Food, Glorious Food!

Remember I told you that I told the "Feest Test" guys to take a hike? That would have determined if they could start me on real food instead of the gruel they were shoving up my nose. Well, they knew at some point they were going to have to give me something to eat. So a few days later they wheeled me down into an x-ray room and did the test another way: they had me stand in front of the x-ray machine and swallow stuff. It was actually quite cool. I was able to watch the screen out of the corner of my eye and could actually see myself swallowing. I decided that I have a very attractive skull. I'm not sure if this testing method was improvised just for a stubborn ox like me, or if had already been established for previous stubborn oxen who had found their way to Columbia Presbyterian over the years. Anyway, when they were convinced that I wasn't going to choke on my food, they yanked out the feeding tube and I was ready to dine at the Waldorf. There were a few problems, though. First of all...Question: what do Presbyterians know about kosher food? Answer: absolutely nothing! I got the usual double-wrapped stuff that you see in such institutions and on planes, but somehow it was even worse than usual. Chicken with mushrooms. Meatloaf with mushrooms. Rice Krispies with mushrooms. Didn't they know that I was just beginning to recover from a life-threatening illness? Why were they feeding me fungi?? Second problem: I was too weak to hold a spoon, to open a container of milk, to unwrap a meal. Also, the food-bringer (don't know what else to call them) usually didn't realize that I could barely move, so they'd leave the tray just out of my reach. How frustrating is that?! If one of my kids wasn't around, I didn't eat the stuff until I could get someone's attention and they'd eventually come in and help me. By that time my tilapia was as cold as the vast Atlantic from whence it came and its mushrooms were as coagulated as a blood clot. There were moments in the ICU when a small glimmer of optimism would creep into my attitude and I'd think that maybe, just maybe, I wouldn't leave the ICU in a body bag after all. Then they'd bring me my meal and I realized that even if they cured me, I'd never survive the food.