It has come to this. I make myself take a photo of what floor I am on when I park in a multilevel parking garage.
Remember that ‘Seinfeld’ episode where the numnuts couldn’t find their car in a parking garage? Elaine walked around with a gold fish in a bag, George was going to be late for his parent’s anniversary, Kramer was, well, Kramer, and Jerry ended up getting arrested for peeing in the garage. He claimed to had Uromysitisis. I crack up thing about it.
I am sure I have seen Uromysitisis as a side effect of some drug advertised on TV.
A couple of the stressful parts of dealing with doctors and living in area that you are not familiar with, A) finding the doctor’s office building, finding a parking space, C) finding the actual office.
In Cincinnati, I knew the drill. I knew where pill hill was, where the doctor’s offices were, and how to get to them.
Down here, in my Beloved South, where new construction is everywhere, where roads change names at intersections, and you avoid interstate 77 unless you are really desperate, I am a novice.
But I am getting better.
I have ended up parking on the 5th floor, having to take an elevator to the 3rd floor to get to a bridge that will take me to the building. And then, finding the directory that has the doctor’s name on it, and realizing the I have to take another elevator to a floor that has a bridge to another building, and then find another elevator to take to the floor where the doctor’s office is.
And then, they take your weight, and you see that and then after all of this trauma, they take your blood pressure and detect it might be a bit high.
Yesterday, I had an appointment with an oncologist. My guidance system took me on three diffent interstates, which I tend to avoid. I don’t like to not know where I am going at 65 mph.
Of course, there was construction at the building where I was going. But luckily, I had found the building.
I don’t know about you, but I do not like to park in parking garages. They are all designed by men. I am sure of it. They are an accident waiting to happen. And no two are alike. You maneuver through trying to find a space, looking for the elevator, cars backing out without looking, they are dark, and you keep making turns in tight confines.
Side note. Last week, I was in a parking garage and I didn’t think I would get out. I followed the exit sign to leave, and I went in circles, 3 times … each time, seeing the big LEVEL 3. I thought, what the turmeric? I am never going to get out of here. And then, I got smart. I saw a car backing out and I followed him out.
Triumph. I didn’t have to call 911 to ask how to get out of the parking garage.
The other little bit of brainwork involves finding your way back to your car. When you are marching in to an appointment, you tend to forget that you have to march out.
I have made it into a game. If I find my way back to my car, I win.
And that isn’t as easy as you think.
That is why, I have decided to take a photo of the big number that indicates what floor I am on. I need all of my brain cells for the other part of dealing with this.
You would not believe my ecstasy when I arrive at the doctor’s office, on time. Victory!
I have also begun to ask people in elevators, or waiting at elevators, information, as if they were the Chief Information Officer. Generally, they have been to the building before and they can at least tell me what floor the main lobby is on. Yesterday, I asked a women if she knew what building the Levine Cancer Center was in. Bingo. Her husband went there. She asked what I was looking for and when I said, “oncology”, she goes, “That is on the 2nd floor.” Double Bingo.
I had a good meeting with the oncologist. I don’t need any. After radiation, I will be finished.
Walking back to my car, I was relieved. I passed a middle aged woman who was helping an older man into building. He wore a mask. I bet I know where he is going, I said to myself.
Seeing him gave me pause.
I am a very lucky woman.
I made the best pound cake, ever, yesterday.