Reflection on a Snow Day

I had a doctor's appointment this morning at 7:40. Nobody panic - it was a rather routine checkup on my ADD meds, but it had been rescheduled once already (at the doctor's request), and I wanted to be sure I made it on time. You see, the clinic is in St. Louis Park off of Highway 100, legendary in the metro area as a traffic nightmare.

So I planned ahead. Mapquest said the trip was just under 17 miles - 23 minutes in normal traffic. To be safe, I left the house just after 6am and brought homework to do if (thinking when) I got there early.

I reached the clinic at 9:15.

It was surreal. I'm trapped in the car, nowhere to go, going nowhere, thinking things like "Dante' couldn't have imagined..." and "Find a happy place..." and "Its SUCH a God-thing that I don't own a gun..." At the end of the first hour, I switched the iPod to like really mellow, calm, happy music. By the second, the calm was punctuated by fits of hysteria - that heady blend that you can never safely label as either laughter or tears, it's just convulsive and involuntary. I could not believe people pulling out of line behind me into the merge lane just to leap ahead seven cars or so.

I'm fairly sure I cycled through the five stages of grief at least four times between 394 and Excelsior Blvd. - Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance - only they became like this maddening spiral. I could only accept for so long before my brain rebelled and refused to believe this was actually happening. In hindsight, I wish I'd had the presence of mind to be more present to God in the traffic. Instead I cursed under my breath, punched the sunroof, and pictured Ghandi in my passenger seat giving other drivers the finger on my behalf.

When I got to the Mental Health Floor and announced (at 9:20) that I was checking in for my 7:40 appointment, the receptionist looked at me as if I was clearly on something and informed me that the next available time slot was on January 12.

I calmly explained to her that I hadn't seen the doctor since August, I had made a good-faith effort to get to my appointment on time, and I was perfectly willing to camp out in the lobby all stinking day on the off-chance that the good doctor could find time to squeeze me in. I'm fairly sure I delivered this in a polite and reasonable tone. I know I said it about 15 decibels lower than my ordinary speaking voice. After all, this is the Mental Health Floor - if I behave too unreasonably, bad things could happen.

Long story short -- I only had to wait about 15 minutes, the doctor diagnosed me with some mild clinical depression, and sent me home with my monthly batch of brain candy. I was able to get to class on time, and listen to the guest speaker drone on about life in the "real-world" environment of the technical writer, trying to communicate the dynamics of a corporate structure. Been there, done that. Why do you think I got my sorry ass back into school? {shudder} My afternoon was dominated by a much-needed nap.

Then, just after I got to work tonight, my cell phone rang. A close friend called to ask for prayer. He talked, I listened. He was honest, vulnerable, trusting. I prayed for him with my whole heart and the small, stumbling, insufficient words that poured from it. And God heard the whole kit and kaboodle. Funny, but those ten minutes on the phone - present to God and a person I love and feeling them present to me - redeemed the whole day. For a few minutes, at least, I felt like I got it right.