... to his treatment appointment at the cancer center. This man lived 'way down off highway 27, on the far side of the military property, in a wee, barely existing town named Omaha. I have accidentally been to Omaha once before, and knew it was so far off the beaten path you would have to deliberately want to go to get there. Not on the way to anywhere.
I will always attempt to engage the riders in some conversation, but usually have little success with the exchange of information. My questions generally receive the most minimal of answers, understandable as the people in need of transport do not know me, and most (including myself) would consider medical information a subject not to be shared with the general public or passersby. Trying to recall the many individuals who have made trips in my little Toyota to the local cancer treatment center, I do not think any have provided details about their diagnosis, and only a couple have reported that they only have 'x number of days' or treatments left. Personally, I am thankful for HIPPA, appreciating the fact that people are not permitted to share info., keeping my business confidential, as well as not providing 'TMI' for the general population.
The info. received via email from the folks who manage the scheduling had me believing the appointment was at 9:15 (on Thursday), and he would be ready to leave by 10:15. I knew it would take me the better part of an hour to get to his home, far and away below the military post, in Stewart County.When I called to confirm, get driving directions for finding him, he requested an earlier pick up time, to allow for going to the lab on-site for testing. I was agreeable, though I would have to set my alarm, get up and leave the house by 6 am. Almost like trudging off to work.
I mistakenly believed the directions received from GPS. I should have just done what the man told me, expect for the fact that his speech was so garbled, I only got about half of what he said. Causing me to wander the streets of Omaha in the semi-dark of early morning, where street signs are a rarity. Most are MIA and the ones there cannot be read in the dark. I finally called him and with help, got back on the right path, to pick him up thirty minutes later than expected.
We arrived at the treatment center, I told him I would be waiting in the lobby, reading my book. It never occurred to me I would be there until nearly 1:30, sitting, standing, walking, gnashing my teeth, aggravated beyond reason, trying to be calm, polite, agreeable while seething with frustration.
Nearly an hour past the time when I understood he would be finished, I had to go looking for him. Reception desk team reported he had another half-hour of treatment, then an hour of education. Arrrggghhh. One thirty in the afternoon is no where near a quarter past ten in the morning.
This has happened to me once before: an appointment that goes on for hours past the posted time. On and on and on, while I sit and wait and wait and wait. Getting more and more annoyed as the minutes and hours tick by, not knowing when the rider will be finished and released to go back home. I hope I will always be capable of appearing calm, holding opinions within when I consider what the people are facing, dealing with, going through. I know they are Dealing with Life-Threatening Problems. But to have me thinking: One Hour, and have it turn into two or three or more is so inconsiderate.
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