The Feral Truth: The Best Five Bucks I Spend at the Hospital

There are many things in healthcare that cost an absolutely obscene amount of money.

Medications.

Scans.

Procedures.

Hospital stays.

A Band-Aid that I'm pretty sure gets billed at roughly the cost of a starter home.

But there is one healthcare expense I will happily pay every single time.

Five dollars to the valet guy.

Technically, valet parking at our hospital is free.

But obviously I'm tipping the person who takes my car.

And every single time I hand over that five-dollar bill, I think:

Worth. Every. Penny.

I know there are people who park themselves at the hospital.

Good for you.

Truly.

May your parking space be close and your memory of which garage level you're on remain strong.

I will be pulling directly up to the front door like the exhausted medical aristocracy I have become.

Because somewhere along the way, I realized I do not need to prove anything by parking my own car.

I have enough shit to do.

Hospital days already require an unreasonable amount of logistics.

Before we've even left the house, I've thought about the appointment time.

Traffic.

Medications.

Oxygen.

Chargers.

Paperwork.

Whatever medical equipment is joining us that day.

Whether we need food.

Whether we're staying overnight.

Whether I remembered the thing I specifically put next to the door so I wouldn't forget it.

And approximately 47 other details running silently in the background of my brain.

By the time I reach the hospital?

You can have the fucking car.

Here's the key.

Godspeed.

And valet parking eliminates an entire category of bullshit.

No circling.

No stalking someone walking toward their car like a parking-lot predator.

No squeezing a giant vehicle into a space apparently designed for a 1997 Geo Metro.

No unloading medical equipment three counties away from the entrance.

No trying to remember:

"Was it Garage B? Level 4? Blue section? Dolphin? Flamingo? Why the fuck is there a flamingo?"

None of it.

I pull up.

A lovely human being opens the door.

We unload.

I hand over the keys.

And the car becomes someone else's problem.

This is luxury.

Then we go inside and do whatever medically ridiculous thing has brought us there that day.

Appointment.

Scan.

Infusion.

Procedure.

Follow-up.

Lab work.

Or my personal favorite:

"We're just going to pop in quickly."

HAHAHAHAHAHA.

Sure.

See you in six hours.

Eventually, though, we emerge.

Usually tired.

Sometimes carrying more stuff than we arrived with.

Possibly hungry.

Definitely ready to go home.

And this is where the real magic happens.

I don't have to begin the Great Hospital Parking Garage Expedition.

I don't have to remember where the car is.

I don't have to drag everything through a garage while wondering why Florida has apparently relocated three miles closer to the sun.

I give someone my ticket.

And then...

THE CAR COMES TO ME.

Do you understand how beautiful that is?

After an entire day of being responsible for absolutely everything...

I stand still.

And someone brings me my shit.

Five dollars?

Sir, I would like to shake your hand.

Caregiving has given me a completely different appreciation for convenience.

There was probably a time when I would've thought:

"We can just park ourselves."

That woman is gone.

She has seen things.

She now understands that not every task needs to become a character-building exercise.

If someone can remove one unnecessary pain in my ass from an already complicated day?

REMOVE IT.

I don't need the growth opportunity.

I have enough character.

And maybe that's something caregiving has taught me that extends beyond parking.

You don't have to do everything yourself just because you technically can.

Sometimes convenience is worth paying for.

Sometimes the easier option is the smarter option.

And sometimes the best five dollars you spend all day is handed to a stranger who disappears with your SUV and magically brings it back when you're ready to leave.

So yes.

I valet.

Every time.

Without guilt.

Without hesitation.

And with tremendous appreciation for whoever decided caregivers have suffered enough and should not also be required to remember where the hell they parked.

The Feral Truth: Healthcare may take my time, my money, my patience and occasionally my last functioning nerve—but for five bucks, at least somebody else can park the fucking car.