Blimie Tries To Kill Me

I was only alone over a Shabbos* once during my stay at Columbia Presbyterian. My kids took turns staying with me. Remember the weekend when there was a driving rain all day on Saturday accompanied by high winds and trees and power lines were down all over the city? Well, that weekend happened to be Blimie and Amir's turn. Poor Amir got absolutely drenched walking to shul and back. When you're in the hospital for a prolonged period of time, you're pretty much unaware of the conditions outside in the real world. After all, inclement weather doesn't really affect you at all in your little, insular world. That weekend, however, even I realized that things were really nasty outside. I happened to glance out the window just as a plastic shopping bag went sailing by. I believe I was on the sixth floor at the time. The bag did this graceful little dance passing my room and then soared upward until it was out of view. Then a few seconds later it appeared again and then once again began climbing ever higher into the bleak and dreary sky. Had I been alone it might have been a pleasant distraction, but at the time I was trying to concentrate on which one of Blimie's yummy delicacies I was going to sample first. For someone like me who had been subsisting on hospital food, the choices were all tantalizing. She gave me a sandwich to die for: eggs, liver and coleslaw all on a kaiser roll. I'm not sure if it was really as good as I remember it or it just seemed that way because of all the gruel I'd been eating. All this took place Friday night. Shabbos afternoon Blimie asked me if I wanted another sandwich. I have to stop here and interject an interesting little tidbit about myself: if you put spoiled food in front of me, unless it's got something growing on it, chances are I'll eat it. I'll give you two examples. First, when I was in elementary school, they sold breakfast for twenty-one cents. Hey, did you know that there's no "cent" symbol on a compture keyboard? Neither did I. So it was seven cents each for eggs, a roll and hot cocoa. I was drinking my cocoa one morning and it tasted wierd. Actually it was worse than wierd; it was downright awful. But I had paid seven cents for it and there was no way I wasn't gonna finish it. Right after I had drained the last drop, the annoncement was made: "please don't drink the cocoa, it was mixed with the dirty dishwater by mistake". I took a lot of bathroom breaks that day. Now, fast forward to about a year ago. I was eating Babby's applesauce at the Fisch house, even though it tasted a little funny. Then Chayie took a spoonful and promptly spit it out. "Are you out of your mind," she asked (rhetorically, I would imagine), "this is soooooooo moldy!" I told her that I thought it tasted a little funny. Blimie S. is convinced that that's how my lung problems got started, although personally I don't see the correlation. Okay, so now that you know that I'm not particularly discerning about what I ingest, let's go back to that Shabbos afternoon. Blimie gave me the new sandwich and I polished it off voraciously. While I was licking my fingers, Blimie tasted some of the coleslaw. "Dad!" she said, "this coleslaw is soooooooo spoiled!!" "But it wasn't last night", I retorted. I guess it doesn't take very long for coleslaw to spoil. This time my cast-iron stomach was not pleased. I take all kinds of medication and therefore take Omeprizole (generic Prilosec), too, to protect my stomach from all the nasty meds. But I don't think the Omeprizole was prepared for the spoiled coleslaw. I was no longer in the ICU at this point and, because of my MRSA, I had a private room. That turned out to be quite serendipitous, because I don't think anyone would have wanted to share that bathroom with me. And vise versa. The problem was that I had to get to the bathroom, and as usual I was tethered to an oxygen tank. So I had to disconnect the O2, run (okay, walk briskly) to the bathroom, take care of business and get back to the bed and the oxygen without passing out. Somehow I managed to do it, but I probably would have been better off not to have eaten the coleslaw in the first place.

* Since Orthodox Jews don't drive or use mass transit on the Sabbath, if you go somewhere Friday afternoon that's not walking distance from your house, you have to get back before sundown, otherwise you have to stay until sundown of the following (Saturday) day.

Linguistic Idiosyncrasies

Linguistic Dinner

I attended a function last night where my cousin Duvy spoke.  He's usually excellent when he speaks, and last night was no exception.  Being at least as insecure as I, he often approaches me after he finishes and asks me how his speech was.  Last night he didn't ask, so I offered.  I told him he was great except for two things: 1. In my humble opinion, he mispronounced the word
"indefatigable".  2.  He used the word "apochryphal", and I had no idea what it meant.  I'm pretty sure most of the other people in the room didn't know, either.  In my mind I somehow connected it to "apocalypse", but as it turns out, the two words are not at all related.  When I got home I looked up "apochryphal".  It means "of questionable authorship or authenticity".  So I got to thinking:
 everyone's vocabulary is different.  I know a lot of words like "lawnmower" and "toothpick", but not too many words like "apochryphal" or "ferruginous" (def: "of the color of iron rust").  I have no idea how many words I actually know, but it's gotta be more than twenty.  More than thirty, even.  Also, I know that I have a few favorite words that I use when I'm trying to show off.  "Albeit" is one of them.  Also "quinoa".  Did you know that quinoa ("kin-wa") is a species of goosefoot (chenopodium)?  Did you even know that there is such a plant as goosefoot?  Why am I bothering to even write for such ignorant people??  I know that I've used "albeit" several times in this blog, but have not yet been able to find a place to stick "quinoa".  Birds love quinoa so I guess I could have used it in one of the myriad bird posts, but...hey, there's another one of my favorites
...myriad!  I know I've used that myriad times.  Ha, ha, aren't I clever!  Also, I make up words sometimes, like "kapupie" and "chimlobuni".  And, as many of you know, I'm very fond of the word "cheese".  I just think it sounds funny.  I say "cheese" a lot.  Not when I'm smiling for the camera, either.  I'll just be strolling down the street and say "cheese."  I used the word "soliloquy" in one of the posts, also "reverie".  I was particulalry proud of those two.  And then, of course, there are the "pin" words.  There are some words that I mangle by substituting "pin" at the beginning instead of saying the actual word.  Some examples:  "pinxactly" (exactly), "pinvited" (invited), "pinstead" (instead), "pinvorce" (divorce), and "pinball" (pinball).  I do this strictly for my own amusement, of course, and, outside of the family (where everybody already knows how bizarre my sense of humor can be) I get a lot of confused looks.  The "pin" words actually have an etiology (that's another good one!): my kids started it, specifically Kalman, I think.  They stopped doing it ages ago, but I didn't. There doesn't appear to be any rhyme or reason for which words get "pin-ized".  "Pinvited" kind of makes some sense, but "pinvorced"?  Now I wonder if there's any way to tie this rather ludicrous post in to my illness.  Hmmm.  Let's see.  How about, "I'm thankful that I'm still here and well enough to be silly"?  Nah, that's pretty lame, n'est pas?  How about "when I had the trach, I couldn't talk without a valve, so I couldn't say silly words"?  No, that's even worse.  No matter.  I'll just end it here, before I start pulling out my ferruginous, albeit sparse hair, trying to think of a connection, and then I can return to my reverie, confident in the knowledge that this particular post undoubtedly will not be the least bit apochryphal.

I Art Phlegming





Dr. Peak Woo







Art Phlegming.
Okay, it's really Fleming.



Meyer Horowitz.
Okay, it's really Shakespeare.
Meyer Shakespeare.

 I had surgery on November 8th. I can't believe that I haven't blogged about it yet. After all, you'd think that surgery, no matter how minor, would be a relatively major event in one's life and, assuming that particular "one" was a blogger, one (a different "one"...let's think of him or her as "One 2") would expect the aforementioned surgery to be the subject of at least one post, possibly two. SENTENCE INVENTORY: The preceding sentence contains fifty-six words and uses the word "one" five times, which means roughly 10% of the sentence is comprised of the word "one". Just thought you'd like to know, and I figured that you probably have more to do than your intrepid blogger, what with kids and husbands and stuff to take care of, so I decided to do the counting and the math for you as part of the blog-related service. Now back to the subject at hand. Actually the subject at hand in many of the posts of this blog is birds. Not "are birds". It's "is birds", because it's referring to "subject" rather than "birds". Therefore I have cleverly included a picture incorporating both themes, the hand and the birds (see below). What a guy. Anyway, I've mentioned several times that since I got sick, I can't sing. While it was not a concern of the doctors who worked feverishly to save my life, it's been a concern of mine since day one. Aside from the fact that singing is a tried-and-true, albeit limited source of income for me, it's always been a huge part of who I am. So I went to see Dr. Peak Woo, a world famous voice doctor. Dr. Woo wasn't sure if my vocal problems were being caused by my tracheal stenosis (narrowing of the windpipe) or some minor scarring on my vocal cords. He felt that he could help me with a minor procedure whereby he would dilate the trachea (done with a laser) and perform micro-surgery to repair the scarring. Well, the surgery was over two weeks ago and I don't see any difference. In fairness to Dr. Woo, he said there was only a 50-50 chance that the operation would help; I'm upset about something else. I'm coughing and clearing my throat a lot and I wasn't doing that at all before the surgery. There always seems to be an abundance of phlegm in the back of my throat and it's a very annoying sensation. So I'm constantly trying to get rid of it, or as the bard of Stratford-on-Avon would put it, "I art phlegming". For all of you too young to remember (that would be all three of you), Art Phlegming was the original host of "Jeopardy", long before Alec Trebek was a gleam in his daddy's eye. Truth be told, Art Phlegming spelled his name F-l-e-m-i-n-g, but spelled that way it would not have been fodder for my incredibly clever play on words. Of course if one's audience has no idea who the hell Art Fleming is, the incredibly clever play on words ceases to be incredibly clever and instead becomes rather pointless. Well folks, the moral of the story here is clear: never have elective surgery, especially if the best doctor in the world tells you that there's only a 50% chance of success. For while I realized that the procedure might not help, I certainly didn't think that it could hurt. Apparently it has. I'm not a happy camper.

A bird in the hand, etc...











Just Couldn't Pull The Trigger



Dutch Blue Pied Lovebird

I came home quite exhausted and disgruntled and that bothered me a lot since I happen to be very fond of my gruntles. I had wasted the better part of a Sunday afternoon and had returned empty-handed. Of course since my spiritual awaking I try to look past the mundane little disappointments of everyday life and find the underlying Divine message. Here it was quite obvious: G-d did not want me to have a bird. Not now, anyway. After all, in all the times I've frequented Parrots of the World, I have never been there when they didn't have any lovebirds. Not once. One would think that a person as enlightened as Yours Truly would take heed, follow G-d's unmistakable instructions and put all birdy plans on hold, at least for now...wouldn't one? Well, I didn't. Instead I reverted back to the petulant child who's disappointed with his Chanukah present and throws a hissy-fit until his migraine-addled parents finally cave and get him the Wii game that he saw at GameStop where he can kill all the space aliens he could possibly want (hey, Mrs. Lieberman...remember "Feige's Fun-Do"?).  So I went online and googled "Lovebirds for sale in New York City". I found a bunch of ads and I called about two of them, one out in Huntington and the other right here in Brooklyn. Lovebirds come in an almost endless variety of color mutations. This go-around I was kind of hoping for a Black-Masked or a Fischer's Lovebird. The Brooklyn dealer had "Dutch Blue Pied Lovebirds". I'd never heard of them, so I looked for a picture online (see above). It's a pretty bird, but not what I wanted. So I called Carla, the bird lady in Huntington. She turned out to be a breeder and she also runs a bird sanctuary. She had every possible color mutation I had ever heard of, and she was fifty dollars cheaper than Parrots of the World. I asked her if she knew Marc Marrone and she said sure, he wants her babies! I had to go to a funeral on Monday afternoon so we made up for me to drive out there afterward and pick up my adorable new feathered charge. So here's the punchline, boys and girls: I COULDN'T BRING MYSELF TO DO IT. Despite being given a green light from Dr. DePalo, who is more familiar with my pulmological woes than anyone else on the planet, I could not go against the will and advice of my entire family from my mother to my siblings to my nieces (and nephews, I guess) to my kids. Especially my kids. This image of them sitting at my bedside while I was sedated kept popping stubbornly into my head. As Chayie told me once (and she's the smartest person in the whole family...just ask her), "you didn't go through this by yourself; we all went through hell with you". So I guess I owe you all, even if I disagree with you and think you're being pig-headed and unreasonable. This is no guarantee that I won't buy a bird somewhere down the pike, mind you, but for now it's been put on the back burner until further notice. Satisfied?

