waiting room (not dying just inconveniently alive)

rebecca loren aebi

rebecca loren aebi (b. 1999, switzerland) makes things that talk when words can’t. metal, jewellery, found objects. anything that holds memory, traces, or stubborn defiance. her practice is messy, intuitive, alive: making as thinking, failing as thinking, surviving as research. she’s drawn to fragility, durability, and the messy spaces in between, where identity shifts and belonging is negotiable. echoes of her balkan roots, quiet rebellion, and traces of touch sneak into everything she makes, giving ordinary objects a pulse, a story, a stubborn refusal to behave politely.

ig @rrebrebs @rrebelgirl / substack @rrebrebs /web rebeccalorenaebi.cargo.site

waiting room (not dying just inconveniently alive)

i didn’t plan to be here this long. no one ever does. waiting rooms are built on optimism. everyone sits like they’ll be called any second. i’ve been here for forty minutes. or four and a half hours. there’s no reliable way to measure time when your body already feels like a delay.

the chairs are arranged in a way that discourages intimacy. small gaps. polite distances. we are all unwell but not together.

a woman across from me coughs into her yellow-purple striped sleeve like she’s trying to keep something from escaping. the man next to her scrolls aggressively. his thumb moves faster than anything else in this room. i try to sit in a position that suggests stability. this feels important. like i might be graded on it.

there’s an ordinarily ugly screen on the wall displaying numbers. mine hasn’t come up yet. i watch other numbers get called. they seem undeserving. my head feels full. not in a productive way. more like the browser on my phone with too many tabs open and one of them is making a noise i can’t locate. there’s a buzzing in my ears. consistent. reliable. finally something i can count on. i google “tinnitus permanent or not”. the answers are either catastrophic or reassuring. there is no middle ground. i open three more tabs. none of them help.

my nose is blocked. i use nasal spray like it’s religion. not here, obviously. i have standards. but i think about it which is almost the same. a nurse walks past and calls a name that is not mine. i feel personally rejected. i wonder what would happen if i just stood up and went in anyway. how far could i get on confidence alone. probably not very far.

the lighting is clinical but tired. like it’s also been here too long. everything is slightly off. too warm. too loud. too slow. i become aware of my body in sections.

throat: burning.

head: somewhere better.

eyes: everything slightly out of focus, like through the camera of an iphone 3gs.

legs: optionally sore.

wrists: hurt while moving to skip the next song.

neck: let’s not talk about it.

i try to swallow. it feels like sandpaper. i google that too.

there’s a child somewhere behind me asking the same question on loop.

why.

why.

why.

why.

why.

no one answers. this feels accurate.

i think about the last appointment. the doctor asked what was wrong with me. which is an ambitious question. i wanted to say: try asking what isn’t. but i said: my throat burns so much i can barely swallow. he asked if i’d been sucking too much dick lately.

i laughed.

of course i laughed.

there’s a specific kind of laughter reserved for situations where you realize you are completely alone but still expected to behave normally. on the inside i wasn’t laughing. but i’m too fucking tired to perform outrage properly.

my number still hasn’t been called. i check my phone. no new information. i consider leaving. this feels like giving up. i stay. this feels the same.

i try to remember when this started. not the long-covid illness. the waiting. the part where you realize no one is going to fix this quickly. that this might just be a long-term arrangement. like a subscription you forgot to cancel and now pay unwillingly. it’s been almost six years now. you’d think someone would have figured something out by now. but okay.

the buzzing in my ears gets louder. or i notice it more. hard to say. i imagine my body as a badly maintained machine. still halfway running. noisy. no one quite sure why.

another name gets called. again, not mine. i feel like i’m failing something invisible. no one explains the criteria. i’m not even sure what passing would look like. my back hurts from trying to sit up straight. but i’m scared that if i don’t, i will faint indefinitely.

i think about how much money i’ve spent on appointments like this. on ugly white and grey and yellow pills. how i could have bought something nice instead.

shoes.

a lamp.

a personality.

a version of myself that doesn’t sit in waiting rooms thinking about nasal spray. or a cigarette. or how many percent that cigarette will push down my already concerningly low lung capacity.

the door opens. a nurse looks at me. for a second i think this is it. it isn’t. she calls someone else. i sit up straighter again. just in case. my body makes a small adjustment sound. it hurt doing that.

eventually my name will be called. i’m not sure what i expect to happen after that. but this is the structure of the situation. this is what keeps everyone here. the belief that something will happen. i imagine going in. explaining everything. being understood immediately. this feels unrealistic but comforting.

my number appears on the fairly ugly screen. fucking finally. i stand up too fast. the room tilts slightly. i correct it. i walk to the door like a functional person. this part i can still perform.

inside, someone will ask what’s wrong with me. i’m thinking about saying: it depends how much time you have. but i’ll probably just say: my throat hurts. it’s easier that way.

(on long-covid and thoughts that try to eat me alive)