I was up with the chickens this morning. I knew if I got to the Charles George VAMC early enough, I might stand a chance of scoring a parking place within a convenient distance of the front door. Such was not in my karma. Not only were there no convenient parking places, there were no parking places!
I stayed in formation and followed along in an ever lengthening parade of other Johnny-come-latelies in the somber hope that someone would leave and I would have unrestricted access to their spot. That wasn’t to happen either . . .
This is a good place to mention that I have a Handicapped sticker thingy hanging from my rear-view mirror, but in a land where EVERYONE has a Handicapped sticker, it becomes a moot point. Back to my story . . .
I finally gave up the search and elected to park on the grass behind the parking area on the far eastern side of the lot. To the uninitiated, without leaving the facility proper, that’s about as far from the front door as one can get. With some delicacy, it was over the curb and hope I didn’t get towed.
The queue at Central Check-in went quickly, but there were 40 people ahead of me for Labs. The auto counter read “107″. I pulled “148″. Ok . . . my Primary Care appointment was still 2 hours away and I’d brought something to read. I found an empty chair and planted myself. Two hours is, in the grand scheme of things, a long time, but when my Primary Care appointment was in just 15 minutes, I was thrilled when I heard a shrill voice yell, “One forty-eight? Who’s got number one forty-eight. I jumped to my feet and followed the guy in the scrubs to a blood-letting station in the back of the lab.
He asked if I was doing alright today and I answered in the affirmative and mentioned my Primary Care appointment was in something less then 15 minutes. He responded that they (Lab techs) were running late because of a personnel shortage that day. Not finding a convenient artery in the crux of my elbow, he asked if he could stick the back of my hand. “Nail it!” I said, and he did.
Dripping blood from the back of my hand, I arrived in the primary care clinic just as my name was called.
The good Doc and I went over my meds and he made a slight change, then came the kind of surprise one likes to hear. “Your labs just hit.” He said, “and you’ll be happy to know your A1c is 6.1. Everything else looks ok, so you’re good to go. Tell the nurse to give you a Flu shot on your way out.”
I said, “Really? My A1c is 6.1? Am I to understand my Diabetes is cured? Can I stop taking all these pills and shots?”
“I wouldn’t say that, but you definitely have it under control. We’re going to gradually cut back on your insulin and keep an eye on your A1c. You’ll never be cured, but if you can keep control of your glucose levels, you’re probably going to live longer.”
I’m thinking this ain’t all bad when Bam! The nurse hits my left arm with the flu shot. I’m no wuss and I’m used to shots, but I swear the needle was 6 inches long and had a square point.
Bottom-line, the tariff in time was a grind, parking sucked, but the outcome was stupendous. Wow! What great news.
Finally, just so everybody knows, Monday next, the 10th, will be the one-year anniversary of filing my VA claim. No, I haven’t seen a dime, and eBenefits says the same thing it always says, “Claim Status: Development Phase.” Go figure, eh . . . .