                                                                  Black-Masked Lovebirds

                                                                       Fischer's Lovebirds

Adventures In Birdland

 I went to Parrots of the World out in Rockville Center last Sunday.  That's where I buy all my

Pair of Eclectus Parrots
(male on left, female on right)

Black-headed Caique

b-i-r-d-s.  I like the store because they have an incredible selection of birds and other animals as well.  Because they're on Long Island, they sell some pets that are illegal in New York City (ferrets and iguanas).  Their cages are clean, their birds are healthy, and they know their stuff.  Another great thing about the place is that on Sundays they let most of the birds out so you can spend hours just playing with them.  What I don't like about the place is the owner, Marc Merrone.  Marc is famous as a bird expert, and rightfully so.  However, I find him extremely arrogant and unapproachable. Marc and I haven't gotten along since the first time I stepped foot into that store, which was when I bought my first African Grey, Dorian, and that was quite a while ago.  So maybe it's just a personality clash thing, although how anyone could possibly not get along with adorable me is way beyond my comprehension.  Anyway, as soon as I got there yesterday, Marc informed me that he had no baby lovebirds.  In fact, he had no lovebirds at all.  "I'm lovebird-less," he declared.  It probably would have been smarter for me to call first to find out the lovebird situation before shlepping out there, but it never occurred to me that he would be out of the little suckers.  So I resigned myself to just hanging around for an hour or so, playing with the  birds, breathing in all the birdy-laden air and seeing whether or not I died.  I was almost immediately adopted by a magnificent female Eclectus Parrot.  Eclectus Parrots are quite unique in the parrot world, because they are sexually dimorphic, meaning the males and females look absolutely nothing alike.  If you want to know the sex of an African Grey, for example, you have to do a DNA test.  For all I know Oscar was really Oscarina.  Eclectus males and females are so very different in appearance that the first European ornithologists to visit their natural habitat in the Solomon Islands thought that they were two completely different species.  The males are bright green with candy-corn colored beaks and blue or red tail and wing feathers, while the females are red-headed and blue-breasted with black beaks.  They are absolutely gorgeous.  This particular female sidled right up to me and put her head down for me to scratch.  Then she stepped up onto my hand and climbed up onto my shoulder.  She was telling me in birdy language, "please take me home".  Of course Eclectus Parrots cost upward of a thousand bucks, so I had to answer, "no, sweetie...go flirt with some other potential owner". Then Barbara, one of the salespeople who has already sold me a few birds, approached me with a Black-Headed Caique hanging upside down from her outstretched hand.  There are two species of caiques, black-headed and white-bellied.  They are pretty little birds, but it's their personality (bird-ality?) that's so appealing.  They are the clown princes of the avian world.  They LOVE to play.  They'll lie on their backs on bottom of the cage and play with their toys for hours on end.  They are just adorable little bundles of playful energy.  Of course Barbara knew I'd melt when I held this little guy.  She also knew that I came in for a lovebird, which runs about $125.00, while a caique is over a grand.  Hey, you can't blame her for trying; she's probably on commission.  Bottom line: I drove a total of an hour and a half and came home with a headache and no bird.  The good news, however, is that I have suffered no ill effects from my prolonged exposure to all those feathered denizens of Nassau County.  Maybe Dr. DePalo isn't as reckless and irresponsible as we thought, huh?







...But I Digress

I'm not sure if anyone noticed, but the last post, "2,766 days", had absolutely nothing to do with my illness. Of course for someone to notice someone would have to be following this blog. And while there are a handful of you still with me, I believe interest has waned considerably. Not that I really blame anyone for falling by the wayside. After all, things were a lot more interesting when I was writing about comas and biopsies and bloodwork, oh my! I've been wondering for a while now what I'll write about when I finally run out of health-related issues. Will that make the blog more or less exciting? Indeed, is there anything intrinsically interesting about my daily existence? For me, the most remarkable thing about my life is that it ain't over. I try to remind myself every morning that after last February, everything is gravy. My life is more challenging than it had been in so many ways. I never, ever feel great. There are times I feel okay, but never great. Despite all the medications and doctor visits, I'm still out of breath with only the slightest exertion. Walking is unpredictable; sometimes I can walk for blocks with no problem and sometimes I'll walk to the corner and I'll be winded. I haven't had a real job since May of 2009. I'm collecting disability and so I'm still getting used to living on a fixed income. I'm learning to budget, something I've never bothered doing before. My relationship with G-d has changed, as has my relationship with my kids. In short, I'm a different person than I was a year ago. Hopefully a better person. When my therapist originally suggested that I keep a journal, I resisted. I was still in the throes of depression and was perfectly happy wallowing. The thought of blogging, however, appealed to me (being the shy, reserved type). And so "Air", A.K.A. "Oxygen Quest" was born. I've enjoyed it immensely, even with my mostly imaginary audience. I still have a lot of ideas for future posts (wait till you read about Freddie the Fire Truck!), and I still have things I want to cover about my suddenly decrepit body. But I do see the blog metamorphisizing into a more general venue for me to rant about things on my mind. If I start talking about Obama, watch out! This blog has afforded me a creative outlet that has kept me busy and hopefully might have actually entertained or, dare I say, enlightened a few people along the way. I know this sounds like a farewell post, but in fact the opposite is true. I'm gonna keep writing as long as I have something to say, whether or not it's germane to my pneumonia and its aftermath. And those of you who know me well know that hell will likely freeze over before I run out of things to say.

