NOVEMBER 15, 2022 – Today I experienced a bad case of . . . myself.
The back story:
Upon successful emergence from my bone marrow stem cell transplant, I was prescribed fluorescent-yellow medicine as palatable as transmission fluid. The intended purpose of the daily dose of this awful stuff was to prevent bacterial pneumonia. When I complained that the medication insulted my appetite (doubtless a psychological, not physiological, side effect), I was prescribed monthly nebulizer sessions. The first was a less-than-pleasant experience but a welcome alternative to transmission fluid. The second round was a piece of cake, or rather, a piece of candy—the antidote to an unpleasant after-taste from the nebulizer mist.
After the October-end treatment, however, I failed to make an appointment for the next monthly session. Today I realized that November was half over. I checked online to see if by some magical agency a follow-up appointment had been scheduled by the clinic. Nada.
I then got steamed. My provider’s website was devoid of phone numbers, at least among the top 10 layers behind the homepage. I could’ve scheduled an appointment online, but the fields weren’t flexible enough to accommodate my situation or questions. After a further prolonged search I located a phone number and called it. Distracted by a flurry of incoming biz email, however, I hit the wrong number among the menu choices and got disconnected. I called again but made a menu choice that turned into a trap door dropping me down a rabbit hole, then a black hole and . . . an interminable wait, during which a voice repeatedly interrupted the mind-numbing music loop to say, “We appreciate your patience [sic]. Due to the high volume of calls . . .”
By now the steam from my ears was so thick it fogged my eyeglasses—even after I’d removed them. Finally, “Tom” picked up.
I recognized his voice. On October 31, he’d called at 7:15 a.m. to reschedule my appointment that day because of an unexpected staff shortage. On that call, he’d been genuinely apologetic. Scrambling to salvage the day before it had started, he’d exhibited good cheer, alertness and a sense of humor once I’d shown signs of having one too.
Today, Tom’s encore performance was “five stars.” He remembered me, and his sincere diplomacy immediately shut-down the steam factory inside my head.
After hanging up, I debriefed myself. Why had I been so impatient? The question caused me regret for my immature attitude. “What? You had to wait?” I asked myself sarcastically. “Remember, you’d caused your own problem by not having made an appointment at the conclusion of your previous one. As to the ‘high-volume of calls’—did it occur to you that legions were very sick with flu or RSV or a hundred other acute maladies and in need of immediate attention? Huh? Shame on you for your impatience.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I’ll make it up to me. I’ll be patient and laid back for the rest of the week. Okay?”
“K. Every guy is entitled to a bad case of himself occasionally, but mask up—you don’t want anyone around you to catch it.”
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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson
