Bad omen?

I’m back.

Even though my previous post said that I would not be back from my operation until Sunday, the best laid plans of mice and men go oft astray.

I drove up to Bergenfield, put my overnight bag and coat in the closet of the doctor’s office, signed in with the receptionist, and sat in the waiting room for fifteen minutes. The receptionist called out my name, and I walked over. As soon as she asked me, “When did you make your appointment?” I knew that something got screwed up.

It seems that all of the surgeons are in the Manhattan office this week. Whoever had scheduled my appointment back in November had made a massive blunder. “But,” I protested, “I even called to confirm my appointment yesterday afternoon?!?” I had even asked the woman on the phone if I would need to sign any additional consent forms for my surgery.

This receptionist was very apologetic, especially when she found out I live ninety minutes away and had made an overnight inn reservation. I was able to reschedule my reservation without penalty, but there is no way that I can recoup half a tank of gas and seven bucks in tolls, not to mention my time and anxiety.

I occasionally like to cling to the romantic notion that everything happens for a reason. (I’m really good at deluding myself.) Sometimes it helps me from bouncing off of the walls with livid frustration. Then again, is it a bad omen? No, I cannot think that; I have enough misgivings about this surgery as it is.

So tune in next week, Saturday, January 22, when I attempt to repeat this silly escapade once more. This is me on the phone next Friday, confirming my appointment—“Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure? Absotively, posilutely, one hundred percent sure?”