2,766 Days*

 My father passed away on May 21st. (19 Iyar), 2003.  It was quite thoughtful of him, since it's

Moshe Yaakov Zweig

the day after Lag B'omer, so it's very easy for me to remember when I have 

Moshe Yaakov Lieberman

yahrzeit.  It doesn't surprise me that he would be so mindful of someone else's

needs; he was, as I wrote in the obituary for the Jewish Press, the "quintessential nice guy".  He never had a bad word for anyone and was the embodiment of someone who is someach b'chelko**. Officially Jews mourn a parent for a year...don't believe it for a minute.  You never really stop.  I don't think a day has gone  by since that fateful Tuesday night that I haven't thought of him.  Along with the rest of us, he was blown away when Feige married Yehuda.  For his granddaughter to marry Sam and Esther Lieberman's grandson was almost too good to be true.  It's difficult to explain how close our two families have been over the years.  My father and Sam sat next to each other in shul for at least fifty years, probably more.  Along with the Engels, they played cards every Saturday night for years.  They each had three children and remarkably both the ages and the genders of their progeny corresponded, so my siblings and I were all best friends with our Lieberman counterparts.  Naturally, I too was thrilled when Feige and Yehuda hooked up; there was an undeniable elegance to our families finally officially merging.  But last Thursday the symbiosis was finally complete: Feige's eight-day old baby was named Moshe Yaakov Lieberman.  For the names "Moshe Yaakov" and "Lieberman" to become the moniker for a spanking new human being is truly awe-inspiring.  Yes, there have been other children named for Moshe Yaakov before, and Moishy Lench and Moshe Yaakov Judowitz are each the kind of kid my father would have loved.  But for Moshe Yaakov's name to be attached to Shmuel Chaim's surname represents a symmetry of the highest order.  I'm sure Moish and Sam and Esther are all smiling now.  Babby would be too, if she could stop crying long enough.  May the nachas just keep coming for all of us and may I be around long enough to see it all.  Okay, you too.  Amen!     

* 2,766 days: That's how long it took for there to be a Moshe Yaakov Lieberman from the day Zeidie passed away. Trust me.
** Someach B'chelko = satisfied with one's lot.

Sam & Esther

The Wright Stuff

On October 21st, 1959 (I was nine years old) one of the most significant architectural achievements of the twentieth century opened its doors. The Solomon R. Guggenheim museum, designed by Frank Lloyd Wright, has been widely recognized as one of his masterpieces. This iconic edifice is a must-see for every tourist who visits New York. It has long been on my to-do list. I wasn't even particularly interested in viewing its contents; I just wanted to see the building. As I mentioned previously, I had two doctor appointments on Wednesday of last week. They were both in Manhattan.

I'm cultured. Like cottage cheese.

The second one (with Dr. DePalo) was on the Upper East Side. DePalo's office is on 90th and Park; the Guggenheim is on 89th and Fifth. It's maybe a five minute walk, even for someone like me who has to walk relatively slowly or I wind up huffing and puffing. I left the office at 12:30 and had the rest of the day to kill. Typically I take in a movie when I find myself in that situation. Wednesday I went to the Guggenheim. Now, I'll bet you're wondering what this has to do with the theme of this blog, namely my journey from half-deadness back to health. Glad you asked. There are quite a few things in my life that I've been trying to change since my near-death experience. My davening* is different. My apartment is cleaner. I'm giving more charity, I'm holding doors for people, I'm asking old ladies if I can help with their packages. I've become positively Nuchi-esque, and it actually feels good. For the uninitiated, Nuchi is my paradigm for unbridled selflessness. For me, she has always personified goodness and altruism. Her own needs are never her priority; she is generous almost to a fault. Naturally, she makes Chayie nauseous. I also stopped going to therapy. Of course my therapist was against it (I haven't finished paying for her dental implants yet). The argument that finally convinced her that I might actually be able to survive without blabbing to her every week for forty-five minutes was, "I figured out a strategy to change my life for the better: whatever my first instinct is in any given situation, I do the opposite." She absolutely couldn't argue with that one! And I've been sticking to it ever since, and so far it's been working fabulously. But I've wandered rather far from my original point. As mentioned above, I would normally go to the movies with all that extra time on my hands. I went to the Guggenheim. I actually went! Not only that, I really enjoyed it. The paintings too, not just the building. I had never seen real live Picassos, Van Goghs, Gauguins, Monets, Manets and others. Sure, I'd seen pictures and reproductions and prints...they really do pale by comparison to the genuine articles. So the Guggenheim is off my Bucket List**, thanks to a little bug known as Cryptogenic Organizing Pneumonia. Believe me; it's a wake-up call that's impossible to ignore.







 

* Davening = Praying.

** Bucket List = Derived from the movie of the same name (2007) starring Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholson as two terminally ill men who embark on a road trip with a wish list of things to do before they "kick the bucket".

Let's Make a Deal

The day after I posted the last post ("Death Wish?"), I had two doctor appointments. One was with my voice doctor, Dr. Woo, whom I don't believe I've written about yet. The second one was with Dr. DePalo. I don't think I've blogged about my sleep apnea, have I? Well, a few months ago Dr. DePalo had me sleep with a monitor of some kind strapped to my chest that was connected to a nasal cannula. This contraption determined that I have sleep apnea and that while I'm asleep I stop breathing thirty times per hour. That seems pretty intense, don't you think? When he got the results he wanted me to go to a sleep disorder center for an overnight evaluation. I refused because the only thing that really helps sleep apnea is a C-Pap machine. There is no way I'm going to wear that monstrosity when I sleep.

Furthermore, there is no way I'd be able to sleep wearing one.

