Breathless in January, Part Two...

Later that month I sang at Forestview Nursing Home. It's located in a section of Forest Hills where parking is pretty much not an option. I dropped off my stuff at the front door and went looking for a spot. I think I must have parked in the Bronx. By the time I walked back to the nursing home, it might have been a good idea for me to have checked in to the nursing home. I had to sit down to catch my breath. I went upstairs and did the show, but I knew I was pretty lousy: it's kinda hard to sing without breathing.
A few days later, on a Friday, it was the Sephardic Home. At this point I knew the smart thing to do would have been to just call them, explain that I wasn't well, and cancel. I didn't do that, however, because it was my first gig there and I didn't want them to get the impression that I was the kind of guy who just cancels for no apparent reason. So I showed up. With my mom in tow, no less. She's 90 and thinks I'm the bee's knees. But she's a little deaf and also my mother so her vote doesn't really count. So I huffed and puffed and got my amp (which weighs as much as a small horse) and the rest of my gear into the place. It was quite cold out, and anyone with breathing issues knows that cold weather just exacerbates the problem. Somehow I got through the gig, but I was a wreck. I couldn't hold notes. I couldn't really make chit-chat with the crowd. I've found that talking to seniors and making them feel like people again is half the battle. I usually walk around the room and ask people their names. I think the interaction helps them accept you and makes them more receptive of you when you're performing. I was so spent physically that I couldn't bring myself to "work the room."

When it was finally over, I got a very lukewarm, perfunctory "thank you" from the recreational therapy department director, who had never met me before and had hired me sight-unseen at the insistance of the administrator (a very nice man named Michael New) who had never seen me perform. Why he insisted, I'll never know. On the way out, I couldn't take the elevator with my equipment because there were only two of them and they were loaded with people and canes and wheelchairs and aides, all clamoring to get back to their rooms after listening to me, no doubt. So I ended up walking up a flight of stairs with my stuff. Somehow I made it to my car and sat there behind the wheel for a good five minutes, trying to catch my breath while my mother sat next to me telling me how great I was.

Pumpkin

Do you understand that I saw Dr.Gadi's diagnosis as my vindication? I maintained all along that Oscar wasn't the problem. Okay, so I was a slob. Bottom line was that I might have made myself sick, but not because of my feathered friends. Trouble was, I had already returned the sweetest member of my flock, Blueberry-Sunshine, back to his rightful owners, Blimi and Dovid (who, incidently, gave him away shortly thereafter). I missed him. All of you who are not animal people won't understand this, but I really missed that little guy. The only solution was to buy myself a lovebird.
When I went to Parrots of the World in Rockville Center, where I buy all my birds (and you should too, if you're ever seriously in the market for a bird. Do not, I repeat, do not ever buy anything in Petland other than pet food!), they had no finger-tamed peach-faced lovebirds. But they did have baby orange-faced lovebirds. I picked out a teensy little guy who just nestled right into my hand (yes, that's him in the picture). It was love at first poop. Malkie (wife #3) used to call me Pumpkin, so I thought that would be an appropriate name for a bird whose face would be an intense shade of orange when he grew up. I took him home and fed him baby bird formula from an eyedropper and bonded with him just as I had with Jinji. He was sweet and gentle and just a joy to have around. Too bad he wasn't gonna be around very long; I was about to get very, very sick.

I'm a Lover, Not a Fighter

When I got to the bagel shop, the guy was waiting there. I don't remember his name. Let's call him Apollo. You know, like Creed? He was big and he looked like he was getting ready to be quite pissed. He had neglected to tell me that he had brought his friend, Ivan Drago (also not his real name), to help him. Ivan was even bigger than he was and had more tattoos. His forearm was bigger than my head. He was chewing something. First I thought it was a bagel; then I thought maybe it was his cud.
I tried to explain to them what had happened. The doctor told me that I could keep my bird, wasn't that wonderful, I said. They did not think it was wonderful. Apollo looked like he wanted to rip my throat out. I was waiting for him to yell "sic 'em!" to the other neanderthal. Instead he just fumed quietly. That was even scarier. He told me about the panel truck that he had rented. Rented. When he had told me about it on the phone, he had borrowed it. I told him I felt really lousy about how things had played out and offered to pay for half of the rental fee. But I held my ground: Oscar was no longer for sale. Just as I thought he was going to pick up the table and crack it over my head, he told me that if I ever change my mind and was willing to take less money, I should give him a call. I went home and changed my pants.

I Encounter An Angry Fellow

Before I went to see Dr. Gadi, I actually considered following Dr. Birdhater's advice and started trying to find people who would love and take care of my flock. I sold Forrest to a guy who does bird shows. First thing he did was clip his wings so he could get him to step up on his finger and sit there so he could train him; why hadn't I thought of that? Then I tried to give Blueberry-Sunshine to Lauren, the girl who lived down the hall with her grandma and took care of my birds when I was hospitalized. She already had one lovebird named Bixby and another bird too, I think. She was a real bird person; she even worked for an avian vet. Anyway, when I told Blimi and Dovid (hi, Blimi & Dovid) that I was giving away their bird, they decided to take him back. That left Jinji and Oscar. Oscar cost me a thousand bucks and he was worth more than that. I wasn't about to give him away. I put an ad on Craigslist that said that I had a wonderful African Grey who talked up a storm and hated everyone except me, and I was asking $800.00. I had a customer almost immediately. He lived in Queens and was going to call me before he came over. Except that's not what happened. He showed up the very day I went to the allergist. He called me on my cell phone and told me he was at my apartment and had borrowed a panel truck to shlep the cage. What was I gonna do?? There was no way I was selling Oscar now that Dr. Gadi had said conclusively that I wasn't allergic to him! So I told the guy that I was at the allergist and that I had to talk to him. We met in the bagel shop on Kings Highway, across the street from my place.

The Itchy and Scratchy Show

Guess what. You're not gonna believe it. I'm not allergic to birds! Not not not not not. They scratched me with their feather solution or whatever the hell they put in that stuff. If I was allergic I was supposed to have a puffy, itchy reaction at the scratch site. Nothing. They scratched me with a bunch of different solutions at the same time and I had reactions to quite a few of them. Made me itch like a sonofagun. But birds? Nada. I made them do it twice. So... Remember way back at the beginning of the blog? the second post was titled "Hatzolah to the Rescue". I talked about how I was hospitalized back in October of '08 with breathing problems a month after moving into my new apartment and nobody thought to make the connection between my new place and my pulmological woes. So guess what (again): I'm allergic to dust (isn't everyone), dust mites, mice and roaches. Also a lot of trees and pollen but who cares? The building in which I was residing was a well maintained, clean apartment house. Except apartment 1R. That would be me. I tend to be a bit, um, messy. Not really dirty, but messy. Sloppy. Okay, left to my own devices I'd have to admit that cleanliness of my surroundings has never been my #1 priority. So although I never saw a lot of roaches and mice in the place, I did see a few. Apparently a few was all it took to take a toll on my lungs.

Dr. Gadi

I don't know what took me so long, but I finally decided to see an allergist. I've never been a highly allergic person. Dr. Agus, family practioner to pretty much all of Boro Park when I was a kid, had told my mother once that I was allergic to penicillin. I think it was because he had run out of penicillin. I lived with that nonsense until one day a doctor asked me specifically if I was allergic to penicillin and I decided to take my life in my hands and said that I wasn't. I'm still here, so I guess Agus was full of hot air.

Then suddenly I had the Alien Eyes episode (see post #5). Incidentally, I had had another almost identical reaction walking in Chinatown a few years earlier. Never figured that one out, either. But now Dr. Aitemen had thrown down the gauntlet: this incompetent nincompoop wanted me to get rid of my birds...I wasn't going to do that until I was convinced that Oscar & Co. were, indeed, beyond a shadow of a doubt, hazardous to my health.
Dr. Katzenelebogen recommended Dr. Gadi Avshalomov. When I stumbled over his name a bit, the receptionist told me that I should just call him Dr. Gadi; that's how all his patients (and office staff) referred to him. He was one of those guys who's kinda Russian and kinda Israeli at the same time. He spoke fluent Hebrew and was a young, charismatic, personable guy. He also ran a gold mine of a practice in which he had very little to do. I was there three times and saw him exactly once. After that it was always one of the girls in the office who took care of me.
They gave me a scratch test to see what, if anything, I might be allergic to. The results were verrrrrrrrrry interesting.

Dr. Aitemen's Contribution to My Pulmological Health...

See, the thing is, Beth Israel isn't really much of a hospital. I found that out later talking to some Hatzoloh guys. Among them it's kind of a joke. Don't get me wrong, though: I don't mean to cast aspersions on every doctor in the place. Indeed, my own beloved Dr. Katzenelenbogen is affiliated there, and he's saved my life a few times. But on the whole the care offered there tends to be less than stellar.
Dr. Aitemen ordered an x-ray and I spent about a week there. Their baked ziti is excellent, but stay away from the Salsbury steak. My x-ray showed what the doctor called "multi-focal pneumonia". I think he might have explained what that meant at one point, but I don't remember. What I do remember is that he seemed rather vague about what he intended to do about it. There were nebulizer treatments and T.O.V. (Taking Of Vitals) and a guy coming in every day to collect money for the TV rental. I watched a lot of Animal Planet. I ate. I slept. I would have questioned the wisdom of staying in the hospital, but they were giving me some antibiotic and my breathing was better. And hey, I wasn't working anymore, so I didn't have any place important to go, anyway. Just before I was discharged, Dr. Aitemen barked his final medical order at me:
"GET RID OF THE BIRD!"

Almost a Hospital

Shortly after my appointment with Dr. Kennish Aitemen* it became clear that my breathing wasn't going to improve on its own, or with the help of inhalers. Dr. Aitemen is a very nice man. I wish I could report that he is also a competent doctor. No such luck. Of course, at this point I didn't realize that my pulmonological issues required that attention of a doctor who had actually majored in Lungs. And so it came to pass that when my lips were on the verge of turning blue, I called my brother (hi, Vrumi) and told him that I needed a lift to the hospital. Okay, he said, which hospital? Knowing that both my primary care physician and my pulmonologist were affiliated there, I said Beth Israel. The one on Kings Highway. Big mistake.
* Still not his real name!

I Go to a Pulmonologist

I'm not a rabbi. Not even close. So I'm not going to pasken whether or not I'm allowed to tell you that I think this Jewish guy is a lousy doctor. Is that considered loshon horah (evil talk, gossip)? Maybe it's my responsibility to warn people about him. I dunno. So maybe I'll just change his name. Yeah, that's what I'll do, I'll change his name! Okay what's a good name for a Jewish doctor? A lung doctor. I got it! Dr. Kennish Aitemen*. Perfect.
So I went to see Dr. Katzenelenbogen** and he suggested I go see Dr. Aitemen. I had seen Dr. Aitemen about four years before. I waited in his office four hours. The girl in the office told me he had an emergency. I mailed him my $40.00 copay in pennies. I don't know if he was amused.
This time I told myself that if I had to wait more than two hours I would up and leave; my time was worth something too, gosh darnit! The fact that I couldn't breathe hardly entered into the equation. I was in the waiting room about an hour and a half when I was called into the examining room. Damn! I didn't even have an excuse to leave! The doctor said I was wheezing. Duh! Said I was congested. Double duh! Did what they call the "six-minute walk" test where you walk for, that's right, six minutes, and they measure your heart rate and the oxygen saturation of your blood every so often with a pulse oximeter, one of those little thingys they put on your finger in the hospital. After careful deliberation, Dr. Aitemen determined that I was having trouble breathing and could probably benefit from an inhaler. I think he actually said all this with a straight face. He had a few fancy diplomas and degrees on the wall, too. Maybe they came from eBay.
* Not his real name!
** His real name!!

Breathless in January, Part One...

December came and went and the birds were all happy and peppy. The roaches roached and the mice did their mousey things and the air in the apartment got thicker and more pungent. My lungs protested all of this. They wheezed and phlegmed and struggled to do their job. I was no help. I didn't really do much to improve their fate. I swept once in a while, put out roach traps and mouse bait and ran the air purifier I had bought at Sears. Incidentally, I'm making the place sound much worse than it was. No, really. I did see the occasional roach and a little furry thing would scurry across the floor every now and then, but it wasn't exactly Wild Kingdom. The building was a well kept, clean apartment house. Yes, I was a slob, but I didn't leave food out or uncovered. I was sloppy, but not really dirty, except for the dust and the cages. The cages were where I really got lazy. Especially Oscar's. It was big and ugly and he was big and grumpy and I didn't have the patience to deal with it. Or him. So the dust and dander and poop may have been a smidge out of control. My lungs reacted accordingly. By the beginning of January, I knew I was in trouble. I called Dr. Katzenelenbogen and told him I was wheezing. Again.

