In-patient and ready to go
God heals. Doctors bill.
Months back, I began unwinding. I wrote memos, left notes. Sleeping became difficult. I figured it was remnants of what might be the newly revived — much mentioned — pandemic effect.
It was chills. I’d never taken naps. I now napped. Couldn’t sleep. I wandered about all night.
Food. I couldn’t smell it , taste it or have it. I lost 12 pounds. Nobody knew what or why. And still don’t.
All crashed to a halt Jan. 7, when I had to cling to a wall to keep myself upright.
Hospital. ICU. Endless tests, syringes, machines, specialists, medicines, pills, injections, examinations, check the heart, check the kidneys, check the wallet.
They called for a second opinion. Not clear whether it was from a specialist or my accountant. “Second opinion” means surgery. They separate you from your income twice.
Specialists have yet to pinpoint the problem. What exactly is this “it”?
Bagels and cream cheese came from Mindy, more bagels from Rachael, chicken soup from Utica, chocolates and orchids from Keith, dinners from Francine, Elvis from Canaletto sent full meals as did the East Side’s Beach Café and Second Avenue’s great Italian restaurant Primola.
Meanwhile, as to our presidency — of which you may have heard — Buchanan, who was exiting and leaving the fight to Lincoln, offered on March 4, 1861: “If you’re as happy, my dear sir, on entering this house — as I am to leave it — and returning home, you are the happiest man in this country.”
And then there was John Adams (no relation to me) who muttered to Abigail Adams (no cousin to Eric): “I heard General Washington say, ‘Me fairly out and you fairly in, see which of us will be happiest.’ ”
Of tales and tails
Meanwhile, in place of food, this came from Jersey podcaster Levon Putney:
Italian soccer club Lazio fired a falcon handler for posting photos of his own prosthetic penis online. You read this correctly. I have no further information except that this podcaster has a large future ahead.
Also: Rats at the Houston Police Department gnawed through an envelope full of psychedelic mushrooms.
Also: A Virginia prostitute stole keys, car, wallet, cellphone and badge while her cop guy took a shower. I mean, talk of coming clean.
Not a place for cure-alls
Hospitals today don’t like old people, sick people, poor people, foreign people, family people.
Just solitary wealthy middle-agers who live alone, can support their institution, suffer only a sprained finger, and receive flowers that say “get well quick” from Blue Cross.
But coming at us next? A self-service operating table. A do-it-yourself MRI. Hospitals do not want to bother with you if you don’t feel well. It interferes with their phone calls.
Today’s decline in geriatric care hurts us all. So if you’re one of those — stay home and cough by yourself.
Your nurse will be from the Philippines, doctor’s from India, your family will be on the golf course and your bill will hang on the doorknob.
Should you have enough strength to make it to that doorknob, you will be released from the hospital.
Unfriendly skies
And this I heard as they wheeled me back from an MRI: “A Moscow University professor told his class that interplanetary travel was soon upon us. We’ll be able to visit Mars, Pluto and Venus.” One student raised his hand and asked: “Yeah, but when can we travel to America?”
Thanks everyone for reading this far. I appreciate it. I’m now back to bed. I don’t have to return to the hospital until next week.