I have enough trouble falling asleep as it is, thank you very much. So if I wasn't gonna use the bloody thing anyway, it didn't make much sense for me to go for the study, right? The girls in DePalo's office had made an appointment for me at the sleep clinic and I cancelled it. Well, yesterday Dr. DePalo was extremely pleased with the progress I've been making. He cut my Prednisone all the way down to 5 milligrams and told me I could discontinue a medication I've been taking called Mepron, which is a thick liquid that's almost a neon yellow and is among the most vile things I've ever swallowed, which says a lot. So the two of us were just kind of shooting the breeze. He was in an unusually good mood, having just trashed Dr. Katzenelenbogen for a change. "I know...I can be a little arrogant at times", he said. "You? Arrogant??", I countered. We were having fun and I thought I might catch him at a weak moment so I brought up the Bird Question again for the umpteenth time. He might have had the same strategy in mind when he suddenly mentioned the sleep clinic for the first time in a while. He said that long-term untreated sleep apnea puts you at risk for a heart attack or stroke. I tried articulating my objections once more, telling him that I wouldn't (or couldn't) use a C-Pap machine.

That's when he shocked me with...

"Okay, I'll make you a deal; you go for the sleep study and you can get the damn bird".

I was stunned. I don't think I've ever made a deal with a doctor before. "Deal!", I exclaimed, almost before he had finished the sentence. There were some caveats (I had to purchase my new companion from a reputable dealer, which I do anyway, I had to keep the cage super clean, it had to be a little guy, not another Oscar-esque feathered monster), but I was cool with all of them. I told him I needed a prescription for the bird, and I almost wasn't kidding; I figured none of my family naysayers would believe it without some kind of tangible, written confirmation. I want a prescription, I said, and I want it signed and notarized in triplicate. I told him my sister or my kids might want to call him and he said sure, no problem. Truth be told, I never got the impression that he was among those who were totally convinced that it had been the birds that made me sick in the first place. "Better safe than sorry" was closer to his attitude. He's an animal person (he has at least one dog, maybe more) so he understands how much it means to me. I know Dr. DePalo very well.  He would never do anything to jeopardize my recovery.  Not because he cares so much about me; because he cares so much about him.  If I were to relapse it would be a reflection on His Majesty, and he won't be party to that. So it looks like I'll be getting a bird. This is not about my being an overgrown rebellious teenager, for a change. This is about weighing risk against genuine need, and I'm convinced that when that need is fulfilled, not only will it not hurt me, it will ultimately help me on my road back to emotional and physical health. In fact, I feel better already!

Death Wish?



Charles Bronson in "Death Wish" (1974)



Are they not the cutest things ever??

It's now about ten months since I got sick. If you've been following my trials and tribulations through this blog since I started it in July, you'll know about the "bird connection". In case you're not familiar with this particular aspect of my journey, allow me to elaborate. There are those in the medical community who have hypothesized that my pneumonia was precipitated, either directly or indirectly, by all my feathered friends. At one point I had four birds in my studio apartment. And while there is a specific type of pneumonia caused by contact with bird poop (psittacosis), that particular strain was ruled out early in my treatment. Some of the doctors felt, however, that all the bird dander and dust and poop may have contributed to my illness. Then there are those in my family (who shall remain nameless) who are absolutely convinced that the birds were the culprits. How they've figured this out sans medical or research degree of any kind, I haven't the foggiest. But they remain convinced nonetheless. I for one have always been somewhat skeptical about it. Okay, so here's the thing: I live alone. Or as Babby would say, "alone like a dog." I never understood that particular Babbyism...pretty much all the dogs I know are either in the company of their person or another dog or two. But I digress. Living alone has its perks, such as not having to listen to a wife's kvetching*. Birds, on the other hand, especially talking birds, are the perfect companions. Aside from Oscar who was quite neurotic and was probably a serial killer in a previous life (but whom I loved dearly anyway), my flock was sweet and friendly and fun. Almost immediately after my discharge from from Silver Lake I started floating trial balloons about getting a new b-i-r-d. Chayie promptly bit my head off, and Blimie informed me that she would never, ever speak to me again...and she meant it. The thing is, they really don't understand where I'm coming from. Here are a few points to ponder, or as I like to refer to them, ponderable points: First, I truly don't believe that the birds made me sick. If in fact they were a contributing factor, I believe that at this stage of my recovery I am well enough to be able to discern if something is going seriously wrong, in which case any new bird in my possession would find himself pounding the proverbial pavement, searching out a new master.  Second, the bird that was the most suspect was Oscar.  He was big and dirty.  What I'm considering buying is a lovebird, which is tiny and much neater and cleaner.  Also (believe it or not), I have changed my evil ways, baby.  My apartment is spotless.  I have resolved to keep it neat and clean.  I have made it a point to put everything away where it belongs right after I'm done with it.  This is all quite remarkable for a lifelong slob like me.  I'm painfully aware of the tenuousness of my recovery and I have taken steps to surround myself with a much healthier environment.  I could just say, hey, this is my life and the heck with all of you, but I won't do that.  I respect you all and understand that your position springs from your concern for my well being.  But I disagree with you.  So let's agree to disagree and move on, okay?

The Incredibles

I lived in the Fischbowl (sorry, Mendy) for about five months. While I have obviously known Chayie all my life, I had never really witnessed what her life is like or what her priorities are on a day-to-day basis. Being part of that household afforded me the opportunity to observe how she handles stress, how she deals with adversity, how she connects with people. She has this hard crust that she uses to protect herself from becoming too emotional. That's okay; I'm emotional enough for the both of us. When you get to watch her every day, however, you come to realize that that aforementioned crust belies the soft, caring mush-pot that resides underneath it. She takes out her wrath on a few favorite targets: moron drivers, phony goodie-goodies, Pomegranate. The rest of us get to benefit from her humor, her compassion, her smarts. She is there for everyone. She doesn't wait for someone to ask for help; she picks up the phone and asks what she can do. And what about Dave, you ask? He works his butt off and never complains. He adores her without smothering her. His encyclopedic knowledge about virtually everything is quite remarkable in its breadth. But here are the two things that I found truly amazing during my stay on East 26th Street... Thing One: how absolutely right they are for each other. Neither of them are outwardly affectionate people. Somehow, though, their love shines through their occasional caustic conversations. And I know that if either one of them ever reads this (especially Chayie) the reaction will be, "Yuk! I'm gonna vomit!" Thing Two: how solicitous they were toward me. They made me feel like my presence was the most natural thing in the world. When I tried to tell Chayie how amazing it was that she was not only putting up with me but actually nursing me back to health, she downplayed it all, saying that any sibling would do it. You know what? That's baloney. Not any sibling would do it, and most of those that did wouldn't do it as well or as wholeheartedly. Oh, and Dave! Despite his occasional grumpiness and/or sarcasm, he made me feel more welcome than I ever would have imagined. Of course I couldn't have stayed much longer after seeing him in his skivvies at three in the morning, but let's not go there. So, thanks guys. You saved my life. Literally. More than once. Just for that I plan to hang around long enough to be a pain in the butt for years to come!


