Breaking Me Down—Slowmmation Version

The consultation fee varies depending on the doctor, but it ranges from $20 to $100, $150. In local currency that starts at 700,000, the professional voice of the billing department informed me over the phone. In shock, I thanked her, then hung up and redialled the main number, asking for the doctor's office. 

I have an appointment with Dr. B tomorrow. How much is the initial visit? 

One moment please, another kind voice said, then put me on hold. A moment later, she was back on the line quoting the same information the first woman had given me. We give a receipt, she was quick to assure me. 

Thank you, I would like to cancel my appointment at this time. The receptionist sounded somewhat surprised that I would cancel, but accepted my cancellation. I couldn't get off the phone fast enough. 

I pulled up a calculator on my laptop, typing in the minimum fee and figuring out what my 25% would be after submitting the reimbursement to the business office. I would be paying anywhere from 175,000 to over 1,300,000. In dollars, it didn't seem like much, around $5 - $40 but when exchanged to the local currency it represented a possible third of my take-home local salary for the month. And I just couldn't justify spending that much on a doctor's visit. 

If I can't walk, then I will make an appointment, I reasoned, even as I worried that if I didn't see a doctor, I would end up with a crippling problem for life.  

The confusion at the insane hike in prices mingled with my worries to bring on the ever-present tears that hid behind a very fragile curtain. I gave up fighting to keep them in and let the fear settle on me as I whispered, God, this isn't a good day. But then again, there hadn't been many of those lately. 

I thought about the checkup I had planned with my OB to check the ache I had on my right side. About the dental cleaning and fillings I was sure I needed. There was a crown that had been bothering me the last couple of days. I remembered how the business manager had emphasized the stringent times we were living in and felt that submitting huge medical bills wouldn't be looked on too kindly. 

Keys rattled in the hallway. I pressed the tissue to my eyes and wiped away the last drops. Nobody else needed to know what was worrying me; everyone else had their own worries to deal with. I fastened a smile on my face and prepared to face the day. After all, days would pass and one day we would leave this hellhole so for now, I just had to do my best to hold it together until that day came. 

Meltdown on Aisle 23

It's 44,000 I insisted, pointing at the receipt. 

She shook her head firmly and repeated 45,000 as she pointed at the different prices on the thin plastic bags. 

I tried to reason with her, that 47 minus 3 was 44, but she adamantly refused to budge. 

Can you please add it up again? I asked, but she didn't understand. So I opened up my phone calculator, even though she had a huge handheld calculator right in front of her, and started to put the prices of each bag of produce in. She held up bag by bag and I patiently typed in the numbers, ensuring she saw each one and approved. 

When she saw the total, she shook her head in disbelief. 

Are you going shopping anytime soon? I asked my flatmate but she isn't going til Friday, M had messaged me earlier that day. I'd gone a couple days ago, but it had been a rush trip and I was up for a quick jaunt to the Aoun at the bottom of the hill. We set a time, I hurried home to eat reheated leftovers for dinner, and then I messaged her that I was ready to go. 

About 10 minutes later, I had maneuvered my car around 2 unyielding drivers, found a parking spot, and we had grabbed our bright orange handcarts with long slide-in black handles in preparation for the evening's shop. 

Let's go to the fruits and vegetables first? M suggested and I agreed. I needed to get some fruit. We pulled our little carts behind us and once we reached the other section of the store, I headed for the outside to check on any good deals. I found apples, mostly bruised but a few still in fairly good condition, for 7,500 a kilo. After carefully picking through, putting miniature rosy-cheeked apples into my plastic bag, I decided I had enough to make dehydrated apples and possibly a bit of applesauce too. 

Inside, I put 3 clusters of tan grapes, 5 nectarines, 8 plums, and 6 carrots into separate bags. Then I went to weigh everything. The man rang up the apples wrong, insisting they were correct. I sighed heavily, deciding to wait until he had finished ringing everything else up so I wouldn't lose my place in line and could go check the price on the little cardboard sign again. He noticed my frustration and called out to someone, asking what price the apples were. They confirmed the apples were 7,500 so he printed out a new sticker. 

After verifying all the prices, I took my bags over to the cashier. The lady scanned the first bag, scanned the second bag, put the third bag through, and scanned the second bag again. I stood there, a little confused by her system. After she finished scanning all the bags, I did a quick mental count of the total showing on the screen and said, Something is wrong. Can you please show me the receipt?

She printed out the receipt and I immediately saw the same item showing up twice. I pointed it out to her, but she didn't understand. After checking the receipt a couple of times, she went through line by line and understood that she had rung up one item twice and another had been missed. 

The difference was 3,000 or the equivalent of 10 cents. She agreed she would refund me the difference, then, looking at the original receipt she had printed out which displayed a total of 47,000 she informed me that I had to pay 45,000.

I looked at her incredulously. No, I have to pay 44,000. 47 minus 3 is 44, I said, even though I knew she didn't understand much English. 

She shook her head. For some reason, 45,000 made sense to her and was stuck in her mind. Here we were, debating the total of 3 cents but I couldn't just pay the difference and let it go. I was sick and tired of the system cheating me and I was not going to leave until I paid the correct amount. 

After much going back and forth, with my calculations only confirming what I had originally said, she shook her head again in amazement, as if it was my fault, and begrudgingly gave me my change. I thanked her, swept up my bags, and hurried around the corner. A little old man clad in a security jacket and beige pants sat on a chair in the hallway. To my left was a booth of sorts, next to the door that led shoppers back into the main store, and between the booth and the security guard was a corner of employee lockers. 

In a moment, I felt panic overtake me. I hurried to the corner, faced the beige metal doors, and began to cry. My whole body started shaking as the sobs overtook me, silent but strong. I instinctively knew to let the panic come and pass through, rather than try to repress it. For about 30 seconds, my body shook with convulsive tears, until I told myself, It's enough for now. I checked my purse; no tissues. I wiped my eyes with a quick back swipe of my hand, straightened up, and turned to the door. 

For several minutes, I wandered around the store, past the coffee and teas aisle, past the cereals, into the olive oil aisle, stopping to look at the price of pesto. Tears still rolled down my cheeks and I wiped them away, passing people who didn't give me a second look. As if it was normal to be crying in the pasta aisle. As I put bags of white and brown bread into my cart, I whispered beneath my mask, God, please help me, I can't do this anymore. 

Somehow, that helped. In that moment, God's strength lifted me up and the thought came to mind, Find something nice to enjoy. I spotted my favourite bubbly non-alcoholic drink and decided to buy one for M to celebrate her first year of full-time teaching. I got one for myself also and headed to the checkout to ring up my final purchases. There, the cashier was quick and professional, her long manicured nails tapping out the bar code prices of the bread bags. My favourite bagger appeared when he saw me and cheerily carried my bags out to the car, asking where Mr. (my husband) was. I turned on the a/c, a luxury in these times, and M and I sat in the car enjoying a toast with the bubbly as we chatted about life and its challenges. 

By the time I'd reached home, I was okay. At the same time, I knew I was not really okay. Life was abnormal and things were reaching a critical mass. It was more than culture shock mixed with a dash of jetlag. It was me telling myself that I'd reached the limit of my endurance. A limit no amount of prayer or encouragement could move. The feeling of being out of control of something as small as a simple grocery shop would only compound and one day, I knew, I would finally say, I've had it, and that would be it. 

Flashback

To the man who tailgated me for more than 20 miles on the highway as I drove in the center lane, slowing down when I slowed down and speeding up when I sped up, refusing to pass me though lanes were empty for miles on either side, with high beams blaring so bright I had to flip the rearview mirror, and when I finally got over into the fast lane, sped past me like a speeding bullet. Why, oh why, was it that hard for you to overtake me by passing? Oh. Wait. Because you could not be bothered to overtake in the fast lane; your right of way was more important and therefore I should move. Even if I was already doing 70 in a 65-mph zone. 

To the man who flew up behind me and flashed me with your high beams indicating I should get over when a huge semi was in the lane to my right. Did you really expect me to move over when I was parallel with the semi's cab? Why could you not have waited 3 seconds for me to pass the cab, see if I was getting over politely, and then carried on your merry way? Oh. Wait. Because you own the road and everyone must get out of your way immediately, as you have no time to wait. 

To both of you uncaring oafs, I have a word or two to say. I was in the car in front of you. The car you tailgated; the car you flashed your high beams at. I was gripping onto that steering wheel for dear life—anxiety levels through the roof—as I talked myself through the road trip, knowing I had to complete it successfully so that the anxiety monster would not take over my life. I had been reminding myself to "look at the road" and "focus" and "you have no choice, you have to keep going, keep driving, merge when you have to" for the past hour and a half. And then you came along. As if driving, at night, with severe anxiety wasn't enough, you sat on my bumper, insisting on your rights even though they were not yours to begin with. Typical.

I thought of giving you the finger. I wished I could honk and startle you into sense. I wondered how in the world, God could punish you for your insensitive deeds when the wicked only thrived and, anyhow, they didn't want to go to heaven. So you would each speed off into the inky black night, never to be seen again, with nary a concern, while I, I would be left gripping that steering wheel, willing myself to "keep driving, just a few more miles," until I stumbled into the driveway. Free at last from the threat of another idiot on the roads but never free from the voices inside my head.

Because anxiety. . .it never leaves you.