Part 2: The getaway

 

I'm unsure if this is a blessing or a curse.  Tom and I are alike in many ways -- not necessarily in a good way.  When the chips are down, neither of us has the presence of mind to be a 'Cool Hand Luke.'

So began Thursday.  I studied the street map.  Easy-peasy -- 3 blocks south, another block west and I'd drop him at the Pavillion marked 'patient drop off/discharge.'   Except.  As we neared the circular drive 2 cars were parked sideways, traffic cones blocked further access.

Plan B.  I'd circle the block and drop him at the next building where we'd been the day before.   He'd could show them his instructions and someone would show him to the 6th Floor.  Right? Wrong.  No-one knew anything about any 6th Floor.

He and his little blue Rollator come marching out, full of righteous angst.  Me, slowing: "Where are you going?"

  

"They're sending me back across the street."  I continue circling.  Ring! ring!

Turns out, he'd gone to the ginormous E.R. bay.  He's arguing (loudly) with a police officer -- who not only knew nuthin' about any 6th floor -- but was insistent Tom couldn't come in.

By this time, we're screaming at one another -- he's insisting we just go home.  (I'm too chicken to tell you what I said.)   In the end we wound up at the parking garage, to Guest Services who paged a transport cart.

Of course, by this time he's late -- which is stressing me to no end.

I'm not telling anyone how to do their job.  Okay, maybe I am.  But my biggest pet peeve has always been lack of communication.  I don't mean to sound self-righteous, but I learned a long time ago in the workplace.  Never say, "I don't know."  Rather, add: "...but I'll be happy to find out for you."

Is the location of 6th Floor a closely-held secret?  (*Sigh*)

Tom gets checked in.  We wait.  Then, 'Have you seen my cell phone?'

I go back and search the car.   No dice.  'Did you try calling it?'   (I thought I had.)

Tom has visions of someone using it to call Jerusalem.  Me, I'm certain it's laying crushed to smithereens on the city street.

Once he's taken back I try accessing my Verizon account.   Like so many sites, they've employed a two-part authorization.  Blame it on my nerves, my fat fingers -- but after 3 unsuccessful tries I'm locked out.   Most days I love artificial intelligence.  Others, not so much.  Finally, I reached a robotic-but-congenial CSR who guided me through the process of suspending Tom's line.

Surgical waiting rooms are always ripe for people watching, but I was still in a funk.  Between stuffing my face with Tillamook sausage sticks + an entire bag of macadamia nuts I thumbed through scads of Solitaire games.

About 12:30 someone approached saying the surgeon would be out to talk to me.  I guess each doctor has his/her own preferences.  I'd watched some come out and speak in soto tones.  Others were called to the house phone. The receptionist led me down the hall to a Consult Room.  Despite its resemblance to those found at funeral homes, he said 'no worries.' Dr. A prefers these for privacy.   

Fine.  At least it had comfy furniture, an outlet to charge my phone.

I waited.  And waited.  At some point my eyes slammed shut.  I fell sound asleep.  Already 3:15, I learned they'd forgotten about me!   The receptionist was practically falling all over herself apologizing,  and I'm wondering whatever happened to Dr. A.

Anyway.  His nurse assured me everything went well.  (L + R heart caths + TEE)  First thing when Tom woke up he wanted to know how the dogs were doing. LOL!  The docs will be discussing his case and calling with their recommendations.   I hope they don't forget!

Expecting Tom to be released at  4, I went on to the car.  And remembered something Sandra shared.  "Hey Google! Turn on the flashlight!"   Right there, behind the doo-hickey holding the passenger seat in place lay Tom's cell!   Because I'd been locked out, it was the next day before I could get in our Verizon account -- but still.  What a relief!

Something else.  Given the unpredictability of the internet, Sandra suggests keeping a hard copy of our contacts' telephone numbers, their addresses.   I learned the hard way.  There was no way I could alert his BF, who I'd promised to call with updates.

   

Already it's kind of laughable.  I really need to keep a lid on my emotions.  Are carbs the answer to whatever ails?  Seemed so at the time!

There's truly, no place like home!

Hugs, Myra