There But For The Grace Of G-d, Part Two

Debbie Friedman (1951-2011)



Debbie Friedman died on Sunday.  For those of you who are not familiar with Debbie,  she was an extremely popular singer/songwriter who performed all over the world.  She was primarily associated with the Reform and Reconstructionist branches of Judaism.  Her music was sometimes liturgical, sometimes whimsical, always spiritual.  She was an exceptionally gifted, self-taught musician.  Her charisma and buoyant personality drew scores of young people to Judaism, albeit not Orthodox Judaism.  But hey...who am I to Judge?  Who knows how many Jewish souls she saved?  She has even been compared to the great Shlomo Carlebach, whom she held in great esteem, and emulated in many ways.  Extremely prolific, Debbie released over twenty albums of her work during her career.  Based on the few songs of hers that I was familiar with, I was an admirer of her work.  I'm sorry to say I never followed her music very closely.  So what's Debbie Friedman doing in my blog, you ask?  Well, Debbie was born February 23, 1951.  That would make her 38 days younger than I.  She died at age 59.  Know what she died of?  Debbie died of pneumonia.  She was on tour in Europe, didn't feel well, came back to the states and was hospitalized immediately in Los Angeles.  She was quickly put on a respirator, but her particular strain of pneumonia did not respond to antibiotics, and she passed away shortly thereafter.  While reading all the details of her untimely demise, I was struck by all the similarities between us.  Two singers of the same age, struck down by almost identical illnesses at the same time in their respective lives.  One survives and one doesn't.  Arbitrary?  Hardly.  But we don't presume to understand His grand scheme.  I'm very happy/lucky/grateful to be alive.  And yet somehow, even though I did not know her, I grieve for Debbie Friedman.     

PS  Here's a link to a very nice tribute to Debbie...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dA0nAec3y7U&feature=related



The Big Sleep

As I said in the last two posts, I went for the Sleep Study on November 29th. Had I posted about it on November 30th, I would have remembered the names of the two people who were there watching me all night, but I don't remember them now. So let's name them, okay? One was a nice black girl and the other was a short guy who I think was Jewish. Hmmm. Okay, let's call the black girl Shirley and the Jewish guy Thor. Shirley was sitting at the reception desk when I came in. She brought me to the teensy little room where I would be spending the night. The best way to describe it is...spartan. It consisted of a bed, a nightstand and a closet which ostensibly should have functioned as a place for you to hang your clothes, but instead was full of wires and supplies and stuff. No cheap prints of seascapes. No mint on the pillow. Heck, there wasn't even a window. There was, however, a camera pointing right at the bed. I found that somewhat unnerving. What if I picked my nose in my sleep? What if I farted? What if I drooled? I found the whole concept of someone watching me sleep kind of creepy and voyeuristic. I started worring about whether or not I'd be able to fall asleep. Usually when that happens, it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy: I don't fall asleep. There was an adjoining bathroom with a shower. Very basic, very Motel 6. Shirley told me to change and come back out so she and Thor could wire me up and get started. I put on my dashing new Botany 500 pajamas from Wiesner's of New Utrecht Avenue (as opposed to Saks of Fifth Avenue) and went to find Shirley. She and Thor were sitting in a room full of computers and monitors and wires. There was an empty chair in middle of the room where they did their evil work of getting poor, unsuspecting shlubs like me ready to be their guinea pig for the evening. Once I was in the chair, they started putting leads all over me. See that guy up there on the right? That's a very accurate picture of what I looked like when they got finished with me, except for the nasal cannula. I wasn't getting one of those; I was getting a C-PAP mask...there was no way I was gonna sleep! They let me try on a few different versions, and one was less comfortable than the next. They were all truly horrible. I started flashing back to when I wore one in Beth Israel, and that certainly didn't help anything. I almost pulled another "get me my pants!" tantrum (see post of August 12th) but instead I sang "whenever I feel afraid" from "The King and I" to myself and that made me feel better. After I picked out which mask made me feel the least like Hannibal Lecter, Thor brought me back to the room. Thor thtarted to thay what all the wires were for, but I thtopped him. He hooked everything up and left me lying there. Thoon...I mean soon...I heard his voice. "Can you hear me, Ron," it said. I said yeth. Yes. He told me to make a snoring sound. Honest. Then a coughing sound. Then he had me do them both again. He came back into the room, said goodnight and shut the light. I told him to leave the door open a crack. I thought I saw him smirk as he walked out. About half an hour later I was actually nodding off. Just as Mr. Sandman was tippy toe-ing out, Thor came back in and nudged me out of my very tenuous slumber. There was a problem, he said. They were having some technical difficulties with the room I was in and I had to move to another one. I asked if I was at least gonna get the Presidential Suite this time. No reaction. No sense of humor. Frankly, I was quite ticked off: I was somewhere I didn't want to be in the first place, and now they were bugging me in the middle of the night. Predictably, the new room was no improvement. Thor reconnected all my Frankenstein stuff, apologized for the umpteenth time, shut the light, left the door open a crack, smirked and left. Against all odds, I fell asleep around 1:30. At 6:45, there was good ol' Thor, shaking me awake. He then left the room and I once again heard him asking me to snore and cough. Someday I wish someone would explain that to me. I would have asked him, but I got the impression that he was dumb as a bag of rocks, so I figured I'd better pass. I showered, got dressed and left the room. On my way out I asked saw Shirley poring over some data on her computer. I asked her what my results were, and she said it takes a few weeks to analyze everything. A few weeks? I only slept for five hours! Betcha they get paid by the hour, those two. They told me DePalo would be getting the results. I went home, burned my pajamas, climbed into my obscenely comfortable bed with the pillow-top matress, and fell blissfully back to sleep.

