Benjamin has been to more medical appointments than his eight siblings combined. Probably not a record anyone wants to set. Still even with seventeen years of experience finding care providers, wading through insurance, hunting down referrals, and slogging through directions, I get jittery going to a new hospital. 

Last spring his pediatrician recommended taking him to a neurologist. Sounds easy enough, until you try to crow bar your way into the schedule. I got an opening four months later, which arrived last week. Armed with an address, and copies of current prescriptions, I left in plenty of time. Except for the traffic, and the construction that seems perennial around hospitals. Jogging from the parking garage I kept looking behind me to make sure he was still following, as I read signs and asked at the information desk. 

"Blue elevators. Third floor. Two lefts." 

I walked past a medley of physical impairments that I had never considered. Children with tubes, and wheelchairs, braces, and bandages. One mother came charging after her little boy who had wandered off. But instead of words, she regaled him with sound. Apparently, she could not speak in words. But her message was clear. 

I hustled to the elevator, and stuck my hand in as the door began to close. Ben and I stepped in. There was a young man with an ID around his neck. I stood silently as the elevator hummed. 

"He goes to Lower Moreland, right?" the boy said. I nodded.

"I do too. I've seen him." 

"Do you, uh, work here?" I asked.

"I volunteer. My dad's a doctor." 

I thrust my hand to shake his, partly to thank him for being a volunteer and partly for calming me down. 

We found the neurologist who treated Benjamin with the same friendliness his grandfather would have, were he still alive. His sleeves were rolled up and come to think of it, he had called me to confirm the appointment last week. As in him. What doctor does that?

Ben was as scruffy and unchatty as usual. The only time he spoke without being asked a question was when I gave the wrong dates for his recent trip to the Horsham Clinic. He corrected me. He always was nimble with dates. Not the girl kind. The calendar kind. 

Driving home I thought about the odds of meeting that student, in a congested hospital miles from my door. Add to the equation the unlikelihood of him speaking first. To a strange lady, about her quirky son. 

I breathed deeply. Maybe God really is in the details. Maybe he is taking care of Ben. Of me.

Of you.