An Offer I Couldn't Refuse

My symptoms were getting worse. I had this ominous feeling that there was something seriously wrong and wondered how long I could dodge the proverbial bullet. I dug in my heels and decided once more that the doctors didn't know any better than I; after all, all that separated them from me was four years of medical school. Alright, an undergraduate degree, too, if you insist on being a stickler for details. In the World Acccording to Me, there was no correlation between my birds and my breathing woes. So, naturally, just to prove them wrong I did the only logical thing: I got another bird.
I was looking for a birdcage on Craig's List when I found someone on Long Island selling one complete with bird! They wanted 50 bucks for an almost new cage with a lineolated parakeet included. The bird alone is usually a few hundred dollars. C'mon, how could I refuse? They had bought him for their snotnosed little three year old (come on...who buys a bird for a three year old?) who was thrilled with him for about 3 minutes. I almost felt an obligation to buy him. Anyway, they had named him Forrest and I took him home and was sorry I did almost immediately. I don't know what that toddler terror did to this poor bird, but suffice it to say he was not at all interested in human contact. I couldn't get anywhere near him. He didn't bite; all he did was run to the other end of his cage and cower when I'd put my hand in, or even when I just approached. He was, in a word, petrified. So I now had 4 birds in a studio apartment. That woulda been enough to make anyone sick.

Blueberry-Sunshine

My niece Blimi (hi, Blimi!) got married in November '09 to a guy who had recently bought a peach-faced lovebird. Anyway, Blimi isn't much of an animal person so she pulled a Bukiet and told Dovid that the bird ain't staying. So guess who inherited the little twerp? Blimi had dubbed him Blueberry because of the blue feathers in his tail. That never made any sense to me, so when I got him and saw how absolutely sweet this bird was, I renamed him Sunshine. I'd have him step up onto my finger and he'd climb up my arm and nestle on my shoulder, happy as a clam. I should have known what his temperament would be, because wife #3, Malkie (177 days) has a lovebird named Tootala who's sweet as sugar. Incidently, the notion that you can't break up a pair of lovebirds or they die is a total myth; a romantic myth, but a myth nonetheless. They are, however, extremely affectionate birds. So Sunshine joined Oscar and Jinji in sharing my humble abode and gleefully added to the dust and the dander and the poop that my poor, scarred, overworked lungs were inhaling.

Bruce Springsteen of the Senior Set...

See the guy with the guitar? Yes, I know it's not me, but it might as well be. See the old people? That's pretty much the reception I got when I'd show up to perform. In fact, this group is a bit more animated than most. As I explained in my last post, I had been laid off from my job (doesn't that sound better than "fired"? It's one of my favorite euphemisms) and had found solace and purpose in performing for the old folks. When I was young (I was young?) I always dreamed about doing something creative for a living. My parents weren't particularly supportive of that notion. They thought being somewhat creative was okay, but that musicians are a bunch of junkies and drunks and a nice Jewish boy should be a doctor, lawyer or accountant. So I spent the next 20 years or so proving to them that you don't have to be a musician to be a junkie or a drunk. It took me years of therapy to work all this stuff out. I'm still not finished. I've put a couple of shrinks' kids through college. But I digress. When I was let go (from a job that I loathed) I had the opportunity to pursue other things that I was more passionate about. My son-in-law (hi, Yehuda) works in one of three nursing homes that are owned by his family, and an old acquaintance from camp knew that I sang and, unbeknownst to me, owned seven, count 'em, seven nursing homes. He set me up with his recreational therapy directors (thanks, Moish!) and when he talks, they listen! Soon I had almost more work than I could handle. Ultimately I was very happy with the way my work situation was resolved; I was making less money but enjoying bringing at least a little joy to people who didn't usually have much joy in their lives. If I got just a few of them to smile or clap along or respond in any way, it was worth it. And I did. I thanked G-d for helping me find fulfillment that came with a bit of an income and felt more content than I had in years. Then I was hit by the Pneumonia Bus.

