A visit to an old friend
Better prepared than a Conestoga wagon setting out on the Oregon Trail, Jean Middaugh and I set out yesterday morning in Jean’s trusty SUV to visit our ailing friend in Rochester.
Our friend and colleague, Guy Vasta, the retired librarian and ski club advisor for the Driver Middle School is currently being treated at the highly reputable institutional, Strong Memorial Hospital and though we are not health care professionals, we do believe that a friend’s good wishes are therapeutic. We both believe that loving human presence is importance when life’s challenges become chancy.
Intrepid adventurers, we left without really knowing where Strong was. We took the Thruway to Rochester with the caveat that my son, who lives in Rochester, would direct us by cell phone once we exited Route 90.
The time flew by on the Thruway as Jean and I caught up on family news and friendly gossip. Ben’s instructions were spot on and soon we were entering the parking garage of Strong.
That was the last quick anything of our experience.
Finding the hospital, a very impressive edifice, was easy.
Parking? There was a huge garage bit it was filled. We squeezed Jean’s SUV into a space on the roof and watched other cars continue to circle as we looked for the entrance to the hospital. There were signs everywhere, alerting us to remember the color of the sign as well as the letter on that same sign. We were blue N … or not as it turned out to be.
Where to next? We noticed a stair tower. Jeanne has a problem knee and I am waiting for the scheduler from SOS to give me a date for my next hip replacement. So stairs were out. Two well educated adult women took too much time to find the elevator which was in color and number blue M. Remember we both have masters degrees.
Muttering to ourselves about the floor and room number of our friend, Guy Vasta, one or our fellow elevator passengers offered to help us find our way to the information desk in the lobby. I have to emphasize that we are educated women and that Strong is a big hospital. Without that gal’s help we would probably still be there, looking for Guy’s room.
We were both impressed by the size and accommodations of that lobby. Looked like Grand Central to me. There were rows of chairs and benches, a huge gift shop and not unexpected, a Starbucks in addition to various and sundry kiosks with people who could help with specific and general queries.
“Follow the red squares to the red elevators.” A simple directive was confounded by my questioning whether the orange looking square was really the red square.
Jeanne pointed out that the blue square had a b in the middle, the green a g and the orange an O, so it wasn’t red. The red square that we were to follow was at the very end of the hallway. Good thing I was wearing glasses. Fortunately the red square was right next to the red elevators. We were on the eighth floor in a flash, and following the signs on the wall, we were in the area where Guy was supposed to be in room 22.
That was not Guy in room 22. We asked the nurses.
“He was transferred to 4- 3400,” we were told.
No problem for us. We knew where the elevators were and quickly descended to the fourth floor. When the doors of the elevator opened, we were greeted with walls painted with butterflies and a hallway that had a ceramic pony and dog.
“What do you think? Jean, said.
“Yeah, this looks like a pediatric floor,” I said.
So we went down one more floor, followed the signs and the directions that told us to check in the receptionist.
The receptionist informed us that we were in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. She couldn’t tell us where Guy was because of HIPPA laws. Grumble. So, back up to eight where another nurse told us that Guy was in WCC 7.
Back down to the lobby and the info desk, we were directed to another wing of the hospital. That Starbucks coffee smelled so good by then. But, should we have needed a pick me up, it would have been easy since we passed at east two other snack bars on the way to WCC7, where the clerk told us that there was no Guy Vasta there.
I asked if she could access the listing of all the patients in the hospital and see where our friend was.
She couldn’t. HIPPA. A nurse asked if she could help. She called up to the 8th floor where we knew he once was and, after speaking with several people she told us that he was, in fact on 4-3400. Seems like there is a corridor off of that pediatric area that is known as 3400.
As we more slowly walked back, Jean noted that, if nothing else, we were getting in our exercise, since her Fitbit which she set when we left the car on the roof registered 7000 steps. Admittedly, mine steps were getting slower and were marked every now and then by strange guttural utterings about needing some ibuprofen, but now energized again, we made our way to Guy’s room.
We were so happy to finally get to see him.
The nurses on that unit took one look at us and went out to get chairs.
All in all, we accomplished our goal. We may have been a bit bedraggled and shopworn by the time we found our friend, but the journey was worth it. The visit was what we had hoped for. When we left, we told Guy that he was loved and that we were praying for his quick recovery.
Now, how to get back to the car. Down to the lobby, we, with our crack directional sense went in the opposite direction from the elevators that would take us to the roof. Backtracking, and safely in the elevators, we stared at the buttons. Were we M or N. A lady in a cast asked us what we could remember about where we parked the car. “We are on the roof…”
She pushed the button for M.
Right after we discovered that we were about to turn the wrong way to get to Route 590, a nice gentleman allowed us to cross lanes .
Did I mention that we went to college?
