Notes from an Urban Cabin #14 | Going to Chautauqua
My aunt was playing bingo yesterday when I arrived to take her to a doctor's appointment. A slow ballet of wheelchairs and Rollators opened a path for her to leave the room. Always well mannered, she explained her departure to a few neighbors within earshot. "I'm going to the doctor."
One old guy repeated what he'd heard, either to acknowledge her or to tuck it away for future use. "Going to Chautauqua."
Chautauqua, the southwestern New York resort town with a long history of "vacation learning" programs, is two and a half hours away. We could have driven there and back in the time it took us to get to the doctor and wait for the doctor and see the doctor and get a bite of dinner and get back to her home.
The Ohio River and the rain-fed puddles on Route 65 were our Lake Chautauqua. The other patients and their drivers, spilling from the waiting room into the choose-your-new-glasses area and out to the lobby, were our fellow attendees. And once she paged through the magazines and filled in what she could of the crossword puzzle, they became her entertainment.
"It's interesting to watch the people," she said. "Especially the men." Earlier, she'd made a good-natured, what-are-ya-gonna-do shrug-and-smile combo at the guy across from her, who had reached his grump point somewhere in the 20 feet between the check-in desk and the first empty chair he could find. "A couple of them in particular are absolutely irate that they're waiting. And some — they're here, they know they have to be, so they just sort of take it in.
"You take what you have to."
I asked her whether she thought women are more patient. No, she didn't think we're more patient, necessarily. Possibly less, in general. But more resourceful at enduring waiting.
Finally she was called back — to an intake and dilation room. Then ushered to another waiting room. To wait a little more for the doctor. Along with the five other people ahead of her.
One woman wore a red sweatshirt with a quartet of cat drawings. I asked whether she had cats. "I have a cat," she said. "One."
Me too, I said. "One cat, and she likes it that way." Thus began a forum on the habits of lone adult cats of unknown origins. Hers arrived not knowing what to do with a crumpled paper ball. "It's the first animal I've ever had to teach how to play."
One by one, our number dwindled as the assistant called each name. Then the doctor himself called my aunt's. He apologized for the wait, and once in the exam room, he started right in on the reason for the visit. But she stopped him. Protocol first. "This is my niece."
Examination ended, follow-up appointment made, we drove toward our default dinner stop. Over familiar, comforting food, we reviewed what we learned.
"Tell me again what the doctor said about my eyes."
"He said they're amazing. He's impressed that you still read the paper every day. He said he wants eyes like yours when he's your age."
On the way home, she pronounced it an enjoyable day. She complimented my driving. She thanked me for my time, and all I do for her, even the things she doesn't know about or doesn't remember.
I told her that I love her habit of thanking people, especially all the nurses and receptionists and auxiliary staff wherever we go.
That's how she was raised, she said. Then she added a note of her own philosophy, from years of perceptive people-watching. "I think too many people never think about the other guy. But it's what all the other guys do that keeps everything going."
Old man, you were right. Every time I go somewhere with her, we're going to Chautauqua.