Homeward Bound

Second time was a charm. Eliot & Company tried again to wean me off the trach. This time they were a bit more conservative. We went from capping the cannula for one hour to maybe three hours, then five, etcetera. Anyway, this time it took...I was able to breathe on my own! You can't imagine

Weaning

what a joy it was to finally be oxygen independent after all those months of being tethered to R2D2 or a wall or a tank. I felt like a real human being for the first time in a very long time. Truth be told, I really couldn't walk very well, but I knew I would soon be going home! Home, where my thought's escaping! Home, where my music's playing! I was ecstatic. The fact that Big Brother Oxford was the deciding vote regarding my imminent discharge was of no concern to me; I just wanted OUT! Apparently leaving a nursing home is no simple matter. We had a meeting on the third floor (I had never been higher than the first). It was me and Chayie and Eliot and Stacy (social worker) and a bunch of other people whom I don't remember. I think one was a dietician*. I recently asked Chayie if she remembered who was there and she said "a bunch of people who needed something to do so they could justify their salaries". Hmmm...makes sense to me. There were those little Halloween-sized Hershey Bars, Almond Joys, Mounds and Three Musketeerses (Musketeerses?) on the table. I love that stuff. They talked about a discharge plan but I was too antsy to be paying close attention. The one little detail that I did find interesting was the fact that they were planning on discharging me without oxygen. I wasn't sure that was good idea and I said so. Eliot explained that Oxford had a policy whereby they determined whether or not they would cover oxygen. If a patient's sats were below 90, you got your oxygen: tanks, mini-tanks, concentrator, the whole nine yards. If you were 90 or above, you were on your own. At the time of the meeting my sats were in the mid-90's. How arbitrary! How stupid! Eliot didn't disagree with me, but there was nothing he could do. Anyway, when they noticed that I wasn't paying much attention they just put everything in writing and handed me a beautiful forest green, gold embossed folder with my discharge papers and my diploma (see above) inside. It was wonderful: I hadn't graduated from anything since 1968. Most of the stuff in the folder made sense and was fairly accurate. A few things were questionable, and one little piece of misinformation could well have killed me...stay tuned!

* Here's an interesting little aside. Or maybe not so interesting. You decide. Anyway, when I spell-checked this post, as I always do, the word "dietician" was highlighted as incorrect. According to Blogger, it's spelled "dietitian". Well, that just looked weird to me, so I went to my old standby, Dictionary.com. According to them, either one is correct. Just thought you'd like to know.

G-d Stuff, Part Two

When I got to Mount Sinai (the hospital, not the mountain; I haven't blogged about it yet) I afforded myself of the opportunity to speak to the chaplain. Rabbi Goldstein is a very amiable fellow who was very easy to talk to. The day he came to my room I was in particulalry bad shape: I was having a lot of trouble breathing and consequently a good deal of trouble talking as well. I explained very briefly what had happened to me and again broached the question of WHY? I was still clinging to my theory that my illness was Divine punishment, and it was up to me to figure out what I was being punished for. He saw it differently. Apparently he does not subscribe to the notion of a wrathful, vengeful Supreme Being, but rather a loving, caring Heavenly Father. "Yes, but even a father gives a misbehaving child a potch (slap) once in a while," I countered. Rabbi Goldstein then came up with what I thought was a great line, one I'm thinking of having made into a needlepoint. "G-d," he said, "is not in the potch business". Boy, do I hope he's right! Then the good Rabbi offered an interesting theory of his own. While I found it somewhat esoteric and perhaps even convoluted, it was pretty darn intriguing nonetheless. In Genesis we find that when G-d created Adam, He breathed the breath of life into his nostrils and Adam became "a living soul". What's your problem, medically, Rabbi Goldstein asked, rhetorically. You can't breathe. You can't accept the breath of G-d (i.e., G-d) into your body, into you lungs. And the reason you can't accept G-d is...are you ready for this?...because you don't accept yourself. Whoa! Now that's heavy!

Anyway, I don't know if Dr. Lief and/or Rabbi Goldstein have all the answers, but they certainly gave me some things to think about. What I can say conclusively is this: during my darkest days in the ICU, what kept me going was that I wanted to meet my new granddaughter, Meira, and I wanted to be at my grandson Menachem's Bar Mitzvah. G-d was gracious enough to allow me to partake of those two indescribable pleasures, so I figure I owe Him. I'm not quite sure what I want to work on first (there's soooooo much that could use some fixing!) but I'm going to try to be a better person in general and, dare I say, perhaps even a smidge less self absorbed as well.

G-d Stuff, Part One

Chayie mentioned to me the other day that so far I have blogged only about the minutiae of the day-to-day struggles I've had since I got sick, but not about the big, important things, to wit: why did G-d choose to have my life hang by a thread, only to allow me to survive? Was I being punished? If so, for what? Was it just that He wanted to hear from me a little more often? Was I supposed to die and didn't because of the devastation it would have visited upon my family? Did the myriad prayers uttered for me change His decree? Will the Yankees repeat? The questions go on and on. I assured her that I fully intended to address these very heady issues in the blog, but I couldn't figure out when. I thought I might include them after the part where I get released from Silver Lake (coming up soon!). But now I realize that there is no more auspicious time than right now, between Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur.

