The hill to V.'s house looked to be about knee-deep in snow and ice. Clearly a few intrepid drivers had attempted the incline. Some of them probably made it up the grade. I knew my low-to-the-ground car would not make it six feet before sliding back into traffic. I wasn't about to attempt the hill. But neither did I want to become another casualty abandoned in a snow drift along the side of the highway.
There was no place to park, but with flashers valiantly blinking I pulled over at the bottom of V.'s street and texted her: I'm at the bottom of your street. After what looked to be a harrowing journey down the hill, she was able to open the passenger door into a snow drift and squeeze herself into my car. Phase one, check! V. is safely in the car. We were on our way.
My friend V. is going to read this post and wish I'd said something about the actual time we spent at the doctor's office. Okay. Here's a synopsis. We arrived at 2:00 p.m., an hour early. We found a dry spot in the nicely plowed parking lot. The office was small, cluttered, a little funky, as alternative medicine places tend to be. Nobody wore lab coats or scrubs. I read magazines on a comfortable couch in the waiting area while V. filled out her paperwork. At about 3:00 p.m., the doctor called her name. I followed them into a carpeted treatment room occupied by a massage table and two nice leather chairs. V. and the doctor got those. I sat on a hard slatted wooden folding chair. We were there until almost 5:00 p.m.
I listened to V. tell her story of chronic illness to the stoic female doctor, wondering why my armpits were so hot and my feet so cold. Though I'd heard some of the story before, it was still heart-wrenching to imagine what my friend has gone through in her quest to find health. What I saw was a desperate woman verbally throwing herself once more on the mercy of a total stranger, hoping that she had finally found someone with a solution.
I wonder what is wrong with a society where doctors have a financial incentive to prescribe more medical tests just because an insurance company will pay for them. I also wonder how it can possibly benefit anyone but the healthcare industry when someone who is too sick to earn is forced to go begging from family and friends in order to raise funds for treatment.
But what do I know. My role was not to question the system. I was the witness, the chauffeur, the friend. My personal goal was to get her back to the bottom of her hill in one piece. Which I achieved, I'm happy to say. After I dropped her off, I cranked up the radio and began the trek home in twilight. Who knew that trying to see the lane markers under the rutted gravel-pocked snow could be so tiring. There was only one moment where things might have gone sideways. I was ready to make a left turn, just before the light turned yellow. At that moment a slow-moving pedestrian took the opportunity to begin sauntering across the street. I managed to stop (with some fanfare, AKA, I skidded on a patch of ice) before I actually entered the intersection. The ped made it safely across the street. While I waited through the light, I wondered if other pedestrians could read my lips. I hope not. They would have seen me liberally berate the slow ped. Which was my way of thanking the universe for letting my car stop in time to avoid a catastrophe. And better slow ped than dead ped, I guess. Crossing a street in Portland can be deadly.
Tuesday I ventured out to the store to forage for food. The store shelves were a little bare, but the place was packed with giddy shoppers, thrilled to be released from their burrows in the balmy 40 degree rain. I stocked up on organic broccoli, but they were out of zucchini. Wednesday night a warm wet front moved in and by morning the snow was gone. I'd be happy never to see snow again.