Super Chayie

You Like Me! You Like Me!

In 1979, Sally Field won an Oscar as Best Actress for "Norma Rae." Five years later in 1984, she won again for "Places in the Heart." This was quite an accomplishment for a woman who had started her career on TV playing such demanding, serious roles as "Gidget" and "The Flying Nun." At the 1985 Academy Awards she delivered what has become one of the more memorable acceptance speeches in recent Oscar history. "I haven't had an orthodox career," she said, "and I've wanted more that anything to have your respect. The first time I didn't feel it, but this time I feel it, and I can't deny the fact that you like me right now, you like me!" The speech is remembered for its goofiness more than anything else; it was reminiscent of a small-town girl gushing over the blue ribbon just won by her prize heifer, Daisy. It wasn't classy. It wasn't "Hollywood". It was just real. And sincere. I've always identified with that speech. When my album "Legacy" was released in 1986, I really didn't care too much about how much it sold. Aren't I a great businessman? I was more concerned with the reaction I'd get from my peers. I wanted to know what other musicians, composers and lyricists thought of my work. I started in the music business as a drummer who was mediocre at best, and a large part of my reason for making "Legacy" was my insecurity about my abilities as a self-taught songwriter who never even learned to read music. I'd been writing lyrics since camp and I always knew I was pretty good at it, but I had never written my own melodies as well. I wanted to be taken seriously by others because in my mind my insecurities didn't allow me to take myself seriously. So: what does this have to do with my recent tribulations? Glad you asked. Apparently when I got sick, word got around. Close friends as well as people I barely knew started crawling out of the woodwork to wish me well. While I was in the ICU breathing through a hole in my neck, depressed enough to occasionally think about why I didn't just pull the damn thing out and simply fade away, I made it clear that I didn't want any visitors outside of my family to come and interrupt my orgy of self-pity. I couldn't make that happen...people showed up anyway. When I couldn't communicate by phone because I hadn't yet been given my Passy-Muir* valve, people called anyway. The Orthodox Jewish community is quite remarkable that way. We tend to share each other's joys but more importantly, we share each other's sorrows and challenges as well. During my stay at Columbia Presbyterian and later at Silver Lake, I learned that people all over Flatbush were reciting Tehillim and Mi Shebairach** for me. For me! Have you any idea how heartening that was? Have you any idea how uplifting? To this day folks come up to me on the street and tell me that they had had me in mind during their prayers. Recently I've been feeling that for someone who's always tended to be somewhat high-profile, I've kind of fallen off the radar of late. Apparently, people still care; you like me! You like me!

* Passy-Muir valve = a small, plastic apparatus that allows trach patients to speak.

** Tehillim and Mi Shebairach = "Tehillim" refers to Psalms,

"Mi Shebairach" is a short prayer for someone who is ill.

The Flying Nun (1967-1970)

Mazel Tov!



Menachem

Meira

Baby Lieberman



I believe my latest posts have been a little on the morbid side. I mean, come on, "I see dead people?" Twice, yet?? Isn't that a bit much? Well, today was a special day. Feige gave birth to a healthy 8.5 lb. bouncing baby boy.  On Babby & Zeidie's (L"HBCL"C) anniversary.  On Veterans' Day. And while I have every intention of getting spiritual and philosophical once again as I've been wont to do lately, this time it will be in a positive, lighthearted vein. I'm even gonna refrain from making any "vein" jokes, even though I'm sure I could think of a few. For months I've been telling anyone who'll listen that two things got me through my darkest hours in the ICU and beyond: I wanted to be at Menachem's Bar Mitzvah and I wanted to meet Meira in person. I firmly believe that those two goals were the psychological glue that kept me from falling apart. More than once. Well, I held my fifth grandchild today and it was just delicious. So I got to thinking: why did I have only two goals? I should have had oodles! See Menachem get married. And Avi. And Ester. And Meira. And little whatshisname. Why not? How about watching my grandchildren raise their children? At least the ones that aren't named Y'rachmiel Shraga Feivel (who would do that to a kid?!). Am I asking too much? Do I dare think about seeing my great-grandchildren under the chuppah? You know what? I'll leave it up to the Boss. I'll try to be good and see what happens. I'll reiterate a point I've made several times: I try and remember to thank G-d for every new day, for every new lungful of oxygen, for every step I take. I'll let you in on a little secret: I haven't felt 100% okay since I got sick. Not once. Sometimes that gets me angry and sometimes I get the blues. A day like today, a day when I can hold a tiny, sleeping miracle in my arms, reminds me that sweating the small stuff is simply a waste of energy. It's all good, dear readers...it's all good.

