"Chart number?"
The question was an expected segment of our usual conversation, but it still managed to elicit in me the same internal groan.
Shortly after Ella was born, the secretary of her pediatrician shoved a little blue index card with a scrawled series of integers into my hand. "You'll need this chart number every time you phone," she said in a stern voice that seemed strangely incongruent with her short stature and grandmotherly appearance.
Like most important scraps of paper, the little blue card ended up in a forgotten fold of my wallet. Since I don't usually carry my wallet around with me unless I'm going out, and since it has always been my lifelong dream to one day attain the memory level of a goldfish, I never have it on hand when I call for Ella's doctor appointments.
In the meantime, we've established an uncomfortable dance, she and I. I call for an appointment, and she grumbles a bit and asks when I'd like to come in. I name a few dates and times that would be convenient to me, and she rejects each one of them instantly. I ask her what times she has available, and she growls a bit more and finally asks if I want to come in at a time that is typically far too early for me to manage. I decline, and suggest a slightly later time of day, and we haggle around a bit before finally reaching a mutually acceptable ten-minute time slot. Then comes the dreaded question: "Chart number?" I usually respond to this by saying, "I'm sorry, I don't have it in front of me." She snarls a bit more and hangs up the phone, and our dance is complete.
This time was different, though. In an effort to speed our scheduling salsa up a bit, I abbreviated my usual comment somewhat, saying, "I'm sorry, I don't have it."
The usual snarl changed instantly into full-blown bark. I imagined angry storm clouds building around her head, and her yes flashing like lightning. She took on the tone of an angry mother berating a small child, and if she could've reached through the phone I'm sure she would have grabbed me by the ear and shook me. "Oh, yes you dooo. I gave you a little blue caaard, you're supposed to have it by the phooone whenever you caaall."
I stammered an apology and she hung up on me.
Now don't get me wrong. I'm willing to lend a helping hand wherever and whenever possible. But what I don't understand is why I must participate in her filing process. If I don't have the chart number, will she be unable to locate my child's medical file? And if she can find it on her own, then why am I wasting precious brain wattage keeping up with a mostly useless piece of paper?
Oh, well. I guess I'll try and remember the card from now on. After all, I wouldn't want her to give herself a heart attack or pop a vein or something on my account.
