Have you ever found that the simplest function you have to perform can sometimes turn into a gargantuan undertaking? Shortly after Christmas, I went to a business place on an errand for my daughter. It was all quite simple...I would ask for Miss "A" who would pass over a check to me. Sounds simple, doesn't it? But I knew! From past experience I knew there would be a hitch or two.
I walked into the building, turned to the right as instructed by my daughter and immediately noticed the bank-like interior...you know...wickets and a roped-off area. AGGG! My anxiety leapt! But there were only three customers there. No need to panic! I look around the room, admiring the decor. I get to the wicket only to find that Miss "A's" office is upstairs. Great!! Up I go, doggedly placing one foot before the other, not knowing what I'll find at the top. I'm exhaling short puffs of air as I enter another office where a receptionist carries on an animated conversation on the telephone. Once again I look around me 'tho my eyes are not as clear. The receptionist gets off the phone and calls Miss "A" who informs me the check is downstairs. Oh, to be close to my daughter!
I retrace my steps and as I near the bottom three men enter. I hasten my pace, hoping to get ahead of them, but no such luck! Now there are four ahead of me and two at the wickets. Guess how high my anxiety level is now? I stoically remain there, hoping no one else will enter, giving me that trapped feeling. To the wicket I go, where I state my business. The girl fades into the shadowy recesses of the room, my desperate eyes following her. It's not there! Wait! Miss "B" has it! Miss "B" doesn't have it! Apparently Miss "C" has it but she quickly denies that fact. Oh yes...Miss "D" has it, but she's out to lunch and the elusive check is locked in her drawer. Guess what my anxiety level is now? The wicket girl looks perplexed! I want to run! She goes towards the manager's office and he tells her to write another check. "May the Bird of Paradise fly up your nose, dear manager!"
The task is done and then comes the pi�ce de resistance! I have to sign for it. As I retrieve the pen off the floor, I wonder how I will get through this final assault on my hyperactive system. I put pen to paper and attempt to write some semblance of my name. The pen slides over the paper, leaving in its wake a mess of chicken scratches. For one brief moment, I wonder how I appear to the girl. Does she think I'm illiterate? That the extent of my learning is the signing of my name? And I feel sad. But then I think, "There but for the grace of God go I", for although I was shaking, I knew it would leave me once I left the building. It wouldn't continue day after day as it does with those who suffer muscle disorders. And anyway, why should I care what she thinks (if she's thinking anything)? Chances are I wouldn't see her again and would be out of her mind once I left the wicket. Just how important did I think I was anyway?
Slowly I'm learning not to be so harsh on myself...to try and see the humour in things and not to go making mountains out of molehills!
by Eileen Power � 1990 
