I am currently enrolled in the TRAP-MS trial, which tests four FDA approved medications as potential supplemental medications for people with Multiple Sclerosis (MS). My appointment was originally scheduled for January 3, but as it turned out, I’d had to delay this follow-up twice—once because of a nasty cold, and once because of a nasty fall.
At 5:35 on the morning of my twice delayed visit, I rounded a curve on I-75 South and was greeted by a dense array of taillights. Oops. I hadn’t planned on a traffic jam so early in the morning. There was no way I was going to make it to the airport within the recommended sixty minute buffer before my seven am flight. I was mortified. Would the NIH have to cancel yet another flight? I’d heard the NIH doesn’t get charged for flight cancellations. I stayed in my lane and hoped for the best. After a tense twenty minutes, the traffic jam dispersed, and traffic returned to normal. I made it to long term parking at ten after six. I still had to take the van to the airport. When I approached the kiosk, I had little expectation that it would produce a boarding pass. On a previous trip, I’d been denied a boarding pass for being a mere two minutes late. Just for the heck of it, I entered my confirmation code and—surprise—received my boarding pass. I joined the line to security. The line was not a line. It was a serpentine labyrinth the likes of which one usually encounters on the holidays, not on an early morning weekday. Lines are not my thing. I know they aren’t anyone’s thing, but since multiple sclerosis, my legs tend to get super tingly and ornery if I stand too long. This line, however, moved just enough so I wasn’t standing, just walking very very slowly. My legs have become all too fond of walking very very slowly, so they didn’t tingle overmuch. They didn’t collapse. They cooperated. For that I was grateful. A modicum of gratitude can work wonders on the body. Security went smoothly—I wasn’t asked to take off my sneakers. I chose to walk to Concourse B instead of waiting for the tram, and as it turned out, my unruly legs got me to the Concourse B escalator maybe 30 seconds before the tram. At that point, even a 30 second increment counted. I was the last passenger to board the plane. By far. My seat, 5B, had leg room to spare. Not only that, I was the only passenger on this flight with no seat mate. While I was by far the most delinquent passenger, I’d wound up with the best accommodations.
Life isn’t fair.
We made it to our destination early. I wouldn’t have to wait for the 10:30 van to the NIH. I could easily make the 8:30.
I consulted my email from the travel office, which instructed me to wait on level three between doors 5 and 6—on the far end of the airport. As I hustled in that direction, a uniformed agent asked me for my destination. When I said, “The NIH,” he directed me to wait between doors 3 and 4. I hesitated. Which to believe? The travel office or the guy on the ground? We locked eyes for a second. I figured that if I picked the NIH instructions over his word, I couldn’t come to him for help later. I showed him the instructions on my screen. He muttered, “Then do as it says.”
There was no one waiting between doors 5 and 6. I figured, if I’ve chosen wrong, I’ll at least be able to spot the familiar white van with the NIH logo as it passes—and possibly manage to flag it down. 8:30 came and went. I reminded myself that traffic in DC was even less reliable than traffic in Cincinnati—who was I to get ruffled if the van was late? A professional looking man—perhaps a doctor?— approached timidly—perhaps wondering if this was where one waits for the NIH shuttle. And then he scurried away, with an air of private mortification. That was the only time I took my eyes off the road. Was it then that the NIH shuttle went by? Or had the shuttle indeed been late? At 8:42 I called the travel office, just to check. They told me the shuttle had arrived on time between gates 3 and 4. They were unimpressed by my complaint that I’d been instructed to wait between gates 5 and 6. I still had the option of the 10:30 shuttle.
At this point I could go back inside the warm airport, get off my feet, and maybe write an entry for my long neglected Ms. Lab Rat blog. On the other side of the road, the metallic Metro streaked by. The NIH van had let me down once already. I chose to give the Metro a try.
The NIH has its own Metro stop. In the past, I’ve used it to optimize my visits, dashing off to a museum, or the zoo, if given a wide enough stretch in my schedule between a clinic visit and an MRI. I’d never had the occasion to take the Metro from the airport, because in the past, there had always been a cab waiting for me. This was my first visit since the research got shuffled to a different department within the NIH, and this department was stingy. It wasn’t paying for cab rides, or food stipends, or hotels, and probably wouldn’t reimburse my measly little Metro fare.
I didn’t care. Taking the Metro seemed a better proposition than loitering in the airport. I found my way to the station where a Chinese gentleman guessed I was in search of the map. I thought of my son, an American who lives in Beijing and has probably been assisted once or twice at train stations by helpful Chinese gentlemen. I saw that my commute would take only 44 minutes and would involve only one transfer, which confirmed my hunch that I’d made the right decision.
I loved the ride on the DC Metro, loved the long Deco-like escalator that opened up to the regal white stone NIH station.
I was in too good a mood when the NIH security guard handed me my temporary ID and asked, “Do you know where you are going? Do you know how to get there?”
I answered, “Yes.”
I should have asked, “Where do I wait for the shuttle?”
I had many memories of walking from Building 10 to the Metro stop. But on this day, I would build a new memory. A memory of getting about halfway to Building 10 when I started to limp. A memory of waving urgently at the campus shuttle, which drove on by.
Life isn’t fair.