Looking for an Exit

A funny thing happened to me the other day.  I had an MRI scheduled at Scripps Clinic.  No, that’s not the funny part.  The appointment was at the Scripps facility in Chula Vista.  I’ve had plenty of MRIs in the past, with most of them being scheduled at the Scripps Green Hospital location in La Jolla.  The Green Hospital location is easy-peasy to find.  You just follow the signs to the MRI area, park in a designated spot, follow the arrows to the check-in desk, and you’re good to go.

So, when I was told that the earliest available appointment for my stat MRI was in Chula Vista, I thought, “No problem.  How hard can it be to find this place?”   Getting to the front entrance was easy.  Walking through the entry doors and taking the elevator down one level was also easy.  I was told to take a left and look for the radiology suite.  Checking in was easy.  However, it started to get a little complicated when they told me that the MRI suite was about a five-minute walk from the check-in area.  Fortunately, I was escorted by one of the radiology techs through doorways and corridors, parking lots and construction zones, until we reached the imaging trailer where they were going to do my MRI.

The MRI itself, although long and uncomfortable (there is no padding on those tables), was not too bad.  When the scan was complete, the tech walked me back through the labyrinth of parking lots and corridors until we reached the check-in area.  I waved good-bye to the woman who checked me in, walked out the door, and found the elevators that would take me to the main lobby and exit.  Or so I thought.  I got into the elevator and assumed since I was on LL (for lower level), I just needed to go one floor up to level M for the main lobby.  Easy, right? 

The elevator rose to level M and the door opened.  I was nowhere near anything that looked like a lobby or main floor.  Instead, I was in a narrow hallway leading to what smelled like the hospital kitchen.  Strange.  I got back into the elevator, rode back down to LL, and tried again.  Same result.  I was back in the same narrow hallway with no sign of a lobby.  I looked around, hoping to find someone to tell me where I was and how the heck I was supposed to get back to the main floor lobby.  I wondered if I tried a third time, I’d find my way out.  Nope—same floor, same smells, no lobby in sight.    

I got back in the elevator and scanned the choice of buttons.  Since LL and M were a bust, and since I didn’t see a “1,” I pushed “2.”  This time when the door opened, I saw I was on a patient floor, still with no exit in sight.  Thankfully, I spotted a security officer standing in the hallway. I explained that I was trying to find my way out and he kindly directed me to the correct elevator (not the one I just exited) and escorted me to the lobby.  Whew!  The exit was now clearly in sight.  Out I went into the bright sunshine and texted my husband that I was ready to be picked up. 

I’ve compared cancer to being on a roller coaster or a thrill ride, but I’m thinking I should add “elevator” to the list.  It feels humorously appropriate.  Whichever metaphor I use, JUST GET ME OFF THIS THING!  Tell me how I can cancel (or at least suspend) my membership in this club I never wanted to join. I want to put this cancer thing on hold and go back to the way things were before this whole circus began.

And if I ever disappear, check my appointment calendar.  I may be stuck in a corridor or elevator at the clinic.  I’ll have my cell phone turned on so you can track me–although there’s often no signal in the radiology area.  Maybe the next time I should leave a trail of breadcrumbs or, better yet, a string of yarn so I can find my way to the exit.   Or maybe I’ll just stay on the elevator, singing along to the music.  Do they even play music in elevators anymore?

Carol

Cancer has progressed to my bones. I pray that it never enters my soul.