I’ll begin this story with a back story so you all can catch up if you haven’t been stalking me on twitter and reading my blog religiously. If you have been paying attention, feel free to skip to the good part.
Back story:
Timothy bit me and it got infected. I went to the doctor who then prescribed me some antibiotics and lovely, lovely painkillers that helped me get through a week without crying while Timothy nursed. The hole that Timothy made with his “cute” little baby teeth was about the size of a pencil eraser and it was oozing scary substances. Breastfeeding was toe-curling painful, but there was no way I could “just stop” (the recommendation from the general surgeon a couple weeks later). I swore I was getting better, but the hole was still there and it was still oozing. So when I was done with the antibiotics, I went back to the doctor to say, “HEY, IT STILL HURTS DUDE.”
Then the nurse came in and jabbed a needle in my butt to inject a burning dose of antibiotics that cost me a cool $130 since our insurance company seems to be conveniently unavailable when I need to have medical procedures done. They never sent us a card, so we were going off of the number I had and every time the receptionist called to verify, the line was busy. Frustrations!
Another script for different antibiotics was written, as well as a referral to a general surgeon. What the surgeon was going to do? I don’t know. I was hoping he had a magical laser that would close up the offending wound and I would ride back home on my magical unicorn on a road made of rainbows and marshmallows.
Instead, I got the stomach flu on Sunday (in addition to the digestive problems that the new antibiotics were causing). I spent the entire day in bed sleeping, checking email when I had moments of lucidity, and knitting, all punctuated by frequent visits to the loo. My body could have picked a better day to be ill, but no! I had to miss my solo in church and a Very Important Rehearsal for an upcoming performance.
The good part:
The appointment with the surgeon was scheduled for Monday and was completely optional, but since I really wasn’t feeling much better Monday morning, I decided to keep it. After all, I still had hopes of getting to see that magical laser!
I dropped off Timothy and Simon at my mother-in-law’s house and set out for the surgeon. Thing was, I couldn’t find the paper I had written down my appointment information on, so I called my other doctor to get it. Since it was drizzling, I decided to be a safe driver and pull over to make my phone call. After all, I was going to need to write down the info the nurse was going to give me, and I don’t recommend writing, talking on the phone, and driving at the same time.
As soon as I started to ease over to the shoulder of the road (which was only about a mile from my house), the van hit a muddy patch and I went careening into a ditch! Oh boy! Meanwhile, I was still on hold, so I cooled my heels for a moment. As soon as I got the info from the nurse and then called the surgeon’s office to make sure I knew where I was going, the battle of Van vs. Mud began.
I have never gotten a car stuck in mud before. Jamie has, though, but that was back when we were still dating. He had an old Ford Thunderbird that we use to go park up under a bridge in North Augusta so we could “sit and talk” (read: make out–sorry Dad, you know how teenagers are). One night it had been raining and Jamie’s car got stuck in the mud! This was in the days before all teenagers were given cell phones as part of the initiation process into adulthood, so what were we to do? We walked to the nearest building which happened to be hosting an AA meeting. The events of this night are all depicted in a hilarious painting that Jamie made for me in watercolor that I still have stashed away somewhere.
Getting back to my story now, I was trying desperately to maneuver the van out of the ditch, but since it had been raining, the mud was not letting me go anywhere. The county recently tore up the sides of the road to install water to eventually be routed to our street. The grass hasn’t grown back, but there was straw covering up the mud. You know what? Straw has no traction! Having no success moving the van, I started to panic. I screamed, “OH MY GOD, I’M STUCK! I’M STUCK!” And then I cried while I dug through the glove box for the car insurance card so I could call roadside assistance.
And then, they showed up. Not roadside assistance. No, I was still on hold with them when a truck pulled over to ask if I needed any help. Tears were streaming down my face and I said, “Not unless you can pull me out!” He asked if I was okay, and I told him that I was just frustrated. I was also completely mortified and worried about being late to my appointment.
After a few minutes of analyzing the situation, another truck pulled up and the guy in that truck offered to help out, too. He happened to have a chain, so he and the other dude started swapping stories about getting bulldozers and tractors stuck in mud while they tried to figure out how to get me out of the ditch. It took a lot of work, but they managed to pull the van out by the rear (if they went forward, the van would have crashed into the brand new fire hydrant that I thankfully missed by about four feet). I thanked my saviors profusely from the bottom of my heart and continued my journey.
The rest of the drive to the hospital was blessedly uneventful, and I found the building without problem. The building was part of the University Hospital network, which I’m familiar with, but I had never actually been in this particular office. I would remember the smell of it for sure; the smell of urine was overwhelming and made my stomach turn. I was still trying to get over the stomach flu, so that didn’t really help matters.
I rode the elevator to the fourth floor, found the waiting room, and signed in while apologizing to the receptionist for being an hour late. After all, I was STUCK IN A DITCH. She was all,
“Oh my God!”
And I was all,
“I know!”
While I filled out my paperwork, an elderly man, his wife, and their grown daughter came in the waiting room. After them, a rather obese couple came in. The obese man was also late for his appointment and apologized to the receptionist. My excuse was better, and at least I called to tell them I was going to be late. Shoot.
The nurse called the obese man back into the offices and on his way back, the elderly man nearly shouted,
“He eats too much.”
I could barely contain my laughter as the grown daughter shushed him. I seriously cannot wait until I’m so old that I can get away with things like that. Jamie and I want to get bumper stickers that say “I”m Old” when we’re elderly. And we’ll walk through the grocery store remarking at all the things they have in the freezer section (salmon patties! they have salmon patties!). We’ll race our Hoverounds through the mall and use ear horns instead of hearing aids.
Yep, growing old is going to be fun.
