No Sentimentality on the Time Train
On Friday, I
had to use one of my PTO (Paid Time Off) days for a surgical procedure. The days of using such time for recreation or
just down time — what many would consider a vacation — are far away in the rear-view
mirror. Now I need to save my time for
medical and/or surgery appointments.
This
realization alone is depressing, as is the other realization that we Americans
may be witnessing the last days of American democracy. The passing of the unique American brand of
life, liberty and justice for all is blog fodder for another time…
My
appointment today was glaucoma surgery* very early in the morning, then a
follow up with the surgeon at his office in the early afternoon. The location of the surgery is only 20 miles
away, but the most efficient way to get there is a toll road, the Pennsylvania
Turnpike. My follow up appointment was
at the surgeon’s office down the street from the surgery center, but six hours
later. There was not enough time to
return home, only to turn around and come back in time for the afternoon
festivities. That would not have been an
efficient use of my resources (time + distance + money = ?).
Thus, I had
a five-hour layover in some not-too-distant-town where I had no knowledge of
where to go to hang out waiting for the office follow up. In the old days there were such places called
libraries where you could sit quietly and read a few periodicals. I had no idea where the local periodical
emporium was located in this burg.
A bar would
have been my second choice, but many do not open earlier than 11:00. I needed
someplace to be at say, 8:00 AM. Also, I think I needed to be in some form of
sobriety for my appointment.
The next
logical choice would be a diner where I could get hot tea and a nice breakfast,
but that is only good for an hour if you’re by yourself and no one is there to
help you pass the time.
I thought
about all this as I waited for the surgeon to appear. Normally I would be upset and growing more
upset by the minute if the surgeon was running late, but this day was not
normal. Today I had (cliché #1
incoming) more time on my hands then I could shake a stick at. I would not have minded if the good
physician was held up in traffic, as every minute waiting on him would be one
less minute I would need to (cliché #2 incoming) kill later on.
Alas, fate
was against me today: the physician arrived on time and completed my procedure
so efficiently that I was done by 7:15 AM!
Just my luck…
Until his
arrival, I had an opportunity to contemplate the concept of time itself. I watched the clock waiting for the
doctor.
Today’s gazing activity was the
first time in my 58 years that I made a point of observing at what point the
minute hand moved to its next increment relative to where the second hand was
on the dial. The more I thought about
this relationship the more I began to despise the lowly second, the lowest
animal visible on most clock faces.
Think about
this, if you dare. The second passes by
with such velocity to get out of the way of the second coming after it that it
has no time (I meant to say “chance”.
Sorry.) to acknowledge what it meant to our existence. Imagine, it doesn’t look over its shoulder
and bid us goodbye as the second-hand sweeps past them and renders their significance
to our lives as moot. The seconds are
not at all sentimental about their chance encounter with us. Seconds come, go, and move on. Incoming cliché #3: seconds (time) waits for
no one.
I began to
assign rankings to each time increment. The
second would be the private to the minute’s rank as sergeant, which in turn
would allow the hour to be ranked as the major of the clock and…and…and clearly,
I spent too much of my own on the time train.
The moment
had arrived to get off this train of thought as the physician came through the
door. And I didn’t even think to wave
good bye to any of the seconds! It
served the little buggers right!
*Another
potential blog entry. It’s a short, five-minute
procedure where laser lights are flashed through the retina to improve the
pressure at the back of your eye. I must
admit to deriving pleasure making others squirm when I describe the procedure
as shooting laser needles into the eyeball. **
**Are you
squirming yet?
posted by todd gunther | 9:17 AM
6 Comments:
Wow! You have enough imagination bursting out of you that you can sit in a diner and make up stories while people watching for hours on end! You sentence wouldn't even be clunky (I envy that).
As for the squirming? I've been getting injections in my eyes for a year and a half, so far. My squirming button went out of commission when my balder half asked my eye doctor (as he was plunging the needle in, mind you), if an eyeball ever burst from the needle! I may have metaphorically passed out because I don't recall the answer. Nope, spiders have to be involved for me to squirm.
You are a joy to read.
When I first read this post about 12 hours ago I was assuming that the lasers aimed into your eyes would be much the same as the flashes one endures when they're taking a photo of the retina, an experience which is part of my annual diabetes check and isn't a great problem. Coming back and reading again, I now see that it's a rather more drastic procedure than that, so yes, I'm squirming.
No squirming here. They fired firey lasers burning searing holes into my irises for glaucoma over a year ago. I like firey lasers rather than laser needles since it's much more violent, like a video game.
Thank you Deedles. I try my best, but the ideas don't come as quickly as they used to.
I have the same photo exam at least once a year, Raybeard. Yes, the glaucoma procedure is a bit more intense.
Thank you Dave R. I think this was my fourth time in the last 15 years that I had to have this laser procedure. I hope I won't have to do it again for awhile.
this was a very thoughtful post indeed
I dread the day I need anything done with my eyes.
Thank you, Spo. i hope you're having a restful weekend.
Post a Comment
<< Home