .   

         When I contacted the place where I go for my mammograms, the office had already scheduled an appointment for me on the fifteenth of this month. The kind receptionist said, “Of course, we can fit you in earlier if you’d like. That’s no problem at all.”

         Clutching the calendar in my hand, I realized that Mom has an appointment with her nephrologist on the fifteenth, I have the first phase of my root canal on the fifth, so the next date open is next Tuesday. I must make it five days in worrisome limbo just to get the tests done.

         The optimist in me cocks her head and states plainly, “Everything’s fine” because I’ve done this before. She begins the litany that it’s another thickening, just something different that needs to be checked more closely. Right now, her voice rings loudly and true since it’s only been minutes since that phone call.

         By this afternoon, doubt will nibble at my optimism. She’ll start slowly and imperceptibly to where I won’t notice the little nips she’ll take from my confidence. By nightfall, she’ll gobble up my hope and leave me restless and fearful. Doubt gathers strength in darkness. When the house falls into the silence of slumber, she’ll begin to whisper, “Maybe there’s something really wrong.”

         I will talk and write my way through this stress. I will process everything I think and feel with words. I’ll clutch my journal to my side like a life saver. Whenever I need to reassure myself, I’ll jot down words my optimist says. I’ll reread her reassurances as I cope with these next few days. I’ll write my blog, too, because sharing this means I’m not alone. I’ll talk to David, to Paul, to my mother (probably over and over again). I’ll call my sister as she’s gone through biopsies on two occasions with benign results.

         Within all of these words, I’ll find a way of focusing on hope and discouraging dread. I’ll say, “Stay in today” and not project into all of the unknown “what ifs” that doubt whispers into my ear.          

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“The Dentist”

         This morning, I find myself trying to rev up my energy. Mom has a dental appointment at 10:45. During the last few months, we’ve learned not to tell Mom in advance about doctor or dental visits because her anxiety spirals out of control. She sleeps soundly some nights, but other nights she spins all night long, finally getting up in the early morning hours. An appointment insures a sleepless night for all of us. Mom woke up this morning at 4:30. By 5:30 she’d had her medication and by 6 o’clock she asked to return to bed and the warmth of her pile of quilts. She sleeps while I write and David prepares for work, but she’ll awake up again within the next hour. After she’s eaten breakfast and dressed for the day, I’ll break the news of her appointment. She’ll insist on getting her dentures in place, shoes on her feet, and purse positioned within easy reach. She’ll want her eyebrows penciled in, blush on her cheeks, and lipstick on her lips. Since it is cooler outside, she’ll want to wear one of her hats.

         We will struggle to get her into the car. I believe that her source of anxiety now comes from the ordeal of getting from her wheelchair to the car. I know it causes me tension just thinking about it! I will situate her chair closely to the open car door where we’ll manage to maneuver her into place. I have to remind her, “Butt first, Mom. Butt first.” If I don’t she’ll try to climb into the car feet first and end up rolling onto the seat sideways. At that point, we either start laughing so hard that we can’t re-position her, or the tears start. Either way, getting into the car challenges both of us. Once I have her rump in the seat, she’s able to position her feet on her own. Then we have her grab the back of the front seat and hug herself forward enough to re-position her body. When she releases her grip, her body’s situated in just the right place. I can snap the seat belt snugly and head of our destination. And then we have to repeat the entire process after the appointment.

         We have a hospital in our neighborhood that offers a van service for people going to doctors within the area. Mom’s neurologist gave me the information on our last visit. Fortunately, her internist and neurologist have offices in buildings covered by this service. All I have to do is schedule a pickup forty-eight hours in advance. I haven’t used this option yet, but I know that this year I will. Every time I adjust for the newest change in Mom’s ability to do something, I feel loss. With my mother, Huntington’s disease hasn’t chipped away at her abilities with huge chunks of changes. Instead, it’s a slow, steady melting process. The differences, too subtle to notice on a day-to-day basis, accumulate. I guess I fear that one day I’ll turn around and realize she’s dissolved down to just her core.  

Mom and my brother enjoying a festival--2009

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“A Little Peach Pill”

         I hold bragging rights on having the highest cholesterol levels known to mankind! Without medication, my lab results shoot over 300 within weeks. Consequently, I started taking medication about eight years ago—at the same time I started teaching middle school again and by coincidence changed my entire wardrobe to smart suits and cute high heeled shoes. Middle school teachers never sit down. For that age group, control in the classroom comes from a mixture of personality and physicality. Sitting behind a desk dooms the middle school teacher to a classroom dissolving into a lunatic asylum.

         For the first few weeks of my new teaching assignment, my feet screamed by the end of each day. I reasoned all the news shoes needed breaking in and soaked in hot water each night. Slowly, the pain crawled up my legs so I reverted to lower heeled shoes or even flats. My feet and legs continued to ache, mainly each morning when I limped out of bed. I attributed the pain to the six hours I spent walking and standing, chalked it up as a hazard for my new teaching slot, and ignored it all as much as possible.

         After a few years, the pain upon waking each morning spread from my feet and lower legs to every muscle in my body. I felt like I’d rolled off a platform and splatted upon the floor. Even my hands and fingers hurt. One weekend, my sister critically observed my hobbled gait as I crawled out of bed.

         “How long have you been like this in the mornings?” she asked.

         “I don’t know,” I shot her a wary look. “Why?”

         “That’s your cholesterol medication. You need to call your doctor right away. Stop taking it. I did the same thing.”

         And so my leg pain and muscle aches vanished as soon as I stopped my medication. It wasn’t, after all, the endless hours spent on my feet, or my “just getting old” that I’d rationalized to myself. Then began the quest for a medication that I could tolerate. All statins had the same results—immediately dropping my cholesterol levels and a reemergence of pain, sometimes within a couple of doses. Using a non-statin drug lowered my results, but not enough.

         During my physical this year, my doctor’s PA asked me if I had fatigue. Once I stopped laughing, I told her I’d been exhausted for years! She decided to run a thyroid test along with the usual junk. Again, I scored high! Another new statin cholesterol medication was prescribed, with more blood work after six weeks. And she ordered another thyroid test. A morning spent on the Internet proved enlightening. Several vague but persistent symptoms suddenly made sense.

         So last week, I started taking a little peach pill, and the quality of my life changed immediately. The pain in my hands and arms upon awakening has subsided, and I no longer feel like mush in the mornings. I’m back to bouncing out of bed with eager vigor. I suspect my fatigue levels will continue to drop—and all due to a little pill. I never realized the quality of my life would change from taking one medication.