The waiting room, what one special needs mom still has to learn

I am at the eye doctor with my second daughter Zoya.

I look to see if it is our turn to pick up my daughter’s glasses. A family is in the conjoining room off to the side of the waiting room peering at rows and rows of frames; pink, brown, blue, black. One very nice, very over-worked woman dutifully, pleasantly helps the family with attention and grace and care, as she does each family who comes to pick out new glasses.

The door is closed.

Zoya and I find seats and settle in to wait. From my view I see the mother talking and a little girl trying different frames on, rather leisurely.

OK, fine.

About thirty minutes in, I start to wonder if other services are offered there as well, like, oh let’s say, getting a loan from the bank.

The frustration monsters awakens and begins to move around from within, but I attempt to act nonchalant like everyone else waiting in the waiting room.

After all, that is why a waiting room is called a waiting room.

At forty-five minutes, my conspiracy with the frustration monster officially begins.  He’s unhappy with his rude awakening. I’m apologetic. My foot starts to tap. Zo zones out watching Teletubbies on the television set hoisted up in the corner, out of reach of little fingers and smudges.

Finally, the door opens. I expect to see the mother and daughter happily stroll out of the room. But instead I see black wheels, a foot pad … a stroller.

No, it’s not a stroller, it is a wheelchair holding a precious girl, she looks about ten. Her arms are all bent up and she looks far off into the distance. A smile plasters her face.

Her mother lifts her up a bit, trying to get her to sit a little higher. Her sister, the girl I saw and whom I assumed was buying glasses, stands behind the wheel hair silently, waiting to go.

It took a while, but the mother and the sister and the technician finally found glasses that would be just right for this precious girl.

When I gave birth to my daughter Polly and she was diagnosed with Down syndrome, it felt like God reached down from heaven and stamped my forehead that read “life is not just about you.”

But as a special needs mom of six years. I still find myself impatient and often intolerant. I still seem to want life to be about me. Sadly, God’s ink doesn’t appear to be permanent, therefore I tend to need a new stamp often.

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Like this post? You may want to check out:

10 special needs of special needs parents

To the new mother of a baby with Down syndrome

Can’t take much more of my special needs child

10 things not to say to a parent of a child with Down syndrome