I sit here, counting shattered dreams and ancient unrequited high school crushes as I wait for the doctor to call my name. I have been waiting for an interminable amount of time, even more in dog years. I’m chomping at the bit, trying to take the reins, so to speak, and I’m having a helluva time accepting the futility of it all. Where is this masked man, this specter of hope that is supposed to make me whole again? I am ready for him to command me to rise up and walk, as I did in my younger days, when growing old was something that well, old people did. I want to be transported back to my prime, or at least a convincing facsimile of it.

This is the hope I cling to as the financial officer lets me know, in perfectly certain terms, that it will be awhile. I came to that conclusion when I saw what amounts to a small army when I first entered the doctor’s office. I guess we all want to be whole again. Or maybe we just like crowded spaces.

I check my watch again. Time is crawling by at a snail’s pace. Where is the doctor? Is he even here? Did he catch a “Three’s Company” marathon on his way out the door and decided that Chrissy Snow was more worthy of this attention than a few hundred patients? Is he waiting in line at his favorite fast food joint, waiting for the iced tea bin to be refilled? Did he forget to feed his cat and execute a perfect u-turn in the middle of rush hour traffic? Is he a fugitive on the run from justice who’s been masquerading as a doctor all these years? Impatient minds want to know.

I half nod at the gentleman sitting across from me. We are both partners in this silent dance, unwilling though we may be. We might as well pool money for snacks and charge admission, as we’re going to be here awhile. Who’s got the dip?

Let’s seee…bills paid…did I make the bed? Maybe I left the night-light on…what if I had kissed Jenny Clark during our senior year class trip…plain or honey-roasted cashews? The first two seasons of “The OC” versus nine-plus seasons of “90210”? Is my next door neighbor’s kid a future serial killer in the making, or is torturing animals considered a form of affection in his household? Janet or Chrissy? Ginger or Mary Ann? Subway or Blimpies? Choices, choices, choices…

My mind continues to wander and rewrite history as I search for some sign of the doctor. The receptionist is strangely mute now, as if every utterance is too precious to be shared with anyone. Does she know something? Is she privy to information that could change all of our lives? Ms. Receptionist knows the power she wields – I suspect she rather enjoys leading us to the edges of anticipation, only to leave us peering over the edge, looking for some signs of life. I feel lost and adrift, powerless to control the direction I’m drifting towards – if there’s any destination at all. I’ve rewritten my autobiography a dozen times in my head already, including a few revised chapters that would make for more exciting reading. What else can I do to pass the time? Let’s see…how many tiles on the ceiling…

Wait a minute – could it be? The receptionist is calling my name! She’s nodding in my direction! Finally, my time has come – I am to be restored, if only partially; still, I am excited, grateful even, to this earth-bound angel in off the rack designer threads.

“I’m sorry – I called your name by mistake.”

I peruse the list of names above mine – I count at least nine, at least twenty, before I avert my eyes from the tragedy before me. Thirty names, maybe forty. Fifty even. The list of names above me seems endless.

I lay claim to my seat, now resigned to my fate. All I can do is sit and wait. And wait. And wait.

One tile. Two tiles, Three tiles…