Come Drive with me - Part Two

You've probably figured out that I've been channeling CrazyAuntPurl lately--what a fascinating blog she has; I feel like she and I are long-lost siblings born twenty years and a thousand miles apart, yet sisters nonetheless. She has cats, I have the dog. She got a divorce laid upon her, I got cancer. She knits, I do the scrapbooking & basket things. She grew up in the South, and now lives in L.A., I grew up in L.A. and now live in the South. But we both have an unholy addiction to Post-it Notes, childhood books and classic movies, a fondness for the grape-beverage, a positive outlook and a quirky sense of humor. I'll probably return to my usual style (whatever that is?) in a few days, but it's been fun to live with her voice in my head. You can start worrying when I start drawling. 'Nuff said.

As promised, I'm not going to leave you out in C'Ville-land, I'm going to bring you home via the fascinating return trip down I-81 in bad weather. First, we have my morning at UVA Med Center:

The Breast Care Clinic (note how they are careful not to use the scary "C" word) is housed in the old medical school building, adjacent to the new hospital, and connected by a labyrinth of tunnels and hallways. There are four separate elevator systems in the building, and you have to always be aware of which elevator goes to which part of the building. It's a practical application of the old adage "you can't get there from here." I enter at the back of the building, pass the "D" elevator, turn left at the T-hallway, jog left up the tiled ramp, make a quick right-then-left at the Psychology office, down the hall, and left at the "A" elevator. Somehow, even though I entered the building at ground level, I have ended up on the 3rd floor. I take the "A" elevator down to the first floor, turn right into the reception area, and down the hall to the third door on the left, Patient Registration.

As I tell the receptionist who I am and why I'm there, she types everything into her computer. I pay my co-pay with the MasterCard, since I discover that I have forgotten to refill my checkbook with any new, blank checks. (I discovered earlier this morning that I have also forgotten to bring a hairbrush to Virginia, but that's another problem altogether).

I am then directed to present myself at the BCC, so it's out the door, turn right, walk past the reception lobby and into the big, wide door next to the potted plants and under subdued mood lighting. I think the impression is supposed to be that this is a calm place, a comforting place; as if anything could give you calm comfort when you're freaking out inside? But I have to admit that it's better than garish fluorescents and dead plants, what do I know?

Inside another large waiting room is another receptionist, who is magically taking my intake forms off her computer, just transmitted by Registration. I sit. I wait. Patients look around and surreptitiously check each other out. Newly diagnosed? Old hand? We guess at each other's status. (Here's a clue--the newly diagnosed are often accompanied by male partner, holding patient's hand and looking much more worried than patient).

Then it's escortation into the inner sanctum, down more hallways, into an exam room, and the Pink Gown transformation. A knock on the door, and it's the med student/intern/resident lottery, where 1-3 very young people enter. Today I have 4th-year med student Cory Maxwell doing the intake (my son went to school with a Cory Maxwell, who dressed up as Adolf Hitler in the 6th grade--but this isn't him, thank heavens!). "Cute kid," I think. (This is always what I think when showing off my naked chest to someone 30 years younger than me). He's nice, he's scribbling furiously, I'm performing my Good Patient routine, telling the story of how-I-got-to-this-point-and-where-I-am-now.

Inevitably, I become bored with the re-telling of the story and start to interject questions to test the mettle of this soon-to-be-real-doctor. "So when can I get some camouflaging tattoos to cover these ugly scars under my arms?" I ask innocently, waiting for a telltale blush or a horrified gasp. "I'm thinking some dramatic winged stuff like Kara Thrace a la Battlestar Galactica, or maybe just some vines, what do you think?" Almost-doc Maxwell snorts (a little), and recovers to tell me we don't want to irritate the current scarring for at least a year. ("Sure," I'm thinking, "you'll be rotated out by that time and won't have to deal with crazy-middle-aged-woman-who-wants-an-excuse-to-get-a-tattoo...or two").

He leaves. I sit. I hear him repeating everything I told him to Dr. Brenin outside the door (it's a teaching hospital--Maxwell is jumping through his training hoops). Dr. Brenin enters, (almost-doctor-Maxwell in tow), shakes my hand, and asks what I'm reading (I was deep into Tom Clancy just before my surgery back in November, and he actually rolled his eyes--so nineties!--just before they rolled me away and put me under). He seems gratified that I've moved on to Gabaldon's time-travel-with-kilts romantic fiction, and recommends Crichton's Timeline. I recommend he rent the low-budget, Canadian-cast, movie version. OK, enough of the normal stuff.

My breasts and what's left of them. Things to watch for. Exam.

Questions?

Genetic testing for BRCA to protect my kids? Yes. I had true bi-lateral cancers, plural. Must be checked out.

Billing problems with his procedure, was it coded correctly and who do I talk to?

"Me, and yes it was coded right."

Transfer to someone else, like maybe closer to home?
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm concerned about you, and I know what to look for and you don't, and nobody is as good as me." (Smile) It's a soft joke, but not really a joke, if you know what I mean.

