Routine work, routine number

I went to the hospital yesterday. By myself, for myself. I was just going in for routine blood work, since my diabetes appointment is coming up in about a week, and the endrocronologist's office doesn't do the blood work there. This way, the doctor can discuss my results at my appointment.

Things went very well and the outcome was good (that is, the needle went in easily, the blood was drawn, and I got my free parking pass as a reward for going under the needle.) But, the path to the lab was a little confusing.

The hospital is undergoing renovations. My first sign of confusion was when I went down the ramp to park--I usually go up, and I think the employee parking is down. Anyway, I think I was following signs. So, I got to the elevator, remembered to press up, and got to the plaza level.

I've only been to the lab a couple of time, and at 3-month intervals, so I'm always guessing and looking at signs each time I come. As I entered, I walked almost the length of the hospital before I asked at an information station. I was directed back to where I started, just outside the elevators from the ramp.

I checked in at a registration area there, and was told to go up one level. I did so, and took my red folder to a window. "No, you need to go over there." I was told, so I went to another window directly behind me, where a woman was on the phone under a sign that read "radiology." I looked at a seating area between the two windows, and a patient/friend of a patient beckoned to me. "This is where you need to wait," she said. Grateful for some direction, I sat down and looked about me.

This is where we waited for my father-in-law to come out of prostate surgery, I thought to myself. (BTW, he is doing just fine now.) I hope this remodeling project is done soon so I can easily find the lab next time. Finally, someone came out. And called out, "number 19."

Okay, I was already disoriented. I am used to being called a number at a fast food restaurant, or at the licensing station when I am renewing my tabs or driver's license. But I hadn't been given or taken a number. I'm used to being called by my full name: Suzanne--at medical places. But number 19?

Then I looked at the red folder. It had a number 19 at the top. "Oh, I guess that's me." I stood up and followed the lab person through another vaguely familiar area.

Oh, yes, this is where I had the biopsy when my mammography looked a little funny. I remembered that I had been alone then, too. But, that had turned out well--it was my first mammography and there was nothing malignant detected.

I entered a small room with the lab person. She sat at a desk with a computer, and entered some things before approaching me with a needle. "Does it matter which one?" she asked. Confused at first, I suddenly realized she was asking me if I preferred a stick in my left or right arm. "No, either one," I replied.

So, my blood was drawn. She said, "Can you find your way out all right?" I almost said, no, but decided I could always follow signs or ask someone, and hopefully not end up in the emergency or biopsy room. At least this lab visit wasn't among a crowd of preschoolers, where at my last visit, they took turns crawling off their mothers' laps.

I went back to the elevator. The arrow said "down" which was where I needed to go to get to my van. The people inside said they were going up, but I decided to get on anyway, along with a gentleman who also wanted to go down.

We ended up going up, to the top level, and got a nice view out the door from the roof area of the hospital. Then we went back down, picking up fellow travelers.

I made it to my van. I gave the attendant my parking pass, and was on my way home. At least I knew the way from there. And I had a big bandage on my arm to prove that I had endured quite a bit that morning.

Till next time,


Suzi