Excerpt from My Memoir: Return to the Emergency Room, Part One

Late Tuesday night (actually early Wednesday morning) when I got into bed, my entire right side went straight as a board. I was terrified, fearing that I was having another stroke. I had no choice but to call 911. Two paramedics arrived with a member of Manhattan’s finest (police officer). They asked if I wanted to go to the hospital. I didn’t want to go (who in their right mind does)? but I figured I’d better, just in case. . . I arrived at the Mt. Sinai emergency room at 2:30 a.m. I quickly figured out that this was going to be a nightmare. When I had the stroke I was seen immediately and had lapsed into unconsciousness before things became really bad. It’s easier to be unconscious than to face the ordeal of being trapped for thirteen hours in a packed emergency room. They did a cat scan and took enough blood from me to feed a dozen vampires. The attending (doctor) referred me to a neurologist. Coincidentally, the neurologist was the same one who initially saw me in August. He said the cat scan showed a big scar where the aneurism had been, but (thank God) I didn’t have another stroke. He explained that I was still in danger of having a seizure until the scar healed. (Note to self: Must get job so I can afford to keep taking very expensive anti-seizure drug.) He said he was pleased to see me recovering so nicely. This was encouraging; I was terrified that my diagnosis of “spasticity” would undo all the goals I had accomplished. He wrote a prescription for a muscle relaxer and said I wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while; they had to wait and see if the prescription worked and for the results of the remaining blood tests. I might have to be admitted to the hospital. It all depended on the test results. In the interim, I had to pee twice. I hadn’t had anything to drink; I guess it was nerves. I was lucky enough to have a male nurse called Darwin who cared. He hadn’t stabbed me to death when he took (most of) my blood. He brought me the bedpan. For the first time ever, I was able to use it. It usually hurts my ass so much that I’m unable to go. The expression “royal pain in the ass” was coined when a queen was asked to use a bedpan. It was impossible not to overhear bits of conversation; we were practically piled on top of one another. One man asked if this was a detox center. Another was the poster child from that “scare people into not smoking” ad campaign; he had no legs, and only one arm with which he used to drive his motorized wheelchair. He kept leaving the e/r to have a cigarette. While he was outside, he kept trying to hit on unsuspecting women. (I saw the unsuspecting women while I was being loaded onto the ambulette thirteen hours later. If I didn’t see it, I wouldn’t have believed it.) When he returned to the emergency room, he began to curse and moan. They put me with the mental patients. Across from me was a manic depressive woman looking to refill her prescription. She told her story to a lazy hospital transporter who pretended to listen but was really fast asleep. They paged him repeatedly, but he ignored the pages. She was from California. She had no idea where she was or how she had gotten there. She mumbled something like “I hate Kennedy”. If I didn’t feel so awful, I would have asked her which Kennedy she hated and why. A couple of beds down was an elderly Spanish woman who was hearing imaginary voices. The Spanish nurse spent an hour consoling this woman, and her imaginary voices, in Spanish, while she ignored everyone else. An elderly, frail, white woman had the audacity to ask for her medication, which had been promised to her “immediately” (It had been two hours; she was still waiting.) The nurses called security. They said she was a threat. I heard the entire conversation. She didn’t threaten anybody. The only threat was that the nurses might be forced to do their jobs before they were darn good and ready. “I didn’t threaten anybody. I was just exercising my right to be treated like a human being. Patients bill of rights; ever hear of it?” Security left. The woman received her medication shortly thereafter. Reverse discrimination ran rampant in the emergency room. They were targeting elderly white women who dared to ask questions. If I had been able to move, I would have handed out my business cards. It was now approximately 7:30 a.m. My anti-seizure medication was an hour overdue. I still hadn’t been given the magic muscle relaxer that had been ordered several hours before. I suspected that the pharmacist was on an extended hiatus or simply not there. I had flashbacks of my inpatient stay. Stuff like this happened all the time. Darwin was long gone. The Spanish nurse was only dealing with the Spanish community; if your name wasn’t Hernandez or Lopez you were out of luck. I didn’t see anyone except a guy who muttered “No Speak English”. He brought me a container of mouthwash, a small tube of toothpaste and a toothbrush. This would have been appreciated if I’d been able to move. I wasn’t given any water or anything to spit the toothpaste in. Oh, well. It would make a lovely parting gift if I was lucky enough to make it out of here. 8:30 a.m. Still no sign of anyone. I had the main telephone number to Mt. Sinai on my mobile phone. I dialed the number, and asked to be connected to the adult emergency room. It rang several times before a man picked up. “Emergency room.” “Hi. I’m here, in desperate need of a bedpan.” “What is your exact location?” “I’m wedged between the schizophrenic Spanish lady and the manic depressive woman from California. Near bed 11; I’m in the hall.” “I’ll send someone right away.” A half hour later, a man appeared with a giant bedpan the size of Texas. “I can’t use that.” “We don’t have anything smaller right now.” I am prone to “stage fright”; the inability to pee unless the circumstances are right. After an hour on the giant bedpan, I had to remove it. It had taken on a life of its own; it was starting to become part of my anatomy. I could feel an enormous, extremely painful dent forming on my ass. I had no alternative. I had to pee in my pull up panties. The attendant was very nice and put extra padding on my bed, to prepare for this added humiliation. 10:30 a.m. I finally got the magic pill. I still did not get my anti-seizure medication. Since August, I have been mistreated by a plethora of bad nurses. They were angels compared with the nurse that I was forced to deal with now. I will refer to her as Cruella DeVille. If there was a prize for worst nurse on the planet, Cruella would win it, hands down. “I need my anti-seizure medication. My neurologist will confirm this; it’s clearly indicated on my chart. Maybe if you read the patients’ charts occasionally, you might learn something.” “If you have a seizure,we’ll deal with it then. I am not allowed to give you medicine unless an emergency room doctor approves it. There is no such approval written in your emergency room chart.” WHAT THE HELL? I decided to scream; I was not about to take any more crap from this witch. “What happened?” The rotten nurses always ask this question, in a menacing tone that makes you feel like you