Done. I'm outta here!

I drive back to the Goldbergs' house through the rain and the campus traffic, and snap a shot of the Rotunda through the window, while waiting at a stop sign.

This is the Rotunda, designed by Thomas Jefferson. It has a white, domed roof, which blends perfectly with the grey/white cloudy sky, making it appear as if aliens came and stole the dome away in the night. It houses the Library (also designed by said Founding Father), that makes perfect use of the round perimeter walls. I am always interested in what people do to cope with round buildings, since La Casa Redondo presents similar space-usage problems.

I stop at that gourmet heaven, Harris Teeter, (this is a name for a grocery store?) and buy 3 cases of beer for Bill and one case of wine for me. The cashier gives me a funny look--it's 10:30 in the morning, for crying out loud. I explain that I live in a dry county and I'm just stocking up for the year. Right.

Back at the house, I pack up the Walmart bags of stuff, the dog bed and my toothbrush, check my email, and say goodbye to Mark. Echo gets her traveling harness put on her furry chest and races to the car! Off we go, into the rain.

I-64 in the Fog & Drizzle

This stretch of road has some serious weather issues. Giant flashing signs warn "Dense Fog Ahead!" "Slow Down!" "Use Caution!" "Use Headlights!" "This Means You, Idiot!" (Well, not really that last one, but you get the idea). The little bots-dots on the lane lines actually have little lights in them so you don't go carooming off into the abyss, at least not without being warned. I am going as slow as the trucks laboring up the big uphill grade, and I'm fine with that. At the summit, the muffy cloud I've been driving through magically clears to just a grey drizzle, and it's smooth sailing down to Staunton and I-81 South.

Exit 221 to Exit 128 - Counting Backwards Now

I am hungry and I have a goal: Dixie's American Cafe, Exit 128, at a truck stop in a place called Ironto. I drink water, concentrate on driving safely in the rain and getting past Roanoke traffic while listening to talk radio. Rush is on a rant again, what else is new? This guy cracks me up. I'm a fan, but not an obsessive one--I only listen when I'm driving and need entertainment.

This is Dixie's:

Lovely Krystal is there in the foreground, and check out the extremely attractive, multi-colored tile motif and the special neon-light decor above the coffeemaker. It's a classy place. Well, not really. I'm seated at the counter, next to a road-warrior, who is eating cobbler and smoking at the same time. Sheesh. He has his Motor Carrier's Rand McNally Atlas there on the countertop, encroaching on my space. Is he lost? Unknown. Is he gross? Oh yes. I avert my eyes, and close my nostrils. I can see Echo out of the corner of my eye, waiting not-so-patiently in the car. She's got me under close observation, I'm not going anywhere without her knowing about it.

I concentrate on why I'm here:

The Grilled Chix Sandwich. Heaven-on-a-bun. Ignore the fries, I'm only going to eat four of them, they are not the reason I am here. It's the humble chicken breast, and for the life of me, I cannot figure out what makes it so good. Do they marinate it?All I know is that it is hot, and juicy, and toothsome, perfectly cooked, dressed with fresh, fresh tomato and lettuce and pickles, and just what I wanted! Reluctantly, I save two bites at the end, wrap it up in a napkin for Echo as pennance for leaving her in the car, pay my bill, tip generously, and it's back on the road for woman and dog.

Dixie's to the Good Rest Stop - Still Raining

The potty break for doggie and me happens about 20 more miles down the road. Here, the dog walk is expansive, full of trees and grass and even a scenic overlook, once you walk down behind the people facilities and through the mini-forest. It's a nice walk in good weather. It's tolerable even in the rain, because the downslope is asphalt-paved.

Coming home after my surgery in November, Bill and I stopped here for a break. I was dressed in leggings and post-surgical camisole (complete with floppy surgical drains pockets), covered by the big, fluffy fleece robe my mama sent me, strapped into my seat with a big bed pillow over my chest, under the seat belt. Once Bill got me extricated from this womb of softness, I shuffled slowly to the rest room in my slippers and robe, as people visably shrank and detoured to get away from the weird-woman-dressed-in-her-nightynite-clothes-at-3-pm-in-the-rest-stop. I didn't care. I needed to pee, and I knew I wasn't a sketchy person, and who cares? I'm never going to see these people again. Ah, good times. Thanks for the memories.

Last Hunnert Miles - Almost Home

As we left the rest stop, the rain eased up a bit. I wouldn't go so far as to say the sun came out, but by the time we made it to the Tennessee border, the sky was lightening up and so were my spirits. As we got past Kingsport and headed home via 11-W, Echo perked up and started wagging. I was looking for my first glimpse of my mountain, Devil's Nose. I always feel a boost when I spot it, it's the tallest one around:

That's it, almost home now. Thanks for riding along. We'll get back to real life soon enough. And pick up your trash when you exit the car, please.