...AND DON'T CALL ME SHIRLEY!!!

Primates and PJs



Monkey

My appointment for a sleep study was on November 29th. I showed up on time at 10:00 PM. It's a very odd feeling, knowing that you'll be sleeping in a strange little room with strange little people watching you on closed-circuit camera. Sleep is a very private thing. Everyone has his own sleep mishugas*. For example, I only sleep on my side, usually with one arm under my pillow, which means that sometimes I wake up with my arm hanging at my side, totally useless until I get the blood coursing back through its empty veins. Also (and this stays between us, okay?), I've taken to sleeping with Monkey lately. I got Monkey from Chaye Kohl when she visited me in the hospital. Monkey's not the only stuffed critter I got while I was sick. I also got a stuffed "Count from Sesame Street" from Dov and Juby Charnowitz, and I think maybe one or two more that I don't remember. So I guess it's acceptable for a man in his fifties (shut up) to play with stuffed things. Unless they're olives or grape leaves or something like that, in which case he'd just be downright weird. But I really have grown quite attached to Monkey. I even...nah, never mind. You're just gonna laugh. Promise you won't laugh? Swear? Okay, fine. I even talk to Monkey sometimes. You know, when I've been in the other room watching some Judge Judys I've recorded and I come in to sleep at like 2:00 in the morning and Monkey is sitting on his shelf, looking miffed. In those situations I think he's entitled to an explanation, don't you? But please don't think I'm completely crazy; I almost never talk to him unless he's the one who starts the conversation. Anyway, needless to say, Monkey wanted to come along for the sleep study. Personally I didn't see anything wrong with it, but I thought the serious scientists who make their living sitting around all night watching people snore and drool and scratch themselves might look askance at someone showing up with an inanimate sleep partner (which would also exclude any of my ex-wives). So I explained to Monkey as lovingly as I could that he'd have to stay home. I promised him a stuffed banana when I got home, and he finally went to bed; I didn't even have to tell him his favorite "Curious George" story. Incidentally, they went to school together. Monkey says that George was always a troublemaker, even way back when. He was even expelled for smoking in the Boys' Room several times! And this is who we hold up as a role model for our young, impressionable children! Another problem I had with the sleep study is that I didn't own a pair of pajamas. I couldn't very well sleep there in the state in which I sleep at home, which, by the way, I will (thankfully) leave to your prurient imagination. Chayie told me about a place in Boro Park where they sold pj's for fifteen dollars. I checked online and apparently they were indeed a bargain, even cheaper than K-mart and Walmart and Sears, oh my! So I went to the place and bought a pair that the man pulled out of the back room somewhere and dusted off and handed to me. They were made by Botany 500. Don't they make suits? I'm sure these were sitting back there since the Eisenhower Administration. They were truly among the least attractive things I'd ever seen, including that girl (and I use that term rather loosely) I went out with that Tuesday night in June of 2001. But I figured for fifteen bucks I could just wear them the one night and then burn them somewhere when no one was looking. 

*Mishugas = Literally, "craziness", but in this context, "idiosyncrasies".

Let's Make a Deal, Revisited

Would you buy a used C-PAP machine from this man?

Please Note: On November 29th, I finally went for the sleep study that Dr. DePalo had been bugging me about. That's what this post was supposed to be about. Somehow I got sidetracked and started writing about our dealmaking instead. Before I knew it I was deep into our dialogue (most of which I made up) and was giggling like a teenage girl on nitrous oxide. Then I realized that I had already posted about our compromise way back on November 18th.
But I liked this post anyway, so here it is (the next post will follow):

I had an appointment with the illustrious Dr. DePalo back in November that turned into a barter session. He had been bugging me for some time to go for a sleep study. He had already established that I had Sleep Apnea and wanted to know how much pressure I would be needing in my C-PAP machine. Only problem was, there was no way I was going to agree to use a C-PAP machine. I had had one in Beth Israel and it was so uncomfortable I insisted that the guys at Columbia Presbyterian take it off the minute I got there. That's when they put me on the respirator. But DePalo kept noodging and kvetching until I realized that this insistence of his might actually work to my advantage. I figured If he wanted something and I wanted something, maybe we could make a deal. So here's pretty much how the conversation went:

Isn't he gorgeous?