I See Dead People, Part Two

 

Haley Joel Osment
and Bruce Willis in
"The Sixth Sense"

I moved on October 3rd. I had moved all my stuff out of my apartment while I was staying with Chayie and Dave and put it in storage. That was a helluva lot cheaper than paying rent on my old place, and the consensus in the medical community was that as far as I was concerned, that apartment was uninhabitable anyway. The guy I hired to do the move was a man named Milton Thompson whom I'd used several times before. He's always been reliable and cheap, a great combination. Once again he moved me efficiently and affordably, this time to a Public Storage facility on Rockaway Avenue in Brooklyn. So I've been in my new apartment for five weeks and change, and I finally finished unpacking. For those of you out there who might be uninitiated, I collect turtles. No, not live ones, silly, figurines. I have wood, metal, ceramic, glass, crystal, stone and I'm sure a few materials that I haven't mentioned. They range in size anywhere from half an inch to I guess about 15 or 16 inches. A lot of them are quite fragile, so they need to be packed carefully as well as unpacked carefully. And there are approximately 500 of them! So that slows things down considerably. Another reason it took me a while to unpack is simply that I'm not as fast as I used to be. Heavy boxes are a problem. I huff and puff a lot. I tire very easily. But now that I'm done, the place looks great, except for one thing. You know those blankets that movers use to cover furniture? Well, I've got a bunch of them. You see, I didn't use Mr. Thompson to move me from the storage place to this apartment. I used the son-in-law of a friend. So I have all of Mr. Thompson's blankets. And they're big and bulky and all over the place. I'd been meaning to call him for a while now to have him come and pick them up, but I never got around to it. Until yesterday. A woman answered his cell phone, which was pretty odd. I asked for Mr. Thompson. "You want Mister Thompson?" Um, yes, I said, Mr. Thompson. "I'm sorry," she said, "Mr. Thompson is deceased." Say WHAT?! Now let me tell you a bit about this guy. He was a very nice man from Barbados so he had that charming Caribbean accent. I always figured him to be around my age. He was strong as an ox. He would show up with two or three strapping young guys and he would more than hold his own, shlepping tons of furniture. He wasn't just there as a supervisor; he worked his butt off. It turned out that the voice on the phone was his daughter. He died two weeks ago. Massive heart attack. Never had a heart condition. He was sixty-one. I think this one effected me even more than Luzer at Orange Findings. Luzer had cancer. People in the best of health get cancer, at any age. Strong, vibrant, healthy-as-a-horse people are not supposed to just drop dead. So, being the newly minted spiritualist that I've become, the musar haskail* here was crystal clear to me. Nothing very profound, just another little reminder from G-d:

                                                             There is no "supposed to."
                                     There is no rhyme or reason to many aspects of our lives,
                                                          or, for that matter, our deaths.
                                                        When it's our time, it's our time.

I'll end this with some lyrics from the song "Dust in the Wind":

Don't hang on,
Nothing lasts forever but the earth and sky,
It slips away,
And all your money won't another minute buy.
Dust in the wind,
All we are is dust in the wind.
Dust in the wind,
Everything is dust in the wind.

* Musar Haskail = Moral of the story.

I See Dead People, Part One

A few weeks ago my watch stopped. I always buy Timexes. I'm not sure of the spelling, but I always buy them. I think (read: hope) that even if I was a gazillionaire, I wouldn't spend $25,000 on a Vacheron or Patec Phillippe. A $40.00 Timex works just fine. Well, because I spent most of my adult life toiling away in the jewelry industry, I just could not bring myself to go to some local jeweler and let him charge me $20.00 to change the battery in a $40.00 watch. So I pried open the back, took out the battery, brought it to Radio Shack and bought a replacement for about five bucks. Piece of cake. Then I came home and totally screwed up trying to put the darn thing in. I couldn't get it to make contact and then I couldn't get the back to close. I guess my plans to become a master watchmaker will have to be put on hold indefinitely. I needed to go into the city to run some errands that week anyway, so I figured I'd bring the watch in to my old buddy Leva the watchmaker. He always charged me $5.00 to change a battery. I also brought a few other watches that weren't working. When I got there he commented that he hadn't seen me for a very long time, was everything okay? That's when I told him about the year I've had (of course you know I'm the shy, reserved type who would never, ever have brought it up had he not asked me, right? Right??). That's when he asked me if I had heard about Luzer. I didn't know who Luzer was. In the booth right next to Leva in the jewelry exchange there's a company called Orange Findings. They sell findings (earring posts, prong settings, bezels, etc.) to jewelers. I've bought some little pitchifkes* there over the years, so I knew all the guys there. I always assumed that they called it "Orange Findings" because one of the people there, presumably an owner, was a redhead with very orange hair. He was a chassidic guy who was very knowledgeable and helpful. Well, it turns out that his name was Luzer. In all the years I'd been coming there, I never knew his name. So I told Leva no, I hadn't heard about Luzer, what about him? That's when I noticed Luzer wasn't in his booth. "he die," said Leva in his heavy Russian accent. I was floored. Leva told me that Luzer was 56 and had been sick for a while. He used to come over to Leva's booth and literally cry to him that he was going to die. And he did. As you know if you've been following this blog for a while, almost everything that happens to me lately I interpret as some kind of message from above. Why did my watch happen to stop on that particular day? Those batteries last a very, very long time. And why did I mess up changing the battery and therefore have to go to Leva? Was it because G-d wanted me to hear about Luzer and count my myriad blessings? Well, I know what I think...what do you think?

*pitchifkes = um, a yiddishism that's hard to translate. I guess the closest would be small, mostly insignificant things.

Dr. Millenium Pepsodent*



No, this isn't really him, just a reasonable facsimile.

One fine day in Mount Sinai, a young man in a white labcoat wandered into my room. We chatted for a while and we just hit it off. His name was Dr. Millenium Pepsodent.* He was Puerto Rican so we obviously came from extremely diverse backgrounds, but somehow we had a lot in common. He sat down and we talked about our respective depressions and how we both felt that we had messed up our lives. "But you're a doctor!", I said, "and if you're practicing at Mt. Sinai, apparently a good one, and a successful one, too." He explained that he's been depressed as long as he could remember. He got really lousy grades in college and ultimately wound up going to Guadalajara, Mexico, one of the real cesspools of the medical school world. I told him that I heard that in Guadalajara you had to run around in the street to catch your own dogs to experiment on. We had a great time just shooting the breeze. I said that when (if?) I got out of the hospital we should go get a cup of coffee or maybe a beer. He said that the supermarkets in Mexico only sell liquor till 3:00 PM so after that he had to do his drinking in bars. But the bars close at 2:00 AM, so after that he had to resort to drinking rubbing alcohol. When I asked him if it was dangerous he said no, and that it kinda tasted like vodka. So he thought he might have been just a tad out of control, and that was why he had stopped drinking. I thought that that had been an excellent decision. This was the guy that asked the following day to be my attending physician. I knew I was in good hands. In all the time I knew Millenium, I think he performed exactly one medical procedure on me. He took arterial blood for blood gases. I was beginning to think he was an imposter who wandered in through the emergency room. He came to see me a few more times after that and sat down, put his feet up on my bed and shmoozed with me. Sometimes it was actually about my illness. I liked him a lot. Despite being quite disturbed, he was extremely bright and actually had pretty much my twisted sense of humor. He gave me his cell phone number and we vowed to keep in touch when (if?) I ever got reasonably healthy. I wasn't sure that he was an actual doctor until I got home from the hospital and found a copy of the bill that he had sent to Oxford for some obscene amount for sitting and entertaining me. Am I too old to go to medical school?

