The Referral Arrived

We forgot to check the mail on Saturday, so this afternoon I went to the mailbox. Inside was the long-awaited referral from my insurance. The letter gives me permission to call the bariatric surgeon, and I'm trying to be grateful that he's on Beach Blvd instead of in Ocala or Gainesville. Beach Blvd is across the river from here, and I've not been to that area of town since I was a girl of 21. Mapquest says it's a mere ten miles from my place.

I'll call this another challenge-test of my resolve. Can I get in the car and drive all the way to a place I've never been in a town that is increasingly unfamiliar? This once was my hometown, but I swear it's morphed and changed into unrecognizable. Ironically, I grew up on that other side of town. My father lives there.

The doctor's office is only a few blocks from Baptist Medical Center where I was born, and where I spent most of my childhood while my maternal grandmother slowly wasted away from cancer. Perhaps there in the long-gone original building is where I got my ability to sit quietly and alone for hours at a time. In those days, children weren't allowed in the rooms unless they were the patient, so I waited for my mother in the lobby with my books or crayons. Often I'd fall asleep in the chairs, comfortably curled up with a book.

Wouldn't it be interesting if I had my surgery there? Wouldn't be the first time I had surgery at Baptist. Long ago, I had spinal surgery there as a young adult just barely on my own. At least it wouldn't be a bad drive for my DH. Mapquest says a mere 15 minutes from my home.

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