That night my body rose to a balmy 103 degrees.
The next morning, I intended to do some work. My wife urged me to visit Urgent Care — I seem only ever to get sick when I'm between doctors. This time, it was the Feverus Skullkickus strain.
As a kid, going to the doctor for an illness in our household was almost unheard of. We only really went to see him when we were well. If my sister and I were going to miss a day of school, it was because the illness knocked out the use of our legs, or we sprouted green growths that shouted obscenities in several languages.
It was impossible to fake symptoms to our schoolteacher mother; my efforts at gluing construction paper dots to myself and shouting swears in German only got me grounded.
Last Friday, there was no faking. For the first time in about 13 years I experienced the chills, the fever, you name it. Off to Urgent Care we went.
We called the office at Buena Vista and Alameda, across the street from the Providence St. Joseph Emergency Room. Or at least that's who Google said we were calling.
The automated answering machine informed us that this location opened at 8:30. We arrived at 8:29. The Google address listed Suite 200. This is upstairs in the medical office building, high above a glass door that said Urgent Care, on which was printed an opening hour of 11 a.m.
So ... wrong place?
Up we go to Suite 200, and in my feverish skull the world starts spinning. I stagger as I follow my wife into a nice little waiting room that absolutely is not Urgent Care. The receptionist says the only one is downstairs, the one that opens at 11, and that she knows of no other Urgent Care around. Anywhere. Have a nice day.