BY PEPPER EDMISTON
This week I reached an unthinkable age.
Baby Boomers were raised not to trust anyone over thirty, an age so old it was beyond our comprehension. How can I count on someone with twice those years, even if it’s me? Bottom line: I can’t.
This week I had a long-awaited doctor’s appointment. At our age, seeing one or another specialist is de rigueur.
There’s a quiet competition amongst us elders as to how many medical visits we have per week. My Uncle Jay, with one every weekday, is the current winner, but I’m gaining on him.
Because it was a first meeting with this “pain” doctor, I was scheduled to arrive at 1:30 p.m., a half an hour early. This is fine for an oldster as the appointment fills up more time. My friends no longer complain about waiting forty-five minutes to see the M.D. – again, more of the day gets whittled away.
I left late, drove to Tower radiology to grab my images, then went to where I thought the building was. It had disappeared.
I checked the address and found it was blah blah 16th Street. Found the correct place and a metered spot right in front. It was 2 p.m. – and I moved as quickly as this old vessel could sail.
“Wrong building”, said a friendly guard. “Go through the lobby” blah, blah.
I finally arrived at the correct location, breathless. Waited for the elevator, got in but there was no #2 button. Ah, it only went down.
I got into the correct elevator, shuffling as quickly as I could, landed at 2:10 p.m. in the right spot!
Although I was double-masked, I insisted on explaining to the friendly nurse how the gods of ill health prevented me from appearing on time.
“Prykes umferd shrry bevner…” I mumbled.
“Not to worry,” she said, cutting me off. She took my x-ray and went into the warren, presumably to give the doctor my scans.
Five minutes later, the nurse returned, even smilier. She handed me back my scans. “Mrs. Edmiston,” she said, “Your appointment is next week.”
I rest my case.