Stairway To Heaven

My father and I had a nice chat when I visited him. He's in a nice condo overlooking a lovely group of cumulus clouds, under which you can just make out greater Hoboken. My dad was happy to see me, of course, but sad, too. He thought I should have been allowed to stick around on earth for a while and see my grandchildren get married. I concurred completely. He took me over to Harry Chapin's place (the righteous goyim have their own neighborhood). When we got there Shlomo was there, jamming with Harry. I should have known! I got a big boruch haboh from Shlomo. He wanted to know how I had wound up there so early. I told him I didn't know, but it might have had something to do with my birds. He was confused by that, and rightfully so. So was I. I wanted to know if he had any clout with the Big Guy; maybe he could find out whether there might have been a mistake made, that it really wasn't my time yet. He said he'd make a call...he knew someone who knew someone. Anyway, then the lunch siren went off. We all went to the dining room (except Harry; the goyim have their own food court with, among others, a McDonald's, a Sbarro's and of course the ubiquitous Starbucks). The dining room was amazing. First of all, FYI: there was mixed seating! Dad and I grabbed seats next to Sam and Esther Lieberman. Across the room I saw Dave Engel chatting up Beverly Sills. Personally, I didn't see that shidach at all. It was a veritable Who's Who of dead Jews. I saw the Ramchal playing five card stud with Jack Benny, who claimed that the holy rabbi was cheating. Moshe Rabbeinu and his wife, Mrs. Rabbeinu, were very friendly and gracious; humble, too. Jonas Salk was debating a point with the Rambam. There were these winged waiters flitting about the room. You had a choice between beef lo mein and Amnon's pizza that day. I don't know; you'd think they'd serve something more...more heavenly, right? Apparently the Big Guy is a big fan of Amnon's. Who knew? Oh, and the beef lo mein desparately needed salt. It took me 15 minutes to flag down my waiter and another 10 minutes for him to bring some to the table. I decided I wasn't going to tip him, then I realized that I was wearing nothing but my hospital gown and it had no pockets, so it was kind of moot. Just then Shlomo came running up to me with the news: according to his sources, a mistake had indeed been made. The Malach HaMovess had seen me lying there like a flounder and had simply assumed and jumped the gun. Well, you know what happens when you assume, right? Dad and I said our goodbyes, I clicked my heels together three times and said "there's no place like Columbia Presbyterian" and I was on my way. My father sent regards to everyone, but I never delivered them.

Hey, who was gonna believe me?!

PS If you look closely at that picture of me at the top, you'll notice that my nostrils don't match. It's something I've wondered about for many years.

Nisht Ahin, Nisht Aherr

I'll bet you're wondering what the title of this post means, especially if you're not Jewish. I would imagine you're also puzzled about the bizarre looking creature to the left. Allow me to explain: "Nisht ahin, nisht aherr" is a Yiddish expression which roughly translates as "neither here nor there". However, there are synonyms in Yiddish, just as there are in any language. In Yiddish, the word "hin" means chicken. A "herr" is a rabbit. So, as a play on words, "nisht ahin, nisht aherr" can be translated as "not a chicken, not a rabbit". Got it? Good...there's gonna be a quiz later.
When I say "neither here nor there", however, I don't intend it to mean what it usually does when people say "that's neither here nor there". I don't even understand that expression. What I'm trying to convey is what it's like to be sedated and on a ventilator. You're not dead. But you certainly aren't particulalry alive, either. There were times that I was mildly aware of my surroundings. I know now, after the fact, that my kids and my siblings were there with me almost constantly. I know too that Chayie kept repeating, "when he wakes up, I'm gonna kill him" (a threat, incidently, that she is still thinking about making good on). There were times when my eyes would open briefly and someone in the room would try to talk to me. I think I remember Vrumi doing that. I definitely remember my cousin Duvy's face (hi, Duv!) hovering mere inches from mine telling me that although I was very sick, I was going to be okay. I remember my mother stroking my face. Truth be told, looking back all these months later, it all seems quite surreal. There was a huge disparity between my reaction and the reaction of people present when I finally woke up: my daughter Blimie hugged me and cried, cried as I hadn't seen her cry since she was a little girl. I was totally confused; what in the world was she so hysterical about? Of course I wasn't at all aware that Blimie had just spent the better part of a week looking at her father, who, during that period, seemed about as alive as a cabbage. Chayie would explain to me later that Blimie was convinced that I was never waking up. Oh, and my reaction? "Get me my pants, I'm going home!" Yeah, riiiiiiiight.

The Plot Sickens...

Remember how I told you that my recollection of what happened right before and right after things got really scary was somewhat murky? Well, that begins now. In fact, I had to ask Chayie exactly what happened next. So I now know that I checked into Beth Israel Saturday night, January 30th. I was there for just two days, Sunday and Monday, before the conclusion was reached that if I stayed there any longer, I would be leaving in a body bag. Their last ditch effort to keep me breathing was that contraption you see in the picture, the unwieldy, insanely uncomfortable C-PAP machine. C-PAP stands for "Continuous Positive Airway Pressure", which means exactly what it sounds like: it basically just pushes oxygen into your lungs for you. trust me on this one: it's not fun.
When I got to Columbia Presbyterian at about 2:00am on Tuesday, I talked them into taking it off. Only problem was, I couldn't really breathe without it. They gallantly tried to leave me with just a regular oxygen mask, but I think we all knew that wasn't gonna work. My siblings came to see me and as they tried to converse with me, they realized I was so winded I could barely talk. At about 4:30pm, February 2nd, the decision was made to put me on a ventilator. It was a decision that would ultimately save my life; it also changed my life forever.

Vrumi to the Rescue!

I have always had this tendency to trust doctors too much. I usually believe what they tell me and usually assume they are competent, unless proven otherwise. I had my doubts about Dr. Aitemen. The only thing he had going for him at this point was Dr. Katzenelenbogen's recommendation. He had pretty much been a no-show during my 2nd stay at Beth Israel. Because he was ostensibly in charge of my care there (or lack thereof), it would therefore follow that he should be held responsible were I to develop some sort of exotic complication. Like death. But like the trusting (read: stupid) soul that I am, it never seriously occurred to me to transfer the hell out of there. That's where my brother came in.

Vrumi loves this kind of stuff. Not that he liked the fact that I was so sick, G-d forbid. He loves getting involved with searching for and/or checking out doctors. He won't go to someone for a hangnail without checking him out first. There's this organization, Refuah Resources, run by a Rabbi Shuki Berman. He has lists of the best doctors in New York and beyond, for just about any ailment imaginable. I'm pretty sure my brother has him on speed dial. Unbeknownst to me, Vrumi called Shuki and came to see me in the hospital. Knowing what a stubborn (read: real stupid) dope I can be, he broached the subject somewhat cautiously. What did I think, he asked, about transferring out of Beth Israel. He told me he had checked around and was told that the worst pulmonologist in Columbia Presbyterian was better than the best one where I was. I was feeling so lousy, I almost said okay. I called Dr. Katzenelenbogen and asked him what he thought. When he said "not a bad idea," it sealed the deal. We called for an ambulance and headed uptown.

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.