Possumblog

Confidence!

Nothing like it.

Well, the plan was this--I meet Reba at her mom's house, get her and Catherine and go to the after-hours clinic. At 5:00 when I left, she was still waiting for the clinic to call back with our appointment time. Did she want me to meet them at the clinic? No, just come by the house and pick them up and we'd go all together.

No worries.

If you think so, you've obviously not read anything I've ever written.

(This one will be longish, so if your browser cuts off too soon, press F11 twice to get it to work right.)

I get to the Trussville exit right at 5:30 (good considering I didn't leave work until 5:10 due to having Reba on the line), when the phone starts buzzing in my shirt pocket.

The voice on the other end says, "Where are you right now?"

Resisting the urge to say, 'in the car,' I told my bride that I was at the bottom of the exit ramp and would be there in about ten minutes.

"Could you stop and get Ashley some poster board? She has that project that's due Thursday and she won't be able to work on it after school tomorrow, so she needs a sheet now--maybe just stop at Target or someplace and get a piece and then bring it over here, then we can take her over to the house and leave from there and leave the other two here at Mom's house."

We have poster board at the house, but I figured if I didn't get some, a certain teenager would swear I hated her. No problem--zip into Michael's and get a couple of sheets, just a few minutes extra.

"Okay. Did the clinic ever call and tell you what time the appointment was?"

"I TOLD YOU--they said that she could come in either at 5:45 or 6:00, so I knew we wouldn't be able to get there at 5:45, so I told them 6:00!"

Uh, well, no, I had not been informed of the time.

No use trying to plead my case.

"Okay, be there in a minute."

But, as I got into the store and picked out my poster board (one full size, one half, just to be safe), it dawned on me that it was now 5:45, and by the time I paid for my poster board, and got to her mom's house, got everyone loaded up, and then drove back over to our house to drop off the student portion of the package, THEN went to the clinic, it would be about 6:45. ::sigh::

Why didn't she just meet me there?

It is a mystery.

Anyway, I figured I might better try to cut some time off this little escapade, so I called her back while I was racing back to the front of Michael's through the dried flower aisle and told her to get Oldest and Youngest and get herself over to the house and I'd be there shortly and we'd go.

I figure we'd probably cut about 20 minutes out of the equation if we did that. It's not that great a distance, it's just all the wasted time getting stuff together and getting people in the cars and out of the cars. Because, you see, as we have often discussed, I am the only one who has a real appreciation for travel time.

I'm so spectacularly smart that way, you know.

Anyway, I paid, rushed out of the store, hopped into the sturdy Volvo, careened through the parking lot, sped down to the foot of the driveway to the traffic signal, and waited. Waited. Waited. You know, Highway 11 is REALLY busy in the evenings.

Light changed, turned left, sped down the road, turned right onto Mary Taylor Road to make the charge up to the top of Talladega Hill, annnnnd--a train.

Long one, too, full of FEMA trailers headed south, and moving slow. Could be five minutes, could be an hour--they sometimes stop and block the crossing. Grr.

And I thought maybe Reba was in front of me, or maybe she even made it across the tracks before the gates closed. Then I saw her back down the road behind me. Time to take the alternate route.

Hung a U-ey, waved to Reba to follow me, blasted back out to Highway 11, turned right, beat the light at Tutwiler Farms, then got stuck in the long line of cars taking the Watterson Parkway detour around the closed bridge on Chalkville Road.

Well, this is just working out great.

FINALLY got home, dumped the poster board in the house, left the garage door open, ran back out to get the mail (since Reba was still somewhere far behind me, apparently). She eventually got there, hopped out and took some stuff inside, Oldest got her stuff and went inside, I got in the driver's seat, Reba went BACK inside for something--ahh--a coat for Cat--then we were on our way.

"Daddy, are we late?"

The clock on the dash said 6:03.

"Mmmyeah, Sugar, but it'll be okay--we'll be there in just little while."

Took the back way through the neighboring subdivision, bombed down Alton Road, turned through the industrial park, and finally wound up at the Birmingham International Raceway, aka, I-459. Hopped on, and started toward Acton Road (yes, "Alton" and "Acton" can be confusing).

Drive. Drive. Drive. Discussed the rash on Cat's back and chest. Dodged slower moving traffic (i.e., everything else). Drive.

"You know, I thought it was a lot closer than this."

Well, it was when we lived in Irondale.

"Yep, it's pretty far away," said me. Listened to the radio, which was replaying the Rick and Bubba morning show. Bubba was telling a story about something. "He's so funny--he really IS a good storyteller, I bet their new book is a hoot."

"Mmm, probably s--,"--had to maneuverate around a slow-moving semi--"...probably so. They DO like to tell stories."

I wonder what Reba will say when she finally finds all this stuff?

Finally got to the exit, turned, zoomed up to the top of the hill where the clinic is located (could it BE any harder to get to!?). Pulled into a space, jumped out, ran in--6:20.

Signed in, then saw the sign that said rash sufferers were to be escorted back and were not to touch anyone (well, in so many words). Reba took her on back and I stayed to fill out the forms.

Did that, gave the clipboard back with my driver's license and insurance card so they could make copies.

Sat. Waited. Looked around.