This is the time of the year when Jews around the world reflect on the year they've just had and, hopefully, make resolutions to change behaviors of which they are less than proud. It is the time of year when all the gates of heaven are open and G-d is most accessible. Our fortunes for the coming year have already been decided, but they have not yet been finalized. We have the opportunity to change any evil decree through repentance, prayer and charity.

When I reflect on the year I've just had, I can't help but think that G-d was definitely trying to tell me something. I find myself telling Him (sometimes out loud), "Okay G-d, You've got my attention...what do You want?" I've discussed all these questions with people I respect. The first one to help me grapple with them was my therapist, Dr. Evelyn Lief. Dr. Lief and I had some telephone sessions even before I could manage to start seeing her again in her office on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. At the time I was insisting that my near-death experience and all the suffering that followed was about my being punished for something. Something I did, perhaps something I didn't do, but definitely something! Evelyn, who is Jewish but not observant, had a different theory. You had doctors telling you for over a year to get rid of Oscar, she said. Your response? Not only didn't you follow their advice, you thumbed your nose at them by acquiring three more birds! Perhaps G-d just wanted to show you what a stubborn lunatic you are! Know what? That actually made sense to me.

The Silver Lake Girls and Me

Nurses sometimes get a bad rap. In 1975 Louise Fletcher (left) won a Best Actress Oscar for her scathing portrayal of Nurse Mildred Ratched in "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest". First of all, if you've never seen the film, rent it. Now. In my humble opinion it's one of the best movies ever made. Nurse Ratched is one of moviedom's all-time great villains: petty, vindictive, cold-hearted, cruel. She personifies the all the nasty, robotic nurses you may have met growing up in the 60's and 70's. Fortunately, the nurses of today are a much softer bunch. I've met probably 100 nurses over the past nine months or so, and there were only two I couldn't get along with. Of course a good deal of that has to do with my irresistible charm and rapier-like wit, but by and large the nurses have been very proficient and very kind. And while Columbia Presbyterian, world class facility that it is, had some great nurses (remember Bob?), put them up against The Silver Lake Girls and they pale by comparison. Keisha, Hattie (sounds like "Katie" with an "H"), Maria, Donna, Melissa and Gaby took care of me without making me feel helpless and had an uncanny knack for anticipating my needs. They were warm and gentle and caring. Unfortunately many of their charges are not in any condition to respond to them in any meaningful way. Many of the patients on my floor were elderly, some were suffering from dementia. I was something of a rarity: a relatively young man in an old man's body who needed a lot of T.L.C. The Girls understood this instinctively and gave of themselves freely and without hesitation. Eliot, Director of Respiratory Therapy, runs a tight ship but understands the need to allow patients to keep their dignity and their humanity. This attitude trickles down through his staff, from respiratory therapist Alexandra to nurse Ron (couldn't include him as one of "The Girls"). They all did things for me that were way above and beyond the call of duty. So here's a shout-out to my Girls: Keisha, Hattie, Maria, Donna, Melissa and Gaby...I love you all, I miss you all, and I promise if my voice ever comes back, I'll come back and perform for you gratis. And Maria? Save me some Ativan, okay?

Not Again!

It was just a short ambulance ride to Richmond University Medical Center (RUMC). Kalman wasn't there when I arrived, but he came soon afterward. I was really glad to see him; going to a hospital, especially one where you've never been before, is traumatic enough. If you have to be admitted with no one there for moral support, it's very disheartening. The first thing the ER doctor wanted to do was put me back on a respirator, albeit just for a short time. There was no way I was going to agree to that. That's when Kalman stepped in. Basically he told me to stop being a jerk and let the doctor do his job. The thought of being hooked up to that monstrosity again chilled me to the bone and scared the hell out of me. But with Kalman and the doctor ganging up on me and the latter assuring me that this would be very temporary, I gave in. He was a man of his word: I was removed from the respirator a few short hours later. Meanwhile, I was not aware of all the machinations that were going on behind the scene. My siblings were trying desparately to get me transferred back to good ol' Columbia Presbyterian. Because I had already been admitted, however, the red tape involved in getting me unadmitted was just too much to deal with. I stayed in RUMC and frankly, in retrospect, I'm glad I did. Granted, they are not the world class facility that Columbia is, but a world class facility was not needed this time. A very nice man named Dr. Arsuro was in charge of my case. They ran tests to see if I had a new infection and I did not. I'm not even sure exactly what they did for me, medically speaking, but I was only there five days so I guess they managed to stabilize me. If this all sounds a bit vague it's because I don't really remember much about my time there at all. I'm not sure why. In fact I asked Kalman to help me with the details and he couldn't remember much either. Maybe there was something in the drinking water. Anyway, Kalman stayed with me the first two days of Passover. We didn't have a seder, but we did have grape juice and matzoh. Kosher hospital food is bad enough; kosher for Passover hospital food is even worse. Ugh! I was beginning to miss my old friend the feeding tube. I was discharged on Thursday, April Fool's Day and was soon back in my old room at Silver Lake. Joe was in middle of a soliloquy about how John Gotti was framed by the feds. Ahhh...it was good to be home.

