The Slow Erosion of a Tuesday

It Begins at the Retina Clinic

It began yesterday at the retina clinic.

My appointment was at 2:35 pm. Not 2:30, not 2:45, not 2:30-"ish". No — NASA-grade, T-minus-and-counting 2:35 pm.

I arrive punctually, stupidly, at 2:20 pm. A quick scan of the waiting room doesn't bode well. Every seat is taken.

Checking in, I ask as politely as I know how whether my appointment might be delayed. I am told the usual “I couldn't say.” After some gentle pressure, reception concedes that I might be done by 4 pm or later — bear in mind the whole visit ought to take thirty minutes at most.

I am not seen until shortly after 4 pm and discover I am the last patient of the day. The staff moves the way people do when they really want to get out of the building. Then: heavy sighs, grumbling, what I believe might be curses in Tagalog. The computer is frozen. My treatment cannot proceed until the specialist views results on screen.

Eventually I receive the eye injections I needed. I discover — painfully — that they forgot to apply freezing to my right eye. I say rather loudly something that rhymes with “truck, that hurt!!” — which is uncharacteristic of me. Really, it is. The technician offers a needle with freezing, which seems entirely pointless at this juncture.

I am told to re-book my next appointment. I cannot see properly because of the treatment. I ask for a specific day and time. “Yes, that works,” I am told. Later my vision returns and I check the appointment card. The day and time bear no resemblance whatsoever to what I requested.

I give up. I’ll just show up as directed.

The only consolation of the afternoon is an overheard exchange between the specialist and another patient:

“Put the drops in both eyes every two hours for the next five days.” “So — four times a day?” “No. Every two hours.” “At night too?” “Yes. At night as well.” “So four times a day?”

How that specialist gets through her days is a genuine mystery to me. Though perhaps stabbing my eye without freezing offered some small therapeutic relief. Psychologists call that displacement.

Dental Insurance

My husband and I carry a modest private dental plan. There is an online portal that purports to explain its Byzantine workings, but without knowing the codes — which are not listed — and understanding their date conventions, it is impenetrable. Submitting a claim online is possible. Everything else is not.

I make myself a soothing cup of herbal tea, select some reading material, and call the help line.

After forty-five minutes on hold — during which I am thanked repeatedly for my patience, for my business, and encouraged to go online — I reach a pleasant and knowledgeable representative. He explains that there is an annual cap based on the calendar year, but that cleanings are calculated on rolling dates, which are nonetheless part of the annual total. Clear as mud. He walks me through what remains on the plan — not much. This process, which the portal supposedly makes effortless, took a specialist thirty minutes. The irony is not lost on me.

I thank him for his time.

City of Mississauga

Some background. Last fall, for no discernible reason, the City decided to excavate the drainage pipes running beneath our driveway. There was nothing wrong with the pipes. The supervisor on site — clipboard, tablet, snappy orange safety vest — confirmed as much when I asked why this was happening. She said she had no idea. Then she drove off in a City truck and returned later with Tim Hortons. None for me, alas.

The work is on City property. The ditch, the pipes, the driveway skirt — not ours. So I suppose it is their prerogative.

They fashioned a solid cement header that protruded a good four inches above the driveway surface. When winter came and covered it with snow, the City’s own snowplows crashed into it, dislodging both the cement and the pipe.

I called the City twice. An inspector came, looked, wrote something on his clipboard, and glared at me in silent disdain when I asked what might happen next.

Now the driveway skirt is subsiding and cracking further. I call again. I am told that I should hire a contractor, have everything repaired, pay for it myself, and then submit a claim requesting the possibility of reimbursement.

Well. No.

It is not my property. It is not my doing. Not my circus.

I am told that within ten business days, someone “should” get back to me. I note that “should” is not “will.” The difference between the two potential outcomes is lost on the representative, who restates the conditional verb without apparent awareness of the distinction.

I ask for a reference number and his name, in case I need to follow up. My address, I am told, will suffice. Fine — what is his name? It’s Bob. Last name? That’s not something he can share. Employee number? Confidential, I’m afraid. With a touch of sarcasm I make no effort to conceal, I ask whether he is the only Bob working there. The reply is serene: “Probably not.”

I hang up.

The Water Department

All I want to do is pay my water bill.

I receive an email with a portal link. I sign on, see that something is owed, but cannot access the amount. There is no phone number. I use their chatbot, which suggests that I send an email. I do. The reply confirms that everything is, on their end, working fine — and does not mention the amount I owe.

Helpfully, the email contains a phone number. I call. I wait. I am encouraged to go online. I reach a real person who informs me that another department — one without a direct line — can help me. She transfers the call. I am placed on hold again. Someone answers, I explain my situation from the beginning, and she drops the call.

I call back. I start again. I am told to email a screenshot.

I do, and finally learn the amount owed. I pay it.

Resolution, such as it is, pending.

The Bank

My day is already a dumpster fire, so I decide to go to the bank in person for a tedious, yet demanding, transaction that cannot be done online. Two tellers: one veteran, one trainee of alarming perkiness. Several elderly customers ahead of me.

The veteran teller is capable and efficient. The trainee, however, is a force unto herself — actively inviting clients to elaborate, offering to do work they haven't requested, performing helpfulness as spectacle. One older woman declines and says she can manage the machine herself, glancing at the line behind her. Ms. Perky insists. The rest of us wait in Stoic solidarity.

What strikes me is this: even the older woman, clearly capable, clearly self-aware, is overruled. Her small assertion of autonomy — I can do it myself — is simply not accepted. I file that away.

When my turn comes, I get the veteran. All goes smoothly.

I parked underground in a lot that is complimentary for bank customers. The validation machine is not working. The customer service desk informs me it hasn't been working “for a while,” and that I need only cross the street to the restaurant, where they’ll scan it for me.

I enter the restaurant. A polite but visibly exhausted waiter looks up and says, without preamble: “Oh — you must be coming from the bank.”

He says nothing further. He doesn't need to. An entire ecosystem of dysfunction, conjured in one sentence.

The Library Parking Lot

I go to my happy place — the library — to collect some books on hold. I park, turn off the engine, and lean over to gather my things. My phone rings. A work associate with a quick question.

In my parked car, between my saying “hello” and the start of our conversation, a dark, expensive BMW comes flying into the spot behind me. I can see it in the rear-view mirror. I shout at the universe: “Don't you f*cking hit me!”

The car stops within millimetres of my bumper, reverses, and exits the lot.

My associate begins to laugh. “You know,” he says, “I don't have bail money for you.”

And I laugh — really laugh, the way you laugh when something breaks open that has been pressing on you all day. Because it has been pressing on me. Not just the inconvenience of it, but something harder to name: the cumulative experience of being ignored, transferred, misdirected, overruled, and managed — all with the bland efficiency of systems designed to process rather than serve.

What survives, apparently, is laughter. And the library. And a friend who knows you well enough not to post bail.

I drive carefully home to write this exorcism.

Thank you for your support.