Mammogram this morning at empty Princess Margaret Hospital. They've finally labelled the elevators that go to the Breast Screening area, but they're around a corner in an ill-lit (on weekends) cul-de-sac that even I find creepy. Go up to the 2nd floor, Breast Imaging Dep't, to find all deserted and half-lit, not a body in sight. Walk through the area, see, through a window, patient robes hanging in a room on the other side of the desk, go there via a door that locks behind me. Nobody. But another door opens into the dietician area, and another leads to emergency exit stairs, so I get myself back to the ground floor eventually. Back to the elevators, cursing the hospital's lack of info that has caused me at least once to leave without the exam. (That was the time the one stray official body told me the centre was closed on weekends, in spite of my weekend appointment.) Another woman is making for the elevators so I follow her: she consults a paper and presses the button for the third floor. Why does no one ever tell me anything?
But anyway, all clear on that front, so go me.
Get text from bro, aunt has broken wrist, will not be coming downstairs for tea at her establishment but is visitable in her room. Go to visit her in her cozy pleasant suite- bedroom and sitting room that looks out on the trees of the back lawn. We chat about the various doings lately- gas leaks that closed down Bloor, tony criminal lawyers shot by disgruntled clients on the tony street I grew up on, bro and s-i-l deciding to take a jaunt down to Stratford this morning, maybe catch a play and stay overnight, maybe just have lunch and come back: the freedom of the automobiled. Eventually take my leave and remember, from my one previous visit, that there's a code to get the elevator. 'It's written on a plaque on the wall.' My aunt is virtually blind so lives on the floor that has a concentration of staff, who will summon elevators for her. But many of the other floor residents are the confused ones who might wander off if allowed access. Maybe that's why the last numbers on the plate are so worn as to be almost indecipherable. I press what I see and wait. And wait. And wait. Until one of the concentrated staff comes over and shows me there's an invisible * after the number, and when you enter the whole thing the button lights up. Good to know, but now I feel more ancient and muddle-headed than my aunt's co-dwellers.