DePalo: I want you to go for a sleep study.

Me: No.

D.: I need you to go.
M.: Why?
D.: Because I need to know how much
      pressure you need in your
      C-PAP machine.
M.: But I don't have a C-PAP machine.
D.: We'll get you one.
M.: But I don't want one.
D.: Why not?
M.: 'cause I'm not gonna use it.
D.: Why not?
M.: 'cause I don't wanna.
D.: What are you, twelve?? Okay, look...
      we'll fight about the damn machine later.
M.: Why?
D.: You know, if you ever put this in that stupid blog of yours,
      you're gonna look like a stubborn moron.
M.: Why?
D.: Never mind. Please go for the study. You need it.
M.: Why?
D.: Because the Apnea puts you at a higher risk for a heart attack or stroke.
M.: My heart would never attack me.
D.: Why not?
M.: My heart loves me.
D.: You know, of course, that you're seriously disturbed.
M.: That's because I can't afford my shrink anymore since I started coming here.
      Okay, maybe I'll go...what's in it for me?
D.: A longer, healthier life.
M.: Big deal. What else?
D.: You know...you're a pain in the ass.
M.: But you love me anyway.
D.: What the hell do you want?
M.: A bird.
D.: Oh, jeez; not the damn bird again!
M.: Well?
D.: Will you buy it from a reputable dealer?
M.: Always do.
D.: Take him to a vet and have him checked out?
M.: Done.
D.: Okay.
M.: Okay?
D.: Yes, you lunatic; go get yourself a freakin' bird.
M.: Will you tell my kids that you said it's okay?
D.: Get out of my office, nut-job.
M.: I want it in writing, notarized and in triplicate.
D.: I'm gonna call the cops.
M.: Can I kiss you?
D.: SECURITY!
M.: Bye, Doctor D. You're my favorite doctor in the whole wide world.
D.: That's nice. Before you go, I'm writing you a new prescription.
M.: For what?
D.: A lobotomy.

Happy New Year!



Make believe picture of Community's ER.

Actual picture of actual toilet seat in
Community's actual ER
with actual blood on it.

I got to the Community ER at around noon. Candle lighting* that day was at 4:20 PM. A nurse named Boris (I'm pretty sure he was a guy)escorted me to one of those curtained-off cubicles and told me to put on the gown that was lying on the bed. I didn't. He wanted to know why, so I told him that I had been in way too many hospital gowns this year, thank you very much, and that all I wanted was for someone to listen to my chest and maybe get an x-ray. At 2:00 I still hadn't been seen by a doctor. It finally occurred to me that maybe they had just forgotten about me, so I called over a nurse and mentioned that I still hadn't been seen. "Dr. Domsky hasn't seen you yet?" she asked incredulously. She actually tried to convince me that I had indeed been seen. "Are you sure?" she inquired. It was surreal. She wandered over to the elusive Dr. Domsky who assured her he would see me in five minutes. at 2:20 I decided that if he didn't show up by 2:30, I was gonna pull a Rocky and waltz right out of there. At 2:25 he finally came over and listened to my chest. "You take water peel?" he wanted to know. Yes, I said, I take water peel called Lasix. For why you aks? "You are chaving flude in lung." I am chaving fude in lung all the time, I told him, without sharp pain. "We get chast x-ray". After the chast x-ray, nice nursie came over with some bottles. She told me they were Lasix and she was going to administer them intravenously. They had already taken blood and put in an IV port, L-rd only knows why. It was now 3:30, about 50 minutes before Shabbos. There was no way I was going to let them start an IV, especially an unnecessary one. "I think I"ll pass," I said, while putting on my coat. "You no want?" "Yes, I no want." "For why you no want?" "I am chaving Lasix at chome, I go chome, take peel." After that, no one liked me anymore. Dr. Domsky sent over an AMA ("Against Medical Advice") discharge form for me to sign. They really get testy when you tell them where to stick their IV. Then I went chome.

* Candle lighting = never mind, you know what candle lighting is.

Actual Fat Guy in Community ER with
actual "Happy 2011" glasses
with actual flashing lights
on his actual head.

...And Never Brought To Mind?