Huffing and Puffing and Panting...

Meanwhile my symptoms were becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. I was short of breath a lot. I'd lie in bed and find it hard to breathe unless I propped my head up a bit. I'd hear my lungs rattling. I'd wheeze. Yet I tried my best to remain in blissful denial of all these ominous signs. I had been laid off from my job in May of 2009. I had rebounded from that devastatingly depressing time by finding what I felt was my true tafkid (calling, raison d'etre) in performing at nursing homes and assisted living facilities (more about that next time). I refused to give up this fledgling cottage industry I was developing. I'd go to gigs and huff and puff and shlepp my amplifier and mike stand and guitar and have to stop and catch my breath. Somehow I was able to sing. I've always had the ability to hold insanely long notes and that didn't change. My lung capacity seemed okay. I just felt lousy before and after I was onstage.

Jinji, part two

See the magnificent creature on the left? That's what that little fluff-ball grew into! After just a few weeks, he started developing reddish feathers. I realized this was no starling. The older he got, the clearer it became: he was a cardinal! You don't see a lot of cardinals in Brooklyn (there are an awful lot of Jews here, so the Pope would rather they hang out at the Vatican). I've seen a few, but not many. I've also seen bluejays, woodpeckers and quaker parrots. But I had a real live cardinal living in my apartment. The fact that I went online and discovered that it was illegal to keep cardinals in captivity didn't stop me; I was keeping Jinji. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Migratory_Bird_Treaty_Act_of_1918

He was a blast to have around. I'd let him out of his cage and he flew around the room like he owned the place. He had favorite spots to land. He showed no fear whatsoever. He'd land on my shoulder and pick at the hairs on my neck. Or fly down to my thigh. I don't know why he liked my thigh, but he did. After he got tired of zooming around the room, he'd dive bomb at full speed back into the cage, never even coming close to hitting the sides of the door...he'd fly on a straight line right to the perch. Every once in a while he'd land on Oscar's cage and Oscar would look at him like he was breakfast, but he held his ground unless Oscar made a move toward him (I never, EVER let them both out of their respective cages at the same time!). He was brash and cocky, not cuddly. I really loved that bird. It all had to do with that conversation I had had with the bird rehabilitator who said I couldn't do it. I was sooooo proud of Jinji! I had raised him from infancy and he was strong and healthy and apparently happy. I had figured out how to take care of him on my own, trained him to step up on my finger, given him showers with a spray bottle that he didn't particularly like but sat still for. In short, I felt accomplished as a surrogate father for my little avian charge. The fact that he might have been contributing to my becoming deathly ill didn't even enter the picture. I'm very bright that way.

Jinji, part one

A little before last Rosh Hashana I got a call from my niece Rivky (hi, Rivky). She had found a baby bird that couldn't fly. Whenever something like this happens in my family, I tend to be the go-to person. I went over and saw the little guy; Rivky and her friends had put him in an old fashioned cardboard egg crate and were happily trying to feed him milk. I explained that birds, not being the least bit mammalian, don't really have a taste for the stuff. Of course what we should have done was leave the poor little ball of feathers alone and let his momma come back and take care of him (baby birds fall out of nests all the time). I, of course, took him home.

So now I had Oscar and the new baby. For some reason I assumed he was a starling and went online to see how to care for baby starlings. Adapting what I found by googling, I whipped up a concoction of baby food beef and/or turkey and baby food apple sauce, with some birdie vitamins thrown in for good measure. I fed him with an eyedropper. He seemed to love it and he thrived. He was a genuine pain in the butt when he was little, chirping his fool head off between feedings...I had to keep running home from shul on Yom Kippur to feed him! But he had that so-ugly-he's-cute kind of adorableness that I couldn't resist. I worried how I would wean him off his formula and onto birdseed. There was always birdseed available for him in his cage and when he was ready, he figured it out. I stood there and marveled like a proud new daddy watching his kid take his first steps. Thinking that he might need some protein, I went to the local Petco and bought some live worms that are usually used for feeding lizards. Incidentally, this may be another reason I'm not really good at marriage, I guess. Women usually aren't too keen about sharing their domicile with bugs. I never quite figured out why. Actually, giving credit where credit is due, the one who came closest to putting up with this particular mishugas was Frenchi...kol hakavod! Anyway, I hand-fed him a few worms every day as a treat and he really seemed to love them, although I had to keep reminding him not to play with his food.