DISCUSSION OF ARCHITECTURE ENSUES

This building was built just a few years ago, and it's a marvel of that style of faux '50s Modernist Revival that insists on the insertion of various curves and swoops and whoopti-dos into stern concrete structural systems.

The ol' juxtaposition of forms.

OoooooooOOOoo. You are expected to appreciate the playful interplay of space and mass, with the curves setting off and creating a dialogue with the rectilinear skeleton--one complements the other, and creates an exciting synergy that is lively, and yet speaks to an underlying sense of restrained order and precision.

Inside, you are greeted with textures, colors, and forms that speak to a child's understanding of the world, with interactivity and details that are tailored to appeal not only to parents, but children as well. Going to the doctor can sometimes be frightening and therefore it is important to create a soothing space that seems homey and inviting.

In theory.

In practice, a high-traffic clinic like this is akin to a bus station. You have huge amounts of people coming through, very nearly non-stop. But, unlike bus travellers, half of the people coming through are sick kids. Kids are hard enough to accomodate, but sick ones even more so.

Everyone has this unfavorable image of cold, sterile hospitals and clinics, but let me tell you what--I'd rather have a clean, if uninvolving, place to wait if the alternative is a several-year-old ultra-modern place not designed to actually be used by grubby, puking, sneezing, feral children.

All the lovely carpeting, the mood lighting, the swanky seating that looks like it could have been designed while listening to Henry Mancini records, the scattering of highly edutaining toys--all the things that look so great in the product catalogs, that make you feel so hip and jazzy when you pull them out of the box, that win you awards when the slick photos show up in the magazines--those things look so much worse when they are used and not taken care of.

The carpet--a wonderful earthtone pattern of lines and swoops that could be at home in the swankiest restaurants?

It can't hide where forceful bodily fluid ejections occurred.

Those lowslung overstuffed chairs with the restrained exposed ash frames that might be found in the finest clubs?

When they've been pounded and jumped on by a billion baby apes, those carefully French-sewn seams split and the stuffing comes out and it looks like trailer furniture.

Those nifty toys scattered about?

Three days in, they have a sheen of grime on them that 409 can't cut.

Those magnificent plastered walls, with the carefully detailed joint reveals?

That continuous smudge at 2 feet-6 inches is probably not what you thought would happen.

That spectacular full length tubular lighting fixture down the main waiting room, suspended ever so gracefully by the thinnest of wires?

When the maintenance guy sticks in whatever bulb he has, that constant even glow you designed to wash smoothly across the waveform ceiling becomes mottled with alternating yellow and white light--or shadows when the bulbs aren't replaced.

It's all very lovely in theory, but I think very few clients are aware of just exactly how much maintenance is required to keep that smooth jazzy vibe intact. It takes a LOT of effort. There is much to be said for simplicity and durable, easy to clean materials.

[/soapbox]

The receptionist called me back up to the (fingerprint besmutted, stainless steel sheet clad) counter to finalize our information.

"You still got HealthPartners?"

::sigh::

Not for about five years, which explains why the insurance card I gave her and she had just gone and made a Xerox of was a COMPLETELY DIFFERENT COMPANY.

Sign here. Sign here. Sign here. Here's this. And this.

FINALLY got to go back. They had her down at the end of the hallway since she was being so rash. I walked in and some kid who looked like a cross between Doogie Howser and Opie Taylor was taking her vitals. I realize that male nurses don't get a lot of respect, but it would help if you look like Opie Howser that perhaps you shouldn't wear a grungy sports tee-shirt and if your scrub pants weren't HANGING HALFWAY DOWN YOUR SKINNY BUTT so that your checkered boxer shorts were showing. Gee whiz, Junior!

Wait. Took her to the pot.

Heard American Idol on a television. HEY! TEEVEE!! I went back to her exam room, and sure nuff, they had a television bolted to the wall! THAT'S THE WAY TO DESIGN AN EXAM ROOM! Turned it on and watched everyone. KelliEEE has tooranchlers on her face. I wish!

Doctor finally came in. Slightly older than Doogie.

He looked at her rash.

"When did you start noticing something?"

I started to say that morning, but Catherine piped up, "Yesterdaaaay."

What!?

Hmm.

"Well, it doesn't really look like chicken pox..."

Hmm. Looked some more.

"Any different soaps? Detergents?"

No. Hmm. He looked at her back.

Hmm.

"Well, I'm not quite sure what that might be--but it's not chicken pox."

I had an idea--"Catherine--did you by chance play outside at Grandmom's yesterday?"

Mm-hm.

"Did you play in the woods?"

Not really. Uh-huh.

"Did you fall down or get into any vines or anything?"

Well, kinda.

The woods behind the grandparents' house is full of poison ivy, oak, and sumac--knowing that, I kinda believe she must have gotten into that stuff by accident.

The doctor concurred with my opinion and wrote a prescription for ointment.

Nice to know he had such a good handle on skin problems.

Checked out, went and got a bite to eat at McDoodie's, went and grabbed Boy and Middle Girl, and finally got home about ten minutes until 9. Where I saw that Oldest had not moved the poster board from the kitchen table.

It was still there this morning, as well.

She did, however, waste two hours typing a one page paper and pretending not to be watching the TV while she was at home by herself.

::sigh::

Anyway, this morning, Cat's rash on her back is gone, and the front rash looks a bit better.

Posted by Terry Oglesby at March 15, 2006 09:21 AM