Beth Israel Tries to Kill Me (so there'd be no witnesses)

I was only in Beth Israel for two days, but every minute I spent there I got progressively worse. My breathing was labored at best and the food was pretty toxic, too. One day I was feeling particularly feverish. Of course nurses or aides or whatever they are come around to take your vitals, but that's usually at 2:00 in the morning. I rang my call bell. And by the way, why do I always hesitate before I use my call bell? Isn't it the nurse's job to be available to the patient? Anybody? Anyway, she came and took my temperature. 105.3. Believe it or not. 105.3. I could hardly believe it. Aren't you supposed to be dead at 105.3? She gasped a little gasp, said "oh, my!" and ran out of the room. Soon a whole flock of nurses had descended on me. They put me on one of those thermal blankets to cool me down. Then they discussed what side of the blanket is supposed to be face up. I don't think they ever figured it out. Meanwhile, my sats (see previous post for an explanation of "sats") were tanking. Chayie says they were somewhere in the 50's, but I don't think you can survive that. Suffice it to say, they were pretty alarming. I had seen Dr. Aitemen exactly once since I was admitted. I was beginning to think that maybe coming to this Mickey Mouse hospital was a huge mistake. Maybe even a fatal one.

You Wanna Go WHERE??

To this day I'm not quite sure why I was so hesitant to go to the hospital that night. L-rd knows I'd been there enough times before. Perhaps it was finally dawning on me how very sick I was, and that this trip to the hospital might be a fateful one indeed. Bottom line is, I didn't call Hatzolah (volunteer ambulance service) till much later. About 5 or 6 guys answered the call. They took my "sats" with a pulse oximeter. "Sats" is medical jargon for the oxygen saturation in one's bloodstream. A healthy person's sats are usually around 96% or above. Anything above 90% is considered acceptable. That night mine were in the low to mid 80's. Not good at all. The Hatzolah guys strongly suggested that the only course of action was going to the hospital. Insisted, really. After offering only some perfunctory resisitance, I agreed.
It wasn't until we were in the ambulance that they asked me which hospital I preferred. They suggested Maimonides or Methodist. If you've ever been in the Maimonides emergency room, especially on a Saturday night, you'll know why I nixed that idea. Methodist has a fairly good reputation, but I figured since I had just recently been in Beth Israel they'd already be somewhat familiar with my case. Also, my alleged pulmonologist was there. When I told the EMTs where I wanted them to take me, they exchanged glances. There may even have been a grimace or two. I finally asked why they didn't appear to be too keen on my choice of hospital. Their reply: "we just want to get you the best possible care". So of course I opted for Beth Israel. I'm very bright that way.

The Calm Before The Storm

My mother and I were slated to go to my sister (hi, Chayie!) that Shabbos. Little did I know that this would be my last Shabbos in a normal environment for a very long time. I stopped at my apartment on the way there to pick up Pumpkin; I was still hand feeding him, so I couldn't leave him home over the weekend. By the time we got to Chayie and Dave, I was ois mentch (barely human). I was huffing and puffing at even the slightest exertion. A bunch of Chayie's rugrats were there for Shabbos (was it the Lenches? I don't remember). I was informed that I was going to be sleeping in the attic. Yes, that attic...the one at the top of more stairs than the Washington Monument. First thing I did was shlep my suitcase up there. I didn't want the kids sticking their grubby little fingers in the cage and harassing Pumpkin, so I lumbered back downstairs and shlepped the cage up to the attic as well. By the time I came down a third time to partake of the now traditional "Before Shabbos Kugel", I could barely catch my breath.
It went on like this all Shabbos. My breathing was becoming more and more labored. Chayie was becoming more and more concerned. I pretty much knew I should be in the hospital. I knew this wasn't just the usual little asthmatic wheeze I suffered through once in a while. I guess I was just putting off the inevitable. As usual, when Shabbos was over Chayie tried to get me to take home some of the leftovers. Normally I grab whatever is offered; it's a whole lot better than the Meal Mart crap I usually wind up nuking for dinner. This time I felt so sick by the time I left I just shook her off and huffed and puffed my way back to my apartment.

Breathless in January, Part Two...

Later that month I sang at Forestview Nursing Home. It's located in a section of Forest Hills where parking is pretty much not an option. I dropped off my stuff at the front door and went looking for a spot. I think I must have parked in the Bronx. By the time I walked back to the nursing home, it might have been a good idea for me to have checked in to the nursing home. I had to sit down to catch my breath. I went upstairs and did the show, but I knew I was pretty lousy: it's kinda hard to sing without breathing.
A few days later, on a Friday, it was the Sephardic Home. At this point I knew the smart thing to do would have been to just call them, explain that I wasn't well, and cancel. I didn't do that, however, because it was my first gig there and I didn't want them to get the impression that I was the kind of guy who just cancels for no apparent reason. So I showed up. With my mom in tow, no less. She's 90 and thinks I'm the bee's knees. But she's a little deaf and also my mother so her vote doesn't really count. So I huffed and puffed and got my amp (which weighs as much as a small horse) and the rest of my gear into the place. It was quite cold out, and anyone with breathing issues knows that cold weather just exacerbates the problem. Somehow I got through the gig, but I was a wreck. I couldn't hold notes. I couldn't really make chit-chat with the crowd. I've found that talking to seniors and making them feel like people again is half the battle. I usually walk around the room and ask people their names. I think the interaction helps them accept you and makes them more receptive of you when you're performing. I was so spent physically that I couldn't bring myself to "work the room."