*Definitely NOT his real name!

Don't Ask, Don't Tell

                                                                                         I met a doctor at Mt. Sinai during my first B.I.T.R.* who was a very nice, very young, very friendly guy. We hit it off immediately and became good buddies. In fact, he asked to be assigned to me as my attending physician. I decided to write a post about him, detailing some of the personal stuff we shmoozed about. Then I realized that there was a possibility, albeit remote, that by doing so I could get him in trouble. So being the nice guy that I am, I called him (he had given me his cell number). I explained that I had a blog and that I wanted to include him. I offered to send him a draft of the post before I actually put it online. I said I wouldn't use it until he okayed it. I emailed it and waited for a response. Nothing. I waited some more. Still nothing. After a while I texted him. No response. I left a message on his voicemail. No luck. Okay, I thought, he's angry. I waited and waited and waited and never heard from him again. I was surprised because he really didn't seem like the type of guy who's feathers would be ruffled so easily. I was also disappointed because I really liked him. All this took place back in July. Well, just for fun I texted him again last week: "Are you still mad at me?" Here's his response, verbatim: "I was never mad, dude. I just was very busy and couldn't tell u it. Hey I got some things to do but ill call u later." I was so happy that he called me "dude". No one has ever called me dude before. It made me feel cool for about twenty seconds. Then I realized that this guy texts like a fifteen year-old girl, right down to his atrocious grammar. Then I remembered that he was once in charge of my medical care. Then I thanked G-d for not only letting me survive my pneumonia, but letting me survive my doctor, too.

PS  His post will follow.

* B.I.T.R. = Bump In The Road

Guacamole Brain

I think I've mentioned in a previous post that when I started coming out of my induced coma at Columbia Presbyterian, the world was a brave new place.  I have since discussed this phenomenon with my neurologist, because I'm convinced that some of the symptoms are still present, albeit not as severe (perhaps I'll discuss that in a future post).  He's pretty sure that my brain suffered some oxygen deprivation while I was sedated, but that there will be no long-lasting ill effects.  During that twilight period when I had opened my eyes but had not yet shaken off all the effects of the sedation, I couldn't tell time, but it was more than that.  I looked at my watch as a curiosity.  I knew its function, but I couldn't quite figure it out.  There were these hands and they were pointing to numbers and I knew they all had significance but somehow I couldn't piece all the information together and know what time it was.  My cell phone was even worse.  I think I knew what it was for, but I had absolutely no inkling how it worked.  Then there was my handwriting.  I've always been proud of my handwriting.  It's big and bold and flashy and masculine, and usually it's actually quite legible.  When I woke up my beautiful handwriting had gone AWOL. It might have been a function of how incredibly weak my arms and hands were physically, but suffice it to say I could barely produce recognizable letters. 

     There were also things floating around in my head that made so much sense, that were so crystal clear to me, I was amazed that I had never realized them before.  To wit: making Aliya*.

This epiphany was with me from the moment I opened my eyes.  In fact, it might have been there even before I opened my eyes.  I knew clearly that I needed to make Aliya and knew also that as soon as I was well enough, that's exactly what I'd do.  There was no equivocation.  There was no maybe.  I was moving to Israel.  I wanted to be in Jerusalem.  I wanted to be near Nuchi.  Don't know who Nuchi is?  Sorry, that's for another time, another blog, perhaps.  My point here might be difficult to convey, but what I'm trying to say is that this thought was more than a thought: it was a revelation, an obvious truth, a foregone conclusion. 

     Then there was Carol Burnett.  Carol Burnett? Yes, Carol Burnett.  I was watching Channel 13 (public television) one night and there was a special on Carol Burnett.  They had old clips of her show interspersed with interviews of Carol and the major cast members: Vicky Lawrence, Tim Conway and Harvey Corman.  It was suddenly clear to me that Carol Burnett was the most talented person who ever lived.  Did you know that her daughter, Carrie, was a drug abuser as a teen and died of cancer at thirty-eight?  In my oxygen-deprived little brain, that made Carol more than just a performer; it promoted her to almost saintly status.  Her daughter's death added a dimension of pathos that had me absolutely convinced that Carol Burnett was a goddess.  I remembered watching her with Frenchi back in the 70's and laughing along with the rest of the country.  I silently resolved to write her the Mother of all Fan Letters when I got home. 

     Oh, and the info-mercials!  Thank G-d I didn't have my credit card; I would have ordered EVERYTHING!  There was one in particular that I remember quite vividly: it was a collection of 70's music.  It ran the gamut from Janis Joplin to Joni Mitchell, from Joe Cocker to James Taylor.  I'm sure it must have had some kind of special offer attached to it as well that I can't recall ("order in the next fifteen minutes and you'll also receive this beautiful ginsu knife!").  Anyway, I absolutely knew that I couldn't live without it!  

     Well, my cyber-friends, here I am, all these months later, and I haven't moved to Israel, I haven't written to Carol Burnett (and I no longer think she's a goddess) and I'm surviving just fine without Janis and Joni and Joe and James, thank you very much.  But I'll let you in on a little secret: I kinda miss those feelings of absolute clarity I had when I was semi-conscious.  I don't think I've ever felt that positive about anything before, and probably never will again.  And that's a little sad, isn't it?

* Making Aliya = Moving to Israel