Azithromycin, Physical Therapy and the Cavalry

I worried that I wouldn't have anything to blog about today.

I sat in the pediatrics office with a 14-year old man-child, watching Handy Manny and waiting to for the doctor to confirm what I already knew.  Which he did, while managing to keep an impressive distance from his patient.

We sat in the Internal Medicine clinic, waiting to see my PCM (who has retired without so much as nod in my direction), and reading the New Testament I keep in the car for occasions such as this (Luke. Can't seem to get past Luke).  After an hour, I emerged with a referral to a physical therapist, who will be tasked with helping me resolve the nagging sciatica I seemed to have received for my 40th birthday.

We sat in the pharmacy, surrounded by carriers of every communicable disease known to man, waiting for our number to be called.  It was mind-numbingly boring, and we entertained ourselves by posting updates to my Facebook page via text message.  The estimated wait time when we arrived was 42 minutes.  Sixty-five minutes later, to the amusement of hacking sickos all around, the boy stood up and yelled "YESSSSSSS!!!!!" as they called our number.  Seventy-five minutes later, we stepped out into the biting wind with drugs in hand...

only to discover that I had locked the keys in the car.

Which I will never, ever live down.

It was 12:30pm.  We had arrived at the base at 8:30am.  We were starving.  I considered crying but decided it was too much work.  Instead, we found the information desk and pleaded for help.  This is what came to our aid:

...and this is what they did:

...and somehow, at least in the eyes of a 14-year old boy, it was alllll worthwhile.