That's Life 11/27/09

Dear That’s Life,

I toyed with renaming the column ‘@#%$ Happens’ but the powers that be were concerned that readers might be offended. I think they weren’t giving people enough credit.

It is often hard to look back on a rough time in one’s life and find any humor in what transpired. Truth is, that moment may not come at all. The episode may be one that you watch just the once and never watch the reruns; it was just too hard to go through the first time around. Alternatively, you might be able to replay certain sound bites because even if the show is too difficult to replay in its entirety, there had to be some moments that made you smile, even if they were few and far between.

Take the first person with whom I shared a room while staying at Chez North Shore University Hospital. (The ‘chez’ nickname was earned — I was on the fancy post-surgical floor with carpeting and flat screen televisions.) My sister-in-law had told me that the interesting thing about sharing a room at a hospital is that you learn very intimate details about someone whom you will never see again for the rest of your life. I don’t even know the woman’s name, as I was not there to make friends, but she was certainly worthy of compassion, having had four abdominal surgeries within a year.

However, she also provided some entertainment — especially when she talked about her husband. When I say ‘talked,’ of course, I mean bellowed. In a moment of clear frustration sparked by a phone call, she began to complain to the nurse about her better half and how he called to ask her which key on his key ring was their house key. She made it clear that he was not sick or infirm — just inept. She had done everything for him their entire lives and now was paying for it dearly.

One time, she related, her husband ran out of his blood pressure medication. In response, he called his cardiologist and berated the doctor for not calling him to say that he must be running low on pills and it was time to refill the prescription. “As if these doctors have NOTHING else to do but keep track of his medication!” she screamed.

The best story, she said, was when he went once to pick up the medication for toenail fungus and the co-pay was considerably lower than usual. The pharmacist explained that the lower price was because they were finally able to give him the generic medicine instead of the name brand. “That made his day!” she exclaimed, explaining that he could not stop talking about it, and how inane it was that something like this should make him so happy. While that was an interesting story, I thought from my side of the curtain, all I kept thinking about was how the next time I saw this man, I’d know that he had toenail fungus. Eye contact was clearly over.

After one night with my next roommate I decided that she was a vampire with diabetes. She slept all day, kept the shades drawn and the lights on her side of the room off. Of course, that meant she was up all night, with no interest in using any light except the main, glaring, bright-enough-to-land-a-plane-in-the-room, overhead light. When the nurses would ask her to shut her light, she would explain she was not tired. Duh, I thought, of course she isn’t tired — she’s been sleeping all day.

She was on a clear liquid diet and was entitled to, among other things, ginger ale. She didn’t want the diet ginger ale, though it would have been consistent with her diabetes, because she didn’t like the taste. However, she didn’t like to drink the regular ginger ale either: unopened cans piled up all over the room, stacked unevenly like a city skyline made of green cans, dotting our view of Great Neck. I’m not sure what the food service people thought as they dropped off her tray three times a day and saw the cans, but when one of the nurses came on shift and took a look at the stash, she put an end to the ginger ale madness.

“Are you planning to sell them on the street when you get out of here?” she asked, only semi-sarcastically. But why should this surprise anyone? I thought. The woman is a vampire — this is not any stranger than anything else. Needless to say, they cut off her ginger ale delivery.

I did not say goodbye to her as I left — I could not get out of there fast enough. But as I was being rolled down the hallway, I caught the eye of another patient whom I regret not wishing well. I had met him in the lounge on our floor where I had been sitting with my father and he had been sitting with his family. It was around 3:45 p.m. when all of a sudden the four men stood up, shoes already off, and a couple of minutes later were “falling kor’im” as my dad would say. Slightly taken aback, my dad and I looked at each other and remained silent until I looked at him and said, “I guess it’s time for Mincha.”

My father waited until they were done praying and had put their shoes back on before he picked a corner and started to daven. How ironic, I thought, but we didn’t bond with the other people in the room, but rather exchanged pleasantries, smiles, and nods. That was good enough, I thought.

My surgeon was relieved when I told him I was getting my appetite back. It was a good sign, he said, and I agreed — it felt good to be hungry for the first time in weeks. In fact, what made me feel even better was when I started to get back my sense of humor. Some may argue if they want that I am not too funny to begin with, but I would disagree. If anything, I crack myself up all the time. To not find the humor in something is for me not to be me — and I’m happy to be coming back to myself.  Recovery may be slow, but I’ll get there. At least I am writing again — that, too, is a good sign.

MLW

(Editor's note: Mazel tov — b"h mother and new daughter are both well)