The Jury's Still Out

It's been over two months since I had snurgery to fix my singing voice.  Yes, I know that the word is not snurgery.  It's just one of those words that I've changed for my own amusement, like Shnabbos and Shnirts.  Also all the "pin" words which have already been discussed in a previous post.  So the snurgery was on November 8th and I don't think it helped.  The truth is Dr. Woo told me before the procedure that there was only a 50-50 chance that it would help, so I guess I can't complain.  I had that post a while back where I complained about all the sputum I was dealing with  ("I Art Phlegming, Novemeber 24th), but that problem has cleared up to some extent.  And not a moment to soon, I might add; I was beginning to feel like my father.  I remember very vividly the handkerchief he wore around his neck on Shabbos (so he wouldn't be carrying) and used to hack loogies into.  Then, when I came into shul, all dirty and sweaty from a game of slap-ball in the yard (we used a few ABC vending cups inside each other and squished together to make something resembling an orb), he would take that very, loogie-laden handkerchief, moisten it with some daddy spit, and clean my face with it.  Hell, at least when mommy cats do that, they use their tongue, so there's no transfer of cat phlegm going on.  I remember going back outside with the smell of my father's saliva on my face.  How gross is that?  Today he'd probably be arrested for child abuse.  Somehow I grew up reasonably sane.  Right?  And who invented the handkerchief, anyway?  Somehow the whole concept of blowing your nose into a little piece of cloth and then carrying your boogers around with you in your pocket for the rest of the day doesn't seem very appetizing.  Or sanitary, for that matter. Thank G-d for Kleenex!  So my phlegming has gotten better, but I still don't know about my pipes.  Chayie says (my sister always has an opinion.  About everything.) that it serves me right, since I never should have subjected myself to elective snurgery for the frivolous reason of getting my singing voice back.  I understand her position, but she's not me...she can't possibly know how I feel, knowing that there's a real possibility that I won't ever be able to sing again, at least not to my own satisfaction.  I have a friend (who shall remain nameless here) who is going through pretty much the same thing.  He has some sort of nerve paralysis in his vocal cords, and consequently can speak, but not sing.  He too has been to see Dr. Woo, to no avail.  Personally, I never thought he was much of a singer anyway, but, like my sister's aforementioned opinion, mine doesn't count for a hill of beans here.  If he fancies himself as the world's next Pavorotti, who am I to tell him that he needs a reality check?  But the real point here is the sadness on his face when he told me about it; it was like he had just lost his best friend, or run over his new puppy, or...well...you get the idea.  If you haven't been there, you can't possibly identify with the feeling.  I have an appointment with the illustrious Dr. Woo later today.  we'll see what he says about my prognosis.  So I guess this will be continued.  

The Letter

Lutino Lovebird

My Seudas Hoda'ah was last night.  I'll post about it next time.  First I have to tell you about the letter.  Some time ago I asked Dr. DePalo (AKA His Majesty) to write me a letter stating that in his professional opinion, it was okay for me to get a bird.  Now, I know that DePalo is a lot of things, but he's not irresponsible.  He would never jeopardize my health; not because he cares so much about me...it's because he cares so much about him.  Me dying would reflect poorly on his medical genius, and he'll have none of that.  Point being, if he didn't think it was okay for me to once again have a little feathered companion, there's no way he would give it his stamp of approval.  Anyway, a few days ago, just in time for last night's shindig, the letter came by snail mail.  I wish I still had it so I could quote it verbatim, but I don't.  You see, I made it a point to bring it last night to show it to my kids.  As you already know if you've been following this blog, they're all dead set against another bird, and have articulated their feelings quite clearly.  Feige and Blimie have said that they won't speak to me.  Frankly, I don't think Kalman is quite as adamant about it.  So, while I was sitting on the dais (I sat on the dais!) I sent the letter down to them with a friend.  I never got it back.  I remember it pretty well, so I'll try to quote it here, and it will be pretty close to verbatim:

"Ronald Zweig is doing well medically.  His lung disease is not typical of hypersensitivity pneumonitis or psittacosis, diseases typical of exposure to birds.  He want to get a small, domestic bird.  It should be safe, assuming he takes the proper precautions and purchases it from a reputable dealer."
So, there you have it.  A note from my doctor.  That's all you needed if you were absent from school a few days, right?  It would even trump a note from your parents.  But my kids were unimpressed.  So was my sister.  Chayie said, "I don't care what DePalo says; he wasn't there with you.  He didn't go through hell with you.  He didn't cry for you."  That last one kind of got to me; Chayie doesn't really cry much, or if she does, she doesn't talk about it.  She got that from Babby.  Zeidie, on the other hand, was the emotional one.  Like me.  I happened to meet Blimie on the way back from a trip to the mens' room last night, and asked her if the letter was enough for her to give me her blessing.  I could tell that her position was softening, but she still had to save face.  "I still won't be able to talk to you," she began, "...for a while".  "How long?", I wanted to know, "Like a week?"  "No, more than a week".  I felt pretty good about that; she won't be able to last much longer than that, considering all the scintillating conversations we have.  So tonight I was in Radio Shack on Kings Highway and there's a Petland right next door.  I never, ever buy anything from Petland except fish or pet supplies.  The reason is I don't think their animals are healthy.  Even their fish die too quickly.  But a pair of guppies is not a major investment.  I didn't go in to the store with the intention to buy; I was just browsing.  They had some gorgeous lovebirds.  They had one absolutely magnificent Lutino lovebird, with bright yellow plumage and a striking face, dark peach bordering on vivid red.  The price was $120.00, which is pretty much what Parrots of the World gets for their common peachfaces.  Petland's peachfaces were around 80 bucks, so their prices are definitely better than Marc Morrone's the obnoxious owner of the aforementioned Parrots of the World.  The problem was that Petland's birds, as a rule, are not tame.  I went near all the cages, and each and every bird retreated to the back wall of his cage.  But the truth is, I'm glad they did.  I was tempted to break my "No birds from Petland" rule for that Lutino.  When he reacted to me like I was a leper, my enthusiasm was dampened significantly.  So I came home birdless.  But hopefully, I won't be for long!  

Happy Birthday To Me



You want me to blow out WHAT?

Oy. Everything hurts me. I'm beginning to have pain in my hip. I've never had pain in my hip. I wasn't even aware I had a hip, except when Dr. Youngblood went digging around in there (remember Dr. Youngblood? Boy, I've been blogging a long time). I think it may just be sympathy pain because Malkie (wife #3) just had a hip replacement, and I love Malkie dearly. Okay, don't start. And other pains that I've had for a while that have been lying dormant have recently begun to rear their ugly heads. I have bursitis and/or a pinched nerve in my shoulder, according to that quack of a doctor I went to a while back. I was never really too aware of my shoulder, either. Both my legs hurt. My left elbow hurts. My neck hurts. The third toe on my right foot, however, is perfect. Would you like to hazard a guess as to why all these things are aching. Never mind, I'll tell you: it's because they're all sixty years old! So my question for G-d is, if You're allowing folks to live longer these days (life expectancy in the United States a scant hundred years ago was forty-seven), why aren't You making more durable parts to go along with the longer period of time that they're gonna be in use? Wouldn't that make sense? So if any of you happens to see G-d hanging around, maybe waiting for a bus or something, would you please ask Him for me? Thanks. So, as I assume you can gather, today the Big Day finally arrived. I spent the bulk of the day sitting around my apartment, feeling sorry for myself. Hey, I'm entitled once in a while, right? I think it was more a self-fulfilling prophesy than anything else: anyone I know who's hit this birthday has told me that it was a real kick in the head for them. Then at about 5:00 I realized that I better start pulling myself together for the Seudas Hoda'ah*. I had invited about 65 people and 48 were actually showing up, so I figured I better show up too, preferably without bandages on my wrists. I couldn't really skip the affair, seeing as how I was the host and all, and also because most of the guys who were coming were really ticked off that I had scheduled the party during the Jets-Patriots game. So I washed my face, practiced smiling in the mirror, called my nephew Mendy to help me with some of the heavy lifting (booze and stuff) and headed on out to Kosher Delight.

* Seudas Hoda'ah = A special meal or party to thank G-d after recovering from a serious illness. 

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.