Where(and I can’t stress this enough)THE FUCKwas Southwest Barstow Road?
Mapping the new address quickly, I was rerouted clear to the other side of town. For anyone taking notes, that was the side of town I’d originally entered. Meaning, if I weren’t such a scatter-brained idiot and got the address correct in the first place, I’d have already arrived at the interview.
Ten minutes ago.
On time.
But no. Instead, I was racing down the road, driving dangerously with one hand while looking up and calling the clinic with the other to explain I’d be late. After four rings, a recording came on. I hesitated to leave a voicemail after the beep because . . . What was I really going to say?
“Hi! Millie Maxwell here. I’m running late for the interview. I typed the wrong address into my GPS, so I’m at some sort of wildlife strip club. I’ll be there in ten minutes after my next tail dance.”
Yeah, I think not.
Hanging up without leaving a message, I continued to speed down the road and gripped the wheel, pretending it was my own neck I was squeezing.
Being late was one of my biggest flaws, or, depending on how you looked at it, one of my biggest strengths. I was consistently late. Something inevitably got in my way, like not being able to find my keys. Or, forgetting the pair of pants I wanted to wear wasn’t clean. Or, staring at my closet to find a top, then thinking about how I needed to remove the tops that didn’t fit anymore, which led to a pile on the floor of four tops that didn’t fit until I realized that I was supposed to be getting dressed.
Taking a sharp left turn faster than I should’ve after a rolling stop, the two mini pumpkins made their presence known again on their trip to the other side of my car’s back seat, thumping loudly against the door.
It’s not that I, a 26-year-old-almost-doctor, was proud I lived this way.
I really did mean to leave on time and take the things from my car into my apartment. It just never seemed to happen. I’ve never been able to keep things tidy. From my childhood bedroom growing up to my school locker to my adult apartment, I was all cluttered chaos. Piles of stuff tend to accumulate when you can’t finish tasks. It was an Achilles’ Heel of ADHD.
As was being late—a girl in my anatomy lab once told me I'd never be late if I just planned to be early.What a novel thought, Karen. Let me guess: You also tell anxious people not to worry. Am I right?
I’d learned ways to treat my ADHD with behavioral therapy and medicine, but sometimes that feeling of failure still got to me. Being consistently late, not finishing my work on time, and being surrounded by clutter led to an inevitable feeling of being overwhelmed. And then the predictable self-loathing of ‘why are you the way you are, Millie?’naturally followed.
So, you can see why I was ringing my imaginary neck.
A few minutes later, I drove back into civilization, finding and parking in the clinic’s lot at ten past seven. I ran-walked up the stone steps of the three-story red brick building to find the doors locked. It was a testament to how truly stressed and oblivious I was that I didn’t notice the completely empty parking lot. After yanking on both doors a few times and confirming that they were indeed locked, I peered through the glass panes of the door.
No trace of movement or light.
I tried the door handle again for good measure, but it didn’t budge.
Puzzled, I turned around, and only then did I notice the empty parking lot.
Huh.No one seemed to be here.
Was I supposed to call someone when I got here? Was it possible someone was waiting here at seven and then left when I didn’t arrive on time? Or did I have the address wrong twice? That would be unusual, even for me.
I doubled back down the steps, deciding to follow a sidewalk around to the back of the building. A line of trees bordered the property. It was thicker the further I walked, making the area feel more secluded in the back than the front. As I rounded the corner, I saw what looked to be an employee entrance with a single door, an electronic badge reader, and an empty, yet smaller, parking lot. This door, too, was locked.
Confusion, anger, and self-loathing were my companions as I walked back to my car.
Pulling out my phone, I searched through my emails for all correspondence from the program. Stopping short at my car door, I saw it. There, in my inbox, was an unread messagesent over two weeks ago,whose subject line read:Itinerary change for Nov 18 interview.
My stomach sank as I clicked on the email.
Ms. Maxwell,
Unfortunately, the time posted on your interview itinerary was incorrect. Please see the new details attached. We look forward to seeing you for your interview at our residency clinic on November 18th at 9:00 a.m. Please reach out if you have any questions.
Closing my eyes and exhaling in relief, my body sagged against the driver’s door. Seven in the morninghadseemed early for an interview, but I was used to being in medical student mode. You don’t question things. If they had asked me to arrive at two in the morning, I’d have been there without questioning it. Still, my inadvertent mistake meant I wasn’t late. I was early.
Serendipitouslyearly.
Maybe I even had time to drive and get a coffee and donut from the—I stopped that thought, mentally slapping some sense into myself. I had to stay on task. If I got hungry, I had a protein bar and emergency peanut butter M&Ms in my center console.
