So Much Stuff I Can't Recall

(this one’s pretty long, so get comfy; I think it’s worth it)

Sometimes things work out easily. Sometimes they don’t. Sometimes they don’t so God can show you that, really, they do.

Take yesterday afternoon, for example.... Actually, let’s back things up to Monday so yesterday afternoon makes sense.

On Monday, I was watching The Iron Giant with Phil. Not to spoil the ending (which really isn’t the ending anyway), but the giant robot makes a big sacrifice for the sake of the boy who befriends him. Phil noticed that right before that happens, the robot closes his eyes.

“Why’d he close his eyes?” Phil asked.

How do you tell a 4-year-old that the robot didn’t want to see the end coming?

“Sometimes it’s easier to be brave if you close your eyes,” was the best I could do.

Yesterday afternoon Phil visited his pediatrician to get his final round of shots in preparation for school next fall. His appointment was set for 45 minutes before his swim lesson (which was about 15-20 minutes away). I called the doctor’s office on Tuesday to see if the timing would work or if I should reschedule.

“No problem,” the receptionist said. “In, out; don’t worry about it.”

Ten minutes into our scheduled time — when we were still in the lobby waiting for the appointment to actually begin — I began to worry. Still, about then we were ushered into the examination room; I did my best to remain patient.

Fifteen minutes later when the pediatrician had been in, done his routine exam, and left — and we were still waiting for the tech to come in with shots — I decided it was time to say something.

I stuck my head out the door and asked, “How much longer is this going to take?”

“Five, ten minutes. We’re waiting for the shots to be drawn.”

I explained what I had been told. They said they’d see what they could do. Going ballistic in front of the boy didn’t seem to be the wisest course of action. So I reviewed the plan for being brave when it was time for the shots (close your eyes) and foreshadowed the possibility that we might have to forego the swim lesson. Fortunately, Phil also (for once) skipped the nuclear option.

As the swim lesson began, the tech came in with the syringes. (I suspect “the tech” is not the industry-standard term for the person who administered the shots, but it’ll do.) The intern who ushered us into the exam room — what? a half hour plus earlier? — came with.

So, Phil was up on the exam table waiting when the tech says, “I hate giving these shots because the kids always —” I have no idea how that sentence ended because my full attention was given to not commencing the launch sequence that would result in a reflex mallet being propelled in the tech’s general direction.

Instead, I positioned myself at the end of the exam table, facing Phil, put my hands beside his cheeks like blinders and reviewed the plan again. In went the needles: one on the left, one on the fight, a third on the left again. The boy kept his eyes shut and didn’t make a peep.

As Phil got his shirt back on, I told the tech we’d come back later to have Phil’s inoculation record-card filled out. We hit the door and hurried to the car. Maybe there’s a later lesson he can join in on. Maybe there’s a wading pool he can splash in. Maybe my blood pressure will go back down and my jaw will unclench. A whole lot of maybes.

So, we head for the main road connecting Junction City to Eugene. There’s major construction one block up that has the road down to one lane each way and traffic backed way up. But a semi-truck has left the intersection open. I pull into the gap and traffic starts moving. When I’m about halfway down the highway, I call Dina to see if she has any advice — I’ve not fully conceded the First Strike option, it’s just a question of who I’m going to go off on. She offers to call the pool and see if there’s anything that can be done, or at least warn them of the homicidal lunatic coming their direction. What a great wife, yes?

There are six traffic signals on the seven miles of road I have to travel before turning off onto smaller streets. They all stay green, including the left-turn I have to make to leave the highway. I hit a red light at the next street, but I’m in the right turn-lane, so I stop and then proceed without any wait. A road-crossing pedestrian with a baby carriage and a school zone later we arrive at the pool. At a parking spot right in front of the building.

I wiki-wiki the boy inside and begin my spiel on why we’re twenty minutes late. The receptionist’s face is cold until I get to the part about the shots and the 15-minute doctor’s visit that turned into 45. Then her half-scowl disappears and she asks whose class he’s in. I tell her and she turns to the man coming in through the straight-to-the-pool staff door (as opposed to the circuitous route everyone else takes) and asks if he would please take Phil to his class.

I scurry around the long way and see Phil getting into a lifevest so he and his classmates can jump off the low diving board. Phil got two dives in before the class ended.

It was enough. Phil wasn’t thrilled he had to leave the pool so quickly. And I can’t honestly say I was excited about the way things went. But it was enough.

There’s no reason the trucker in Junction City shouldn’t have closed the gap when he saw me coming. There’s no reason I should have hit six straight green lights. There’s no reason there should have been a spot right in front of the pool building. The receptionist at the pool could have commiserated with me about how my life’s hard and left it at that. Phil or I could have pitched fits at any time and no jury would have convicted us. But none of that happened.

Sometimes things don’t work out easily so God can show you that, really, they do.

“The beauty of grace is that it makes life not fair.” — Reliant K

Amen.