NOVEMBER 22, 2024 – For me the day was a mad scramble on multiple fronts. Ironically, all was unexpectedly quiet on the most critical front—our oldest son’s health. His PET scan had been scheduled for 12:45, and we’d managed to arrive at the clinic with minutes to spare. After completing the requisite forms, he was ushered into the scanning area. Alone in the spacious waiting area, I pulled out my laptop to make a digital appearance on one of the boisterous fronts.
Less than five minutes later, Cory returned to the waiting area and said, “I screwed up. They canceled it.”
“What?”
“I wasn’t supposed to chew gum.”
“When?”
“On the way down here.”
I hadn’t noticed, and I wouldn’t have said anything, because as far as I could remember, in giving me pre-scan instructions over the phone yesterday, the scheduler hadn’t mentioned gum specifically, though she had said, “Nothing except water after 8:00 [this morning].” Even sugarless gum, Cory informed me, was verboten.
Fortunately, however, instead of having to push this critical diagnostic procedure out by weeks or even months, the clinic was able to re-schedule Cory’s scan for next Tuesday morning, and the results will be interpreted that same day. Unfortunately, Beth and I are scheduled for a flight to Connecticut/New York early Tuesday afternoon. In the event of an unfavorable result, we’d want to be on hand to provide moral support. When pressed about this, he insisted, “I’ll be fine.”
I hope as much as a human can that the test will be negative for the C-word and that Cory will indeed “be fine”—so that with the medical team, we can turn back to Cory’s heart condition.
Few situations compare with being on pins and needles before the rocket takes off only to have the launch sequence terminated at T minus one second. But if I’ve learned anything over recent years, it’s that we have little to no control over most things in life. Accordingly, we have to let our meager vessels run with the flow.
I’d brought with us Cory’s MNSure application. Not trusting the United States Postal Service to act with alacrity, I figured we could expedite delivery if we dropped the envelope off directly at the downtown St. Paul offices of the Department of Human Services. Silly me. A billboard-sized sign in front of the department headquarters proclaimed to the world that “This Building is Not Open to the Public.” All that was missing was the directive, “Go Away!”
A smaller sign directed us to an alternative site on the north side of downtown. Since downtown St. Paul is not very expansive, we soon found the place. I left Cory in the car and ducked into the four-story building that occupied the entire block and had “uninviting governmental office building” written all over it but only one small meager “Ramsey County” sign attached to a corner. Once I found an unadorned point of ingress, I realized that most people navigate via their phone-equipped GPS finders. Who needs an entrance with a street number anymore?
The inside of the place was as austere as a prison lobby. If the building exterior was a parody of minimalism, the interior displayed a style I’d call, “essentialism”—a design featuring only elements essential to structural integrity . . . plus numbers assigned to doors, a few exit signs (offering the only hint of color in the place), and a simple board listing the departments housed in the building and their locations. “MNSure” was on the second floor—40 steps up the staircase (I counted the risers so I could award myself the equivalent of three staircases (13 steps per standard home stairway) against my daily quota of 75).
As I swung around the top of the stairway, I saw a “Line Up Here” sign at the head of what reminded me of a TSA airport security line but luckily, without any people. Luck seemed to run out, however, when I opened the door to the office, which was jam-packed with people in need of state-assistance services. Nearly all were people of color, and at least half, I’d say, were Muslim women. Of the 40 or 50 souls on hand, only two of us were white—a guy dressed for splitting wood in the dead of winter and I, wearing a light jacket in the color of choice in the room—jet black. The setting reminded me of an extra wide New York City subway car.
On a futuristic looking screen mounted on a movable post near the entrance, I followed the instructions for “sign-in” so that I could receive a text notification when it was “my turn.” As I punched my information in, I overheard the wood-splitter guy mention to a couple of Native American women with whom he was apparently acquainted and who had entered right behind me, that he’d been waiting for “an hour and a half.”
Along one side of the room was a long row of “navigators” who seemed to be filling a role much as Plykue had yesterday at the department’s satellite office in Roseville (see yesterday’s post). By all appearances, these workers were courteous, patient and proficient. But an hour and a half wait?! For a moment I wondered what it would be like to be working the line; dealing with life struggles of the daily multitude. I realized how clueless I was about their stories and circumstances.
Just when the navigator close to my end of the room had completed his consultation with another client, the bespectacled worker looked my way and gestured for me to step up. I sprang forth to adapt to what appeared miraculously as Plan B. I explained that all I wanted to do was drop off an application for MNSure.
“Let me see it,” he said. I handed him the envelope containing Cory’s 10-page application, whereupon he laid it upon his desk and dated stamped it four times more than was necessary. “You can put it in one of the boxes over there,” he said, looking over his eyeglasses and pointing to a pair of large metal boxes marked, “FOR DOCUMENT DEPOSIT.” Envelopes were sticking out of the mouth of one of the boxes. I opened the lid to the other and shoved “our” envelope between the last two, which seemed to be waiting for the envelopes in front of them to move farther into the box.
As I left the office I wondered—how long would it take for the envelope to be opened and the application to be processed? How could I track the envelope and application? Would I have been better off dropping the envelope in a U.S. Mailbox instead of a Department of Human Services box? I’m still wondering—especially in light of the fact that nearly 10 hours have passed, and I still haven’t received a text that it’s now my turn to meet with a “navigator.”
Back in the car I informed Cory what had transpired—and what I’d observed. I also remarked about the contrast between that scene inside the Department of Human Services and the “world” in which I’ve operated my entire life. This statement engendered a conversation of the sort for which I’d hungered ever since Cory had moved into our basement over seven weeks ago. For much of that time, he has been indisposed to engage in deep, philosophical conversations of the sort I’ve so enjoyed with him over the years. On the drive home today, however, he was back in his groove of insightful and highly articulate observations and analysis of American society and politics.
His approach is from the street level, not the ivory tower. The police shooting of Michael Brown in Ferguson, Missouri triggered the beginning of Cory’s years of social justice activism—and frankly, my own awareness of and deep-dive inquiry into the underside of American history. When Philando Castille was shot and killed during a routine traffic stop not more than a third of a mile from our leafy neighborhood, Cory wound up at the vortex of the reaction that followed. Normally reserved, never looking for the spotlight, he developed a reputation for being articulate and level-headed among the vanguard of the local chapter of Black Lives Matter. I was not surprised to hear him interviewed on MPR late one day on my way home from work; nor shocked to learn he’d been invited to join another activist in a two-on-one meeting with Governor Walz, who, according to Cory, listened well and invited a continuation of the dialogue begun.
But despite what some family members assumed, Cory did not wind up (or stay) a “burn the house down” or “halt the freeway traffic” kind of left-wing radical. His politics have swung to what I’d describe as “center-realistic.” What’s unusual about his perspective is that it’s informed by so many meaningful interactions with people across a wide spectrum of society, from the impoverished and marginalized at one end, to the exceptionally wealthy and privileged at the other extreme. With an uncanny ability to read and understand people, his judgments about society are fascinating and in most cases, I think, exceptionally accurate.
As we pulled into the driveway, I switched gears to thoughts about our failed mission. I didn’t like the prospect of sitting on pins and needles for another four days—and possibly longer—or the long slog ahead of us in any event. On the other hand, however, the circuitous route of an unplanned trip had provided unexpected rewards. I celebrated the observations, insights and perspectives accumulated along our way, and most of all, I cherished my conversation with Cory, who is one of the deepest thinkers I know, with a command of language to help others navigate the depths of his mind.
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© 2024 by Eric Nilsson
