Are We Done Yet?

In between patients, she stands behind me, staring into space or at her shoes and sighing, sometimes wringing her hands or humming to illustrate her boredom. She is filled with questions - I wonder if I can leave early, how many more patients do we have, do you know a good mechanic, what time does the bank close. Her slow, imperfect and heavily accented speech gets on my nerves but it's the vacancy in her eyes that is the most worrisome. I think there's nothing there to work with - she's a time killer, a non-listener, a non-learner. We start at 8:30 and by 10:00 she's nodding at the doctor's instructions and his words are harmlessly bouncing off her - she isn't hearing or putting it together - and soon she's back at my desk, Are we done yet? I want to smack her, shake her, somehow shoo her away and into the real world. Instead I gesture toward a waiting room full of patients and snap at her, Does it look like we're done yet? Feelings hurt, she hangs her head and drifts away, lower lip trembling like a child deprived of a toy.

She's lost. Overwhelmed by everyday living and responsibility, betrayed by a husband, struggling to make ends meet after a divorce, no family, no friends, no bank account. She catalogues her list of problems and recites them daily, often through tears, as if to point out how all of life is against her. Her grievances protect her, her hard times bring out the rescuer in other people and she'd become accustomed to being accommodated and forgiven. She has discovered the usefulness of being a victim and doesn't want to let it go.

Meanwhile in the chart room, I search for a patient record. It's not filed by last name or first, it's not under "S" for Sister and when with no real expectation I look in "N" for nun and lo and behold, there it is. The doctor finds me doubled over laughing at the sheer ineptness and creativity of it. Filing by occupation could revolutionize the world of medical records.

There are people who embrace helplessness as a lifestyle and whether intentional or not, raise the level of ineptitude to new heights. They will always manage to find someone to save them, do their work for them, lend them money, or take them in. They can't find their ass with two hands, a flashlight, a Boy Scout troop and a compass. They wander the workplace with idle hands and faraway looks, unwilling to participate unless led by the hand from one task to the other and even then falling short of the simplest of chores. They are sad, incompetent people with downcast eyes and timid little voices, always in search of people who will demand less of them.

On the other hand, they make truly excellent obstacles and often provide comic relief.