"Twice a month, I go to my eye doctor for injections that slow the loss of my vision. The waiting room is always filled with quiet tension-fearful eyes, deep breaths, people trying not to crumble. I sit and breathe, waiting for my name to be called. And every time, without fail, there is a woman-maybe in her late fifties or early sixties-who enters already furious. Before she even sits down, she's fighting with the receptionist."
""This is ridiculous. I've been waiting forever. None of you know what you're doing!" If someone steps too close to the counter, she lashes out: "Don't you dare cut in front of me!" She screams into her phone, cursing the driver who brought her there for free. She talks loudly about how the world has abandoned her. Once, she turned to me and said: "People like you don't know what it's like. You're privileged. You don't care.""
Vision is deteriorating due to macular degeneration while caregiving for a ninety-six-year-old mother creates disability, financial strain, and a sense of a shrinking future. Daily life feels numb, and joy feels fleeting and intangible. Regular eye-injection appointments place the narrator in a tense waiting room full of fearful, exhausted people. A repeatedly furious woman lashes out at staff, other patients, and the narrator, tightening the atmosphere and dissolving safety. The narrator endures the tension, observes the behavior, and notices the deep pain beneath rage and the potential of small compassionate responses to restore connection.
Read at Tiny Buddha
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