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