We Interrupt This Blog...

In case you haven't noticed, I haven't posted anything since September 1st. Today's the 6th. I usually post at least once a day. So you're probably wondering why I've been shirking my posting duties with hundreds of cyber-followers out there waiting for the next installment with bated breath.

Baited Breath

Yes, that's how you spell it. It's bated breath, not baited breath. I checked on Dictionary.com. Bated breath comes from Abated breath. Not to be confused with rebated breath, which is something you hold while waiting for your $3.00 check from Rite-Aid to show up. By the way, don't you think it's ironic that I've used the word breath six times already in this post and it has nothing to do with my breathing? You don't? Well, I think it's very ironic. Would you like an example of

Ironic

something ironic? I thought you might. Well, the picture to the right is quite ironic, don't you think? I guess birds aren't as smart as I thought. Or maybe they just don't like to follow rules. And while we're on the subject of irony, Most of the things mentioned in Alanis Morissette's song, "Isn't It Ironic" are not ironic at all; they would fall under the catagory of coincidence, not irony. Okay, here's a contest. This is a three-part contest. Isn't that exciting? Ready? Okay, here goes:
Part One: Name the other two blog posts in which I used a picture of a fish.
Part Two: Name the other seven blog posts in which I used a picture of a bird.
Part Three: Name another song whose title is made up of three words that begin with the letter "I", like "Isn't It Ironic".
Anyone who gets all three right wins a Lexus from Premier Lexus of the Bronx*, but it's a clutch and it's a really ugly shade of ochre. Oh, and you have to go to the Bronx to pick it up. Good luck, eveyone!

PS Silly me, I forgot to tell you why I haven't posted lately! Well, I haven't posted lately because I'm up to the part where I go to Richmond University Medical Center in Staten Island, and for some strange reason I hardly remember anything about it. Kalman was there with me for the first two days (it was Passover) and I've tried to ask him about it several times but thus far we haven't been able to align our busy schedules. Today is Labor Day and I have the day off, and I'm assuming he does too, so maybe we can finally sit down and chat.

*Fine Print Disclaimer:
We are in no way responsible for the veracity of this statement. If you win the contest, chances are you won't get diddly-squat. Come on, you didn't think we were serious, did you?? Boy, are you gullible! Don't you know that when something seems too good to be true, it invariably is? Okay, okay, if you absolutely insist, maybe we can spring for a bag of chips or something.

Bump in the Road #2

Passover was around the corner. I had already missed Purim. I was still in Columbia Presbyterian then, and Feige and Yehuda and the kids had come to visit me. They looked at their grandfather in bed with a tube sticking out of a hole in his neck and a long blue corregated tube with one end connected to the wall and the other end supplying oxygen through the aforementioned hole. It must have been pretty scary for them, because it quickly became quite apparent that they didn't want any part of me. They just steered clear of my bed and watched Spongebob on TV. Thank G-d for Spongebob! So Purim was pretty much a bust. I was hoping that since I obviously wasn't going to be home for Passover, the fact that I was in a Jewish facility would at least afford me the opportunity to attend a Seder and have food that was kosher for Passover without jumping through hoops. No such luck. They had started trying to wean me off the trach. First they capped it with a little red button that snapped into place on the cannula. Then they had me breath nothing but room air first for just a few hours, then eight hours, then twelve. I was handling it pretty well: my sats weren't great but they were still within acceptable parameters. It was the first time I was breathing on my own since before I got sick. I was elated! I had a rough night the Saturday before Passover. My breathing was labored and I felt very congested. I had a nebulizer treatment and had a nurse suction out some sputum. I felt a little better and I was able to fall asleep. Next morning a nurse wandered into my room and didn't like the way I looked. I was really short of breath now. She left the room and when she returned she had Eliot, the Director of Respiratory Therapy in tow, along with a few more nurses. One of them, Keisha, was one of my favorites. I'll never forget the look of concern on her face. I asked her what was going on and she leaned in close and whispered, "your lips are blue, babe". Uh-oh. That can't be good. They wheeled in a massive oxygen tank and hooked me up. I had been on only about 2 liters of oxygen through R2D2; they set the gauge on the tank at 5 liters, the maximum. I looked at Eliot hopefully and asked what the plan was. He said they were sending me to Richmond University Medical Center, a local hospital in Staten Island; same place they'd sent Joe. I couldn't believe it, and I tried to protest, but that's quite difficult to do when you can barely breathe. Suffice it to say, I lost. Kalman happened to call during this crisis and I told him what was going on. Without hesitation ( and without me asking) he said he'd meet me in the emergency room. I have great kids.