I love Brooklyn. I really do. I've lived here all my life with the exception of 177 days back in...what? 2008? Whatever. You get the point. I'm proud to call Brooklyn my home town. Okay, maybe not proud, but not too embarrassed, either. After all, a lot of famous people are (or were) from Brooklyn. Clara Bow, for example. Can you imagine...
Clara Bow! Also Dom DeLuise, Barry Manilow and Russell Tyrone Jones, AKA Ol' Dirty Bastard. So you see we Brooklynites have a lot to be proud of, by golly! The thing I don't understand is how any of us manages to live past, say, thirty or thirty-five. At the risk of stating the obvious, the facilities to whom we entrust our lives, i.e. our hospitals, are far from stellar to say the least. Hatzolah EMTs, guys who know a thing or two about the quality of medical facilities in our fine borough, recommend exactly three hospitals: Lutheran, Maimonides and Methodist, not necessarily in that order. If you'll recall, when, in a state of delusion (not to mention ignorance), I asked to be taken to Beth Israel, they looked at me like I had two heads. Wow...four commas in one sentence; I think that's a new personal best. Or worst. No EMT worth his salt* would transport a seriously ill patient to someplace like Kings County, for example. Or Coney Island. Or Brookdale. Or Woodhull. Omigosh, Woodhull! Forget "seriously ill"...you wouldn't take someone with a hangnail to woodhull! So apparently we denizens of the Borough of Kings must indeed be a hearty lot. I bring this all up because the Hatzolah members I happened to draw on Friday took me to Community Hospital. Perhaps they were on drugs. Perhaps they had had lobotomies. Perhaps they simply didn't like me, although, as I'm, sure you're aware, that last scenario is highly unlikely. Who knows? Maybe they were new or tired or just plain stupid. Bottom line is they took me to an alleged hospital that makes my old favorite Beth Israel look like Columbia Presbyterian. Ostensibly the reason was that driving was still quite difficult because the many of the local streets had still not seen a snowplow. Frankly, I would rather have taken my chances slip-sliding my way down the street to Methodist than wind up in Community, a laughable hellhole of a hospital if there ever was one. To be continued even more...

*Just in case you're interested in where the expression "worth his salt" came from...
http://www.associatedcontent.com/article/330476/popular_phrases_origin_and_meaning.html?cat=37



Should Auld Acquaintance Be Forgot...

One would think that after the year I had, every acquaintance in a white coat, auld or not, would be forgot as quickly as possible, right? The problem is that in my case, doctors are like women: can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em. So guess where I spent my New Year's Eve? Yup. In the ER. Okay, don't get all bent out of shape, I'm fine. Let me explain. I had spontaneous pneumothoraces of my left lung three times in my 30's and 40's. A spontaneous pneumothorax is a collapsed lung that comes out of nowhere with no apparent cause. There's no trauma or illness involved; one day you're walking down the street, you feel a sharp pain, and your lung is suddenly hanging limply in your chest like a balloon from last week's birthday party. My first one occurred while I was away at a weekend Bar Mitzvah. It happened Friday night and I didn't get it looked at until I got home Saturday night. After that initial pain, there was a dull ache in my chest and a strange sense of a presence in my chest. It's hard to describe; normally you're aware your organs are inside your body, but you don't actually feel them in there. Well, I felt my lung. This was my left lung, and it collapsed twice more after that, in a span of about ten years. They were never quite sure what caused it, but they suspected I had a congenital weak spot on the lung. After the third episode, I had a procedure done called pleurodesis, whereby the lung is made to adhere to the wall of the chest cavity. This is supposed to prevent the pneumothorax from recurring, and it has worked like a charm for me; I've never had the problem again. Well, last week I started having sharp pain in my chest anytime I took a deep breath, only this time it was on my right side. I remembered well what my collapsed lungs felt like way back when, and this new pain was almost identical. I was convinced that I had a brand new pneumothorax in a brand new location. Short of surgery, the treatment for a pneumothorax entails the insertion of a chest tube which sucks out the air in the chest cavity so the lung can re-inflate and heal on its own. This, of course, requires hospitalization. But I needed someone to confirm my self-diagnosis. I tried to reach a few different doctors, but everyone was either on vacation or had already left his office. So I called Hatzolah and asked them just to send one or two guys just to check for breath sounds on my right side. No ambulance and no sirens, please; Babby and I were at Chayie's for Shabbos and I didn't want to worry her if it wasn't necessary. Two EMTs were there almost before I hung up the phone. Their diagnosis was inconclusive, so they wanted to take me to the hospital to have it checked out. Many of the streets in Brooklyn still hadn't been plowed, so driving was still quite treacherous and some streets were still unpassable. So they took me to the nearest medical facility. And I use that term rather loosely. To be continued...