April 21, 2015 § Leave a comment
I do not do well in waiting rooms. I make lists and worry about things. Attempts to read are interrupted by a need to repeatedly check the time, the door, the calendar. Waiting is wasting.
I absolutely ruin the point of Advent and Lent by doing all of the things, all of the calendars and trees and readings and liturgies and traditions. I am convinced that if I sit in that dark silence I will surely die. I am so grateful for candles to move every morning, candies to pass out, strings to tie, doors to open, pages to turn.
Eastertide comes, bright and strange. There is not much to do but wait for Pentecost, maintain our enthusiasm, and ration the jellybeans that are getting sticky from the growing humidity.
My body is waiting. The work begun in Holy Week, with its initial feedback of necessary pain, grew into tolerance, and now there is a kind of new strength. The novelty of #powerrehab has faded into normalcy and there is risk of losing expectancy.
It is very easy for me to be convinced that I will never make it beyond the waiting room, that my condition in this moment is permanent, that this is the full extent of my healing. I begin to resent all work it took to get to the doctor’s office, and grow bitter that I will not even be seen. I cannot count the number of times I have packed my bag and stood up to leave, only to be assured by someone that he will see me.
This is why I come here everyday, carrying on like a fool, documenting #powerrehab, sifting through the details of the days for evidence of healing, of the divine.
It is not unlike trying to get pregnant, peeing on a stick every single day, begging it to change color, then posting pictures of it on the internet so that hundreds of strangers can analyze your results and rejoice or mourn with you (yes, that is a thing).
I have not yet accepted that my body will not know this kind of magic again.
So I have not left the metaphorical waiting room. I am anxious and angry in my seat, aggressively rearranging all of the magazines, but still anticipating that my name will be called, that the doctor will come and something will change.
Something will change.