Over Spring Break in 2008, my mom, my daughter Val and I drove to Virginia to visit my mom’s relatives, including her uncle who had just turned 100. We left on Saturday morning, accepting the fact that we might not make it there in two days. By suppertime on Sunday, as we drove into Danville, Virginia, we decided that right after dinner at the Kentucky Fried Chicken, we would find a motel for the night.
The only problem with that plan was KFC for supper. Or at least the sandwich that Val ordered. Hours after going to bed at the Super 8 on the other end of town, Val started vomiting. By three am, my mom and I decided that enough was enough and we dragged my poor daughter into the car to begin searching for the nearest ER.
The night clerk at the motel tried to be helpful, but in the dark of the night, her directions made no sense. We just started driving, hoping to run across a big blue H sign.
The Danville Regional Medical Center is a nice, modern facility, and I would definitely recommend it if you are ever in the area with a crisis in your car. (They were very obliging about accommodating my monthly payments over the next eighteen months.)
It didn’t take the doctor (was his name really Dr. Dan, or was I sleepwalking at the time?) to diagnose food poisoning and we had no qualms about accusing the Colonel. With IV fluids and Compazine running, Val was able to fall right asleep in her hospital bed. Grandma and Mom, on the other hand, dozed fitfully in our hard plastic chairs, our heads bobbing and jerking, until they released Val at seven am.