When it was finally over, I got a very lukewarm, perfunctory "thank you" from the recreational therapy department director, who had never met me before and had hired me sight-unseen at the insistance of the administrator (a very nice man named Michael New) who had never seen me perform. Why he insisted, I'll never know. On the way out, I couldn't take the elevator with my equipment because there were only two of them and they were loaded with people and canes and wheelchairs and aides, all clamoring to get back to their rooms after listening to me, no doubt. So I ended up walking up a flight of stairs with my stuff. Somehow I made it to my car and sat there behind the wheel for a good five minutes, trying to catch my breath while my mother sat next to me telling me how great I was.

Pumpkin

Do you understand that I saw Dr.Gadi's diagnosis as my vindication? I maintained all along that Oscar wasn't the problem. Okay, so I was a slob. Bottom line was that I might have made myself sick, but not because of my feathered friends. Trouble was, I had already returned the sweetest member of my flock, Blueberry-Sunshine, back to his rightful owners, Blimi and Dovid (who, incidently, gave him away shortly thereafter). I missed him. All of you who are not animal people won't understand this, but I really missed that little guy. The only solution was to buy myself a lovebird.
When I went to Parrots of the World in Rockville Center, where I buy all my birds (and you should too, if you're ever seriously in the market for a bird. Do not, I repeat, do not ever buy anything in Petland other than pet food!), they had no finger-tamed peach-faced lovebirds. But they did have baby orange-faced lovebirds. I picked out a teensy little guy who just nestled right into my hand (yes, that's him in the picture). It was love at first poop. Malkie (wife #3) used to call me Pumpkin, so I thought that would be an appropriate name for a bird whose face would be an intense shade of orange when he grew up. I took him home and fed him baby bird formula from an eyedropper and bonded with him just as I had with Jinji. He was sweet and gentle and just a joy to have around. Too bad he wasn't gonna be around very long; I was about to get very, very sick.

I'm a Lover, Not a Fighter

When I got to the bagel shop, the guy was waiting there. I don't remember his name. Let's call him Apollo. You know, like Creed? He was big and he looked like he was getting ready to be quite pissed. He had neglected to tell me that he had brought his friend, Ivan Drago (also not his real name), to help him. Ivan was even bigger than he was and had more tattoos. His forearm was bigger than my head. He was chewing something. First I thought it was a bagel; then I thought maybe it was his cud.
I tried to explain to them what had happened. The doctor told me that I could keep my bird, wasn't that wonderful, I said. They did not think it was wonderful. Apollo looked like he wanted to rip my throat out. I was waiting for him to yell "sic 'em!" to the other neanderthal. Instead he just fumed quietly. That was even scarier. He told me about the panel truck that he had rented. Rented. When he had told me about it on the phone, he had borrowed it. I told him I felt really lousy about how things had played out and offered to pay for half of the rental fee. But I held my ground: Oscar was no longer for sale. Just as I thought he was going to pick up the table and crack it over my head, he told me that if I ever change my mind and was willing to take less money, I should give him a call. I went home and changed my pants.

I Encounter An Angry Fellow

Before I went to see Dr. Gadi, I actually considered following Dr. Birdhater's advice and started trying to find people who would love and take care of my flock. I sold Forrest to a guy who does bird shows. First thing he did was clip his wings so he could get him to step up on his finger and sit there so he could train him; why hadn't I thought of that? Then I tried to give Blueberry-Sunshine to Lauren, the girl who lived down the hall with her grandma and took care of my birds when I was hospitalized. She already had one lovebird named Bixby and another bird too, I think. She was a real bird person; she even worked for an avian vet. Anyway, when I told Blimi and Dovid (hi, Blimi & Dovid) that I was giving away their bird, they decided to take him back. That left Jinji and Oscar. Oscar cost me a thousand bucks and he was worth more than that. I wasn't about to give him away. I put an ad on Craigslist that said that I had a wonderful African Grey who talked up a storm and hated everyone except me, and I was asking $800.00. I had a customer almost immediately. He lived in Queens and was going to call me before he came over. Except that's not what happened. He showed up the very day I went to the allergist. He called me on my cell phone and told me he was at my apartment and had borrowed a panel truck to shlep the cage. What was I gonna do?? There was no way I was selling Oscar now that Dr. Gadi had said conclusively that I wasn't allergic to him! So I told the guy that I was at the allergist and that I had to talk to him. We met in the bagel shop on Kings Highway, across the street from my place.