You know, Hobbes, some days even my lucky rocket ship underpants don’t help.
― Bill Watterson
Friday was one of those days. I have been experiencing lower back pain since the first of April. Initially, I was diagnosed with a kidney infection. Antibiotics provided relief, but then the symptoms returned. Convinced I have a kidney stone, my primary care physician ordered a CT scan. It took almost two weeks, but finally the scheduling department called; my appointment was at 7:30 last Friday. Armed with the address provided to me and my trusty GPS, I headed out bright and early Friday morning.
Except the address landed me in the middle of nowhere. So I entered it on Google Maps and ended up somewhere else – but still not where I was meant to be. And the scheduling department wasn’t answering the phone. And they hadn’t bothered to mention the name of the facility where I was headed.
At some point in my frantic driving, I happened upon a large medical building. The second time I passed it, my intuition said, “Stop here.” I parked my car, walked inside, and found the Suite 190 I was looking for. I was thirty minutes late for my appointment, but apparently that is commonplace there. “You can’t find this place with a GPS,” the cheerful receptionist informed me. Too bad the scheduling department hadn’t apprised me of that fact.
My next stop was with the billing department. The representative there was pleasant enough, but she couldn’t seem to remember where I worked or what I did for a living – even after she shared her personal experience with piano lessons as a young child. Then she dropped the bomb that while the cost of the procedure is almost $4000, after insurance, I was immediately responsible for $1400. There’s another tidbit I wish the scheduling department had mentioned to me. My heart told me to walk right out the door. Instead, I pulled out my Bank of America credit card. Pain is a powerful motivator.
The procedure itself was neither painful nor invasive and took less than ten minutes. But by the time I got dressed and back home, I found myself in the throes of a full-blown migraine – can you say “stress”? – and spent the rest of the day in bed. No scrapbooking with Jennifer. No Zentangles and Sky Juice with Natalie. Just lying still with a cold rag draped across my forehead and my faithful dog Karma – himself recovering from eye surgery last week that set me back another cool $1000 – lying by my side.
And then the most miraculous thing happened. My doorbell rang. And the delivery man handed me the most beautiful bouquet of flowers. There was no signature, just this note:
You’re a gifted, talented woman, beautiful inside and out. You touch so many lives. You are loved and admired by many and the world is a better place because you are in it. I hope these flowers brighten your day.
Well, they did. But I desperately wanted to know who the sender was. I called the florist, but the wouldn’t/couldn’t tell me; I posted a picture on Facebook, too, but no one owned up to the deed. As I said there, the timing couldn’t have been better. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.
Now I wait for my doctor to call me with the results. What will be, will be. In the meantime, I am grateful for friends who are still waiting for me for scrapbooking and Zentangles and Sky Juice. And I am oh so grateful for Anonymous. Whoever you are, you touched my life in a way I will never, ever forget.