Doctors Without Borders...or Ode to a Cell Phone

Doctors Without Borders or Ode to a Cell Phone?

About a year and a half ago, my fasciitis (heel-injury ouch) was acting up after months of my own doctoring.   I turned to the Yellow Pages of my outdated phone book and chose a podiatrist whose ad included explicit directions for locating his office. I snipped the directions from the page, and booked an appointment with a receptionist who naturally assumed I was referring to the ‘new’ phone book when I said I had found their ad in the Yellow Pages. Amazingly, they were able to see me at 2 p.m. that very day. ‘Oh boy’ I thought ‘finally I’ll get some professional help.’

My dear husband obligingly drove me , however we soon found ourselves in unfamiliar territory and shot past the turn we should have taken.  It was a stormy day and we lost time due to the poor driving conditions. Now we were running late.  We made a lengthy detour around the next block, only to realize there was absolutely nowhere to park. I left the safety and warmth of the car to hoof it to the podiatrist while my husband searched for somewhere to park. 

The rain and wind lashed me as I hobbled toward my destination, directions clutched in my hand.  Finally I reached the advertised location and was greeted by an empty storefront.  The podiatrist had relocated!

I stumbled into the doorway of the next business.  There I was greeted by a masked figure,  raising its head from the hand of a customer. Startled, I took a moment to realize I was in a salon. The manicurist mumbled something unintelligible in response to my question about the podiatrist and gestured in the general direction of several blocks north.

Again I hobbled out into the weather but quickly ducked into a fast food outlet to escape the storm, and asked if I might use their phone?  A burly chef kindly dialed the number I provided and in a moment I spoke with the receptionist, who apologized profusely for any confusion about their new location and gave me the new address.

Meanwhile, one of the fast-food customers took an interest in my plight.  He was unshaven but seemed to be a diamond in the rough as he commented to me ‘That address is a couple of blocks from here – I’ll give ya a ride’.

It was late. I had no idea where my 91 year old husband might be.  My 87 year old foot was really bugging me, so I took a breath, faced the good Samaritan, and asked brightly ‘How do I know if I can trust you?’.  

He gave a hearty laugh and said ‘Now lady, THAT is a silly question if I ever heard one!’

Gratefully, but  with apprehension, I clambered into his questionable vehicle – its interior matched his exterior. 

The first block I thought to myself ‘What have I done? Why didn’t I just call a taxi?’

The second block I thought ‘my son and daughter are going to kill me’’

The third block I thought ‘they won’t have to kill me, this man is probably taking me to an abandoned warehouse’

But my fears quickly fled as my driver pulled up at the front door of the podiatrist, gallantly opened the door and helped me alight from his ‘carriage’.  Mentally, I patted myself on the back – ‘boy, can I pick’em!’

The receptionist greeted me warmly, assuring me she would let my husband know I had arrived safely, if he should call to check on my whereabouts.  The podiatrist emerged from his office announcing he would gladly have retrieved me from the old location himself - now that truly would have been ‘doctors without borders’!

Eventually my harried husband arrived, having had his own adventures during which he too had depended on the kindness of strangers with phones.

Maybe it IS time to break down and get one of those cell phones after all…