The lyf so short

Probably from breathing in too much CO₂ after wearing a community mask for five hours (the latest scare in ever-concerned Germany!)...

Nah, actually I'm just tired because what should have been a straight-forward trip to the neurologist for the mother-in-law turned into a five-hour odyssey.

Now, let us begin the story by stating that I, personally, have my doubts whether neurologist appointments in general, and neurologist appointments for 79-year-old patients in particular, at huge bustling university hospitals have to be scheduled in the middle of an international pandemic, if the issue at hand is neither acute nor life-threatening. Be that as it may, the mother-in-law had an appointment at the university hospital. Today. At 11 am. Because she is 79 and easily flustered, she didn't dare to drive there herself, satnav or no satnav. So I drove her to Düsseldorf. The satnav managed to find the university hospital. I managed to find, on the rambling inner grounds of the hospital, the visitors' parking lot.

THEN we found out that the information the MIL had been given didn't suffice to find the neurologist's office, or even just his department. Because not ONE of the signposts deigned to point towards the neurology department.

With the help of a map, I eventually managed to narrow it down to two buildings that thankfully were right opposite each other. Naturally, we first went into the wrong one. The MIL asked a rehab technician who happened to be seated near the door for directions. He took a look at the sign and said that he didn't know, but maybe we wanted to ask in the department of neurosurgery on the third floor? Having extracted that information (and while the poor gentleman was still talking), the MIL turned her back on him. I smiled (uselessly, underneath the mask) and thanked him for his efforts. Then I suggested to the MIL that perhaps we should ask at the official helpdesk at the other end of the hallway. As the person behind the helpdesk told us to maybe ask for more information in the department of neurosurgery on the third store, we could as well not have done that.

Up to the department of neurosurgery we went. Unsurprisingly, the department of neurosurgery was not the department of neurology. Surprisingly, they didn't know where to find the department of neurology, either. (I mean, I'm probably underestimating just how huge a university hospital is, but.) They sent us down to the first floor, which wasn't the department of neurology, either, BUT at least the secretary knew that it was located in the building on the other side of the plaza, also on the first floor.

So over to the other building we went. Inside, renovations were going on, making it impossible to see the signposts, but fortunately there was a nurse who correctly interpreted our desperate looks as "searching for something" and asked if she could help, and then pointed us towards the very end of the building (which was, rather like Hogwarts, divided into Four Houses. Probably all more or less alike in dignity). We actually managed to find a hallway marked "walk-in neurology" at the very end of the building (in Blue House). A sign at the door very sternly told patients to come in alone and leave their accompanying person at the door. I went to the waiting area by the door.

Fifteen minutes later, the MIL emerged. It had not been the correct hallway after all. Because she had an appointment, she needed to go one floor further up. (I don't know if she failed to mention that she had an appointment when she went inside, or whether they didn't do anything with that information. Either is plausible.) Needless to say that the time for the appointment was, by that time, well past! But fortunately, the professor in question had nothing better to do and didn't see fit to punish the MIL for being late. On the contrary, after the initial anamnesis and assessment he even suggested scheduling additional tests Right Now.

In the meantime, Jörg - who was in home office and also looking after our kids - had gotten a mail from his company requiring his presence (in person, not online) by 1 pm. I explained that, after the hijinks of the past hour, I didn't want to go away from where the MIL knew to find me, so no, I couldn't come to the next highway rest area to take over the kids while he drove on to Essen. He wondered loudly whether we could leave the kids alone until I got home. I expressed my displeasure. He declared that he didn't want to leave the kids with my father, because contamination. Honestly, after the MIL and I had journeyed through a GODDAMN HOSPITAL for an hour, the likelihood of the kids catching the plague via my father (who himself only goes out for groceries, but my mum is still working at the nursing home) seems rather negligible! So he brought the kids to my father. Just as he was leaving my parents' driveway, his company called that he didn't have to come in today, but tomorrow.
Oh joy.

I had just ended that call when the neurology department (the correct one) called. Or rather, the MIL called from the neurology department to inform me that they would be able to do further check-ups right now, or otherwise they could make a new appointment in two weeks' time or so, which would I prefer? As we were already there and the day was already ruined, I figured that they might as well do the check-ups then and there and spare us a second journey. (I mean, this time we would've known where to go, but it's still a one-hour drive, one way, in the first place.) So off to testing they went, and I sat back down in the waiting area (the cafeteria, naturally, was closed due to the Plague). Let's just say that I was very glad that I had brought a relatively new book along.

The additional check ups took a bit over an hour (so driving in for another appointment would indeed have been worse) and although we drove home during what would usually be rush-hour time, there were no traffic jams (another perk to wide-spread home officing!). But, ugh.

I arrived home to various confused mails from parents, asking why the OneDrive folder for my class was empty. Apparently, one of my colleagues deleted all the kids' folders while I was away. (By accident, not on purpose.) Still not sure whether the system will allow me to restore the folders myself (and, worse, the files within them) or whether I'll have to ask our admin for help. I have decided that it's a problem for Tomorrow Me. I planted a few flowers in the garden instead. It finally rained yesterday and this morning. We haven't had any precipitation since late March (when there was a bit of sleet), but now the sweet showers of April have finally pierced the drought of March to the root and so on and so forth (though folk who long to go on pilgrimages will still have to wait, alas). That's something, at least.