Loving Unloveable Strangers
My pain doctor moved. I hate it that I have to go to a pain doctor. But after 11 spinal reconstructive surgeries, a completely fused spine and a break in my neck it has become necessary.
Being the queen of technological wonders, as of late my phone is not syncing with my car and my car cuts the volume off the phone. So I printed directions at home and entered the jungle of afternoon traffic going 1604 to I-10 N – which is always under construction causing wrecks and closed entrance ramps.
There appears to be no open exit to the new office. Risking my life between lumbering 18-wheelers and sports cars going 110 mph, I called my doc’s office three times, while switching between long-distance glasses to readers in order to simultaneously view the road and my useless map.
While on hold three times, I navigated the same anxiety-making, clock-ticking scenic view of the same stretch of 1-10 construction three times.
“Yes, I see it. But it’s not Dominon Plaza, it’s Dominion Place. Sure. Ok. Sure. Hey, thanks. Gotta go.”
As I was carefully pulling in in front of the new office building, a car whipped around me and parked on my left directly on the white line. I continued to park. She didn’t have a passenger so I knew I wouldn’t get door-dinked.
But she glared at me.
Meanly.
We exited our cars.
Out of character for me since I usually say nothing, I said, “You’re right on the line and I didn’t want to spill over into the other space.”
She rushed in front of me to get to the office door first. Not bothering to turn around she said, “There are plenty of places. Go move your car.”
Tilt…
My American, “justice for all” mind says to itself, “That is wrong. She should check in and then situate her car in between the lines.”
My Christian mind says, “Check in. Then silently excuse yourself and move your car.”
What did I do?
I checked in with a big grin on my face. Why take it out on the receptionist?
But then I loudly and too-happily, as if it were a privilege said, “I’ll be back. I have to move my car.”
Not a big story unless you could see the struggle in my heart.
While waiting in the reception room, the lady chose two chairs. One for herself and one for her large bag of reading material. She begins reading.
I pretend to look at my phone.
She never looks up.
I lower my readers in a Bob Newhart kinda way and stealthily study her. It doesn’t take long for me to decide that she an uptight and bitter woman who doesn't get along with her family. She has worked tirelessly with other bitter women at a hoity toity office in order to buy her brand new and perfect-sandy-colored Lexus sedan that matches the color of her tightly permed hair. Her eyes are too close together and she has switched from wine in the evening after work to too many martinis – which she may have had on the way.
What am I doing?
The Lexus-lady is called to the back. The nurse greets her warmly. I can’t hear her reply but notice she doesn’t smile.
What if her husband left her last night? What if she doesn’t know how to manage pain yet?
I read for a bit and smile at the other people who have trickled into the office. It takes almost an hour for me to be called back.
They put me in a tiny room next to her tiny room. The walls are paper thin but I can’t make out a word of what she is saying.
I imagine my prayers for her going through the thin walls – straight to her heart and God’s ears.
Come on. I’m no saint but I have time to kill here. My internal judgmental diatribe is over and I realize I CAN do something positive in the midst of this unfortunate, bitterly cold afternoon at the pain doctor.
My prayer is little more than, “Help her. Help me. Help her with whatever she needs. Heal her. Amen.”
I then pick up my book and begin to read.
On the drive home, I don’t think about the lady. But I do thank God for the day.
Yep. I thank Him for not giving up on me. I thank him for the countless people who have been patient with me during my own trials and tribulations.
