“Can you give me a ride to the women’s walk-in clinic?”
My mom called me at work. It was lunchtime and her voice was of a pitch and tenor I didn’t recognize as human. In fact, her voice sounded sufficiently alien that I suspected her phone had been stolen, that I was carrying on a conversation with a complete stranger. But the alien/stranger seemed to know me, so I played along.
“Did you call your doctor? You sound awful.”
“They said they didn’t want to see me if I was sick?” Cough…cough.
“What?”
“They said they didn’t want me coming in if I was sick. The best they could do was a video appointment, but only after I got a covid test.” Cough…sniffle.
“You’ve got to be shitting me.” I could feel my head begin to explode. “You’re saying that your doctor, whose job it is to help sick people, won’t see you if you’re sick?”
“Yes.” Sniffle. She seemed way to accepting of the supreme incompetence with which we were now dealing.
My fury was rising, but in the moment it would do nothing to help my mother so, marshalling all the strength available to me, I fought my growing frustration in favor of actual productivity.
“I’ll pick you up at 3.”
I parked in front of her building and watched as she emerged from the shadow of the doorway and climbed into the passenger seat. She greeted me with the same other-worldly voice I’d heard earlier, but without the cell phone veneer. She actually sounded worse in person.
“Where are we headed.” I sat ready for instructions, having no idea where the women’s clinic was located and feeling strangely put off by the fact the clinic was only for women. Was there a man’s walk-in clinic next door? I’d find out soon enough.
“I have the address and I’ll put it into my phone for directions.” Cough…cough.
“Alrighty.”
The drive was quiet. She was not feeling well and I allowed my brain to wander to topics having nothing to do with doctors who don’t want to see their patients. And then a question popped into my head.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“You don’t need one. It’s a walk-in clinic.” Sniffle.
“Have you been there before?”
“No. This is the first time.” Cough.
I continued to drive, now angry that my mother was being forced to go to a walk-in clinic in the first place. However, something else had crept into my psyche; a sort of seeping anxiousness. Was she sure she didn’t need an appointment? Did such a place exist where one could actually walk right in and get seen by a doctor? Were we off on a wild goose chase? My mother is dementia free, but she has her blind spots. This was confirmed by her next statement.
“I think I forgot my driver’s license and my insurance card.” Cough…cough.”
“What?”
“I forgot my wallet.” Cough.
“How are you going to pay for the appointment?” That was only the question that managed to emerge from my mouth. Others, still trapped in my brain included “How are you going to prove who you are?” and “How did you forget your purse?”
“Well, I may need you to pay and I’ll pay you back.” Cough…cough.
My blood pressure rose as we neared the supposed location of the women’s clinic, thoughts of dancing idiots in white lab coats rolling past my mind’s eye.
According to Google Maps, the walk-in clinic existed somewhere inside Kenwood Mall, which I thought was weird. Why would anyone put a clinic inside a mall? And Google Maps wasn’t quite sure where inside the mall, as the massive structure had but one address. Each shop inside was assigned suite numbers that no one knew except, perhaps, the mail delivery people. We didn’t even know which entrance was closest to the clinic, and since she was in no condition to wander around on foot, we drove around the mall until we found an entrance bearing a reasonable resemblance to the picture on Google Maps. Luckily, it was the right door.
But guess what?
The women’s walk-in clinic was closed. (And there was no men’s clinic, by the way.)
Now, when I say the women’s walk-in clinic was closed, I don’t mean they were closed for the day, or for a late lunch. I mean it didn’t exist anymore. Any trace of a clinic was gone. Only a dark, dusty shell remained, for sure waiting to be filled by an Orange Julius or a Foot Locker.
“My phone said it was open.” Sniffle…
My mother was as disappointed as I, and while I again felt like raging, it would do no good. We had to create a Plan B, and the only Plan B I could think of was the walk-in clinic at the Kroger grocery store. I was excited. Cincinnati is replete with Kroger stores, so I stupidly believed my sick mother was on the verge of getting help.
I was wrong.
The Little Clinic, of which there is one in nearly every Kroger, calls itself a walk-in clinic, but is not really a walk-in clinic. We discovered this when the lady at the front desk informed us in short order that we had to have an appointment, and that there were no appointments left that day.
“But it says walk-in clinic right here.” I pointed flaccidly to a little sign on the desk, sounding pathetic.
“I’m sorry sir, we’re short-staffed and we’re all booked. We can’t take you.”
As a last-ditch effort, I got on my phone and searched other Little Clinics. Eureka! I found one with open slots and was able to make an appointment at another Kroger forty minutes into the future. As fast as my mother’s feet would carry her, we zip-zapped back to the car and headed south, toward our last chance for medical salvation. But we had a glitch. We still needed Mom’s driver’s license and medical card, so we stopped at her place on the way to the appointment. This set us back 12 minutes.
The lady behind the counter at the new Little Clinic scowled as she stared at the computer screen. I could tell she was scowling because her paper mask was positioned well below her acne afflicted nose.
“You don’t have an appointment.”
“Yes, we do.” I held my phone aloft in anger and triumph. “Our appointment was for 4:40.”
“But it’s 4:52.”
“So?”
“So it’s too late. The computer erases the appointments ten minutes after the start. You’re too late.” She presented her laptop as proof, like she was Moses presenting the Ten Commandments. I asked if she could utilize the last eight minutes of the appointment time, but the squat nurse would not be deterred from her enslavement to the computer.
I must say, I got a little aggressive in my attempt to make her honor the appointment.
I was asked to leave.
We made the best of it. We wandered the store a little. Mom bought some soup and I Fig Newtons. She assured me she would try again tomorrow, which she did successfully. Turns out she had a bad cold. Not Covid. Not flu. Not the plague or that disease where you bleed out of your eyes. From the experience we learned to plan better in the future.
And that there’s no such thing as a walk-in clinic.