So why am I telling you all this? I'm trying to rationalize bringing another bird into the apartment when there was a very good chance that Oscar was making me seriously ill. The smart thing to do would have been to turn him over to a bird rehabilitator (yes, Virginia, there are bird rehabilitators!) so he could be reintroduced back into the wilds of Brooklyn and live out his birdy days doing birdy things with birdy friends. Would have been the more humane thing to do, too. At one point I actually called a rehabilitator who told me that I wasn't equipped to raise a baby bird. Well, la de da to you, too! Little did he know that by throwing down the gauntlet like that, he was sealing the little guy's fate...he was now officially part of the Z.A.F. (Zweig Avian Family) and would continue pooping up my apartment happily ever after. To be continued...

Alien Eyes!

Before I got sick my friend Nelson (hi, Nelson!) came over to hang out because he wanted to meet my bird Jinji, about whom I have not yet blogged. Jinji was very special to me for many reasons. Maybe I'll post about him tomorrow. Also Pumpkin. Anyway, Nelson wanted to see Jinji.

So what do two guys do when they're hanging out? Basically just shmooze. I put out some nosh and Nelson brought some healthy stuff with him. I think it was vanilla chai tea or some such Starbuckian concoction. Ain't my style, but hey, Nelson's an artist. Whatever that means. So we're sitting there eating my junk (popcorn, I think) and drinking his tea when my eyes start to feel funny. Itchy, but not just itchy. itchy and heavy and watery and weird. Then I thought I felt my throat constricting a bit. Nelson sat across the table from me and watched this instant transformation almost literally with his mouth agape; he had never, ever witnessed anything like it. I went to look in the medicine cabinet mirror and said "holy @*%#!!!" I had never seen anything like it either. My eyes were almost swollen shut by then, mere slits. My eyelids were puffed up so much that they were golf-ball like. I didn't know whether to laugh or panic. I finally sheepishly asked Nelson if he thought I should call Hatzoloh. I think he was waiting for me to bring it up because he was obviously in favor of the idea.

"Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!"

They came in just a few minutes, as usual (think I should dedicate a post to them? For the uninitiated? And please...someone let me know the definitive spelling of Hatzolah! Feedback! I want feedback!). Apparently they had never seen anything like it either. They took me to Methodist Hospital. I don't think they had seen anything quite like this either. I took the lovely self-portrait to the right with my cell phone camera while lying on the gurney in the ER. By then they had shot me full of Benedryl so my symptoms had subsided...believe it or not, they had actually been worse!

Nobody ever quite figured out what it was that had actually happened. The only thing that made any sense at all was that it was a reaction to the tea, because that's the only thing that I had never had before, but isn't that pretty benign stuff? Suffice it to say this strange episode did not augur well for what was to come, rather quickly, on its medically bizarre heels.

Now you'll have to excuse me...I'm expected back on the mother ship.

Oscar

I can't believe I almost forgot to tell you about Oscar (left)! This is another of those "where do I begin?" posts. I've loved birds since I was a kid. Had a couple of parakeets. Always wanted a parrot, one that talked. Always. When my father z"l passed and left a few bucks, I bought my first African Grey, Dorian. I loved him a lot. Then I made one of my biggest mistakes in a life with quite a few of them: I traded my Dorian for wife #2. And he was a lot cuter than she. Sexier, even. Go ahead, ask anyone. It was one of those "it's me or the bird ultimatums." Is the plural of "ultimatum" "ultimata"? anyone? But I digress. A few years and one divorce later, I bought Oscar when he was 12 weeks old. He was amazing. He started talking almost immediately. He was also moody as hell and hated everyone but me. Greys are the best talkers in the parrot world, but they're also notoriously neurotic. You have to be able to read their body language when they don't want to be bothered (fluffed-up feathers, pupil-pinning) or you're liable to lose a piece of your finger, literally. They're a lot of work but I think they're worth it. He was funny (he laughed when I laughed), he imitated just about everything he heard (dogs outside, other birds, the phone ringing). We used to whistle to each other every morning when I was in the shower and then break into calling each other..."Rocky!" "Oscar!" "Rocky!" "Oscar!"
What I forgot to tell you yesterday was that a few of the doctors in the Roosevelt/St. Lukes and NYU thought that Oscar might be contributing to my pulmonary woes. I was in a studio apartment, immaculate though it was was, that had an atmosphere rife with bird dander and dust and poop. There's a type of pneumonia called psittacosis that you get from bird droppings
https://health.google.com/health/ref/Psittacosis. There was also the possibility that I was allergic to him. Now all you "animal people" will understand this: I, of course, paid the doctors no heed. I lived alone and Oscar was my buddy, my companion. Just like Felix and Oscar (although in this case there were two Oscars), we bickered a lot but there was undeniable underlying affection between us, when I wasn't cursing him and running for a band-aid. He said "good night, I love you, see ya in the morning" when I covered his cage at night and "I'll be right back" any time he saw me putting on a coat. None of the doctors were saying anything definitive; I wasn't gonna give up my grey again! Not without a fight, anyway.

Hatzolah to the Rescue

I moved into a new apartment in September of 2008. Almost exactly a month later I was on the subway on the way to work when I started having difficulty breathing. By the time I got off the train and up the stairs I knew I was in trouble. I made it about halfway down the block and had to rest against the wall of a building before I could go on. As soon as I got to the office, I called Hatzolah Volunteer Ambulance Service. They came, carried me out on a gurney and took me to St. Lukes/Roosevelt. I'd say that you should never go there, but it doesn't exist anymore so it's kind of a moot point. They gave me antibiotics for a few days and sent me home. Next week I had to call Hatzolah from the office again. Nothing breaks up your work day like a nice trip to the hospital. This time they took me to NYU. Again I was out in a few days. And this was a real hospital.
In retrospect I guess the connection between the new apartment and the shortness of breath should have been apparent at the time, but it wasn't. The bottom line is that there seems to be a consensus in the medical community that my new digs contributed to making me sick.

Where do I begin?

While my first serious hospitalization for breathing/lung issues was in January 2010, I've had pulmonary problems for a while. I had three spontaneous pneumothoraces (collapsed lungs) in my 30's and 40's and finally had surgery to correct what was apparently a congenital defect on my left lung. You can check out this link if you're interested, but you're probably not and I don't blame you http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pneumothorax. Anyway, I rolled merrily along for a while and then many years later my doctor insisted that I have asthma. Nonsense, I thought; who gets asthma in their fifties? Apparently me. I know, I know, it's "apparently I" but that sounds like I'm quite full of myself, so grammar be damned. I'm tired (I'm very anemic so I nap a lot; G-d, I feel like I'm 100 years old!) so I'm gonna stop now and hopefully continue IY"H tomorrow. I'll fast forward to October 2008, when I was wheeled out of my office on a gurney for the first time. See ya then.

Gasp!

I almost died in February. It was the culmination of years of not taking care of myself and not listening to doctors. Almost dying can have a profound impact on what is and is not important in your life; at least it did for me. It is now July and my primary concern is no longer music or women or birds or turtles or even the Yankees. It has come down to four things: My family, my friends, my relationship with G-d, and surviving...not necessarily in that order!
The details of the beginning of my illness are somewhat sketchy for me, because I was out of it much of the time. I'll try to fill in what I can. Or maybe I'll make some things up. In a nutshell I entered Columbia Presbyterian on February 2, 2010, after Beth Israel in Brooklyn did their best to kill me. At that point I was pretty much unable to breathe at all. I was placed on a ventilator and under sedation for about a week. Subsequently the doctors performed a tracheostomy because they determined there was no way I'd be able to breathe on my own without it if they attempted to take me off the vent. The diagnosis? Cryptogenic Organizing Pneumonia, or C.O.P. (AKA B.O.O.P; Brochiolitis Obliterans with Organizing Pneumonia), etiology unknown. Prognosis? B.T.H.O.O.U. (Beats The Hell Out Of Us).