About ten years ago, I drove myself to an early morning needle breast biopsy. When they called me to schedule it, they said I could drive myself, so I did. As I drove my blue Honda Odyssey across town for the outpatient procedure, my nerves fired up, “What if this? What if that?” Given that i have breast cancer in close family, I told myself I better prepare for the worst and hope for the best.
I arrived at the parking garage attached to the doctor’s building. The place was practically empty and I was able to park near the elevators. As I pulled into a parking space, I looked at the car in the space on my passenger side. The car wasn’t straight, and the front end driver’s side was over the yellow line at the end of my spot. I thought, “Wow, they parked shitty. It’s going to be really difficult for anyone to squeeze in the driver side door. That sucks.” And off I went to my biopsy.
The parking garage was nearly empty. I had a multitude of spaces I could’ve chosen, and even still been close to the elevators. This did not occur to me even once. I parked between the lines and they didn’t. How easy would it have been for me to pick any other spot. My mind was so overwhelmed by the prospect of the biopsy itself and the possible results, it was functioning on autopilot, certainly not performing critical thinking skills.
The biopsy sucked. They had to do it while my boob was flattened in between the mammogram plates. Just glad to have that over with, I breathed a sigh of relief on my way to the elevators. Then I started thinking about my imbecilic decision to park next to car that was askew. I began hoping fervently that those people were still in the middle of whatever they were doing at the medical center.
Alas, when I arrived at my floor and exited the elevator foyer, I noted with a sinking feeling that my neighbor had already departed. A sense of foreboding crept over me and I sensed the need to check out my passenger side. Whoever had parked there agreed my decision was idiotic and expressed themselves by keying my minivan the entire length of the car THREE times! These were deep gouges, not to be buffed away.
My first thought was, “Shit. I gotta tell my husband the car was keyed.” The next thought was, “And I have to tell him it’s my fault. Damn.” I couldn’t even get mad because I totally earned that. The poorly parked car was a compact with bucket seats, and it would’ve been difficult to get in either side, especially if it was a heavyset person. Whoever it was had some good arm strength, because by the third trip down the car I don’t think my scratches would still be as deep as the first. That’s how it ends up I got my car keyed, and I’m the one feeling guilty!
p.s. I’ve had another biopsy since, different, but again they said I could drive myself. My husband said he’d like to go with me (he hates hospiitals) so he drove. Also, benign findings on both!