You may recall that day I picked up my son from a Secaucus mall because he had a raging fever. 

I mean, of course you remember. That’s all you do, right? Track the events of my life? 

To that end, where did that extra key come from?  

If you’re tracking my life, you should know.  

Please tell me. It’s freaking me out. 

My son started with the fever late on a Saturday afternoon.  

He was leaving for sleep away camp four days later. 

I had no time to dilly-dally with analgesics and Gatorade. I needed a diagnosis. A treatment, if warranted. 

Our primary care doctor doesn’t have Sunday hours — obviously — so I reluctantly made an appointment with urgent care. 

Why reluctantly? 

OK. Listen. You’re just going to have to stick with me here. 

Although, really. If you remember everything I say, this will come as no shock to you. 

I like things grouped.  

It’s so fulfilling. Like that shopping center in Richboro — it’s home to Be Well Bakery & Cafe, creator of my favorite smoothie. That shopping center also hosts my dog’s vet and Willie’s bank. Many things I need, one shopping center. 

Grouped. 

Or my old refrigerator. Its shelves were segmented. One shelf segment was dairy. One shelf segment was bread. One shelf segment was my husband’s stuff, untouched by anybody in the house because yogurt and olives are gross. 

The new fridge doesn’t have segments. It’s incapable of groups. 

Groups are neat. Satisfying.  

Urgent care? Well, it’s not grouped. It’s not part of my healthcare system. It’s not even in the same shopping center as, well, anything.  

But I needed urgent care. Like when the grocery store runs out of Nestlé Toll House chocolate chips, forcing me to buy the store brand. 

So Sunday morning found us in urgent care, getting diagnosed with a virus. 

Fortunately, Sunday was also the last day my son had a fever. By Wednesday, he was off to camp like nothing happened. 

When he came home ten days later, he popped off one sneaker, proffering his bare foot.  

“Look at my toe, Mom!” he said. 

It was swollen and bloody. 

“What did you do?” I asked. 

He denied any injury, any event that could make his toe so, well, gross. 

And he’s 17. So, I forgot about it. 

The following week, he started two weeks of camp in New Jersey, an hour and a half away. He was gone from 7:15 in the morning until 8:00 at night. 

So, when he came home one evening, smack in the middle of his 12-hour days in New Jersey, complaining of pain in that toe, I groaned. 

I crouched to examine the toe, for the first time since he got home from camp.  

It was, um, worse. 

Red and inflamed, it was oozing blood and pus. Layers of skin were peeling away. 

And yeah. Our doctor’s office opened after he left for New Jersey.  

And closed before he got home. 

Do you know who was open after camp? 

Urgent care. 

So back we went.  

By the time we went on vacation, ten days later, I welcomed the break. 

It was lovely. Drinks on the beach, fried shrimp for days, ice cream. 

Our last day of vacation found our daughter waking up to a painful, sticky, red eye. 

No. I’m not kidding you. 

Yes. I went to urgent care. 

Now, I’ll say this urgent care did scratch my grouping itch. I needed both gas and cash, and it was situated next door to a gas station and not just a bank, but my bank. 

No ATM fees.  

I mean, who am I? John Jacob Astor?  

Well, not after three visits to urgent care in under two months, I’ll tell you what. 

Arriving home, our countdown began to our son’s planned knee surgery. 

Naturally, he developed another infection. This time, it was on his finger. 

Dude, I don’t know. Don’t ask me why my kids have been covered in microbial creepy crawlies all summer. That is an ignorance I’ll embrace. 

My son was, by this time, back in his twelve-hour day camp in New Jersey.  

So we looped back to urgent care. 

Five days later, he had knee surgery. By the afternoon, our son was home, crutches propped beside him. 

And the next morning, our oldest was cradling her finger after slamming it with a dumbbell.  

This time, I was able to get into our primary care doctor and find out that yeah, the finger was probably broken and no, there was probably nothing to do about it. 

Three days later, we were in the knee surgeon’s office for follow-up. 

In seven weeks’ time, I’d had my kids in two doctors’ offices, three urgent cares, and one hospital. 

All that’s left is to figure out which one gave me this sore throat, earache, headache, and sore muscles. 

Which itself is, you know, a lovely little grouping. 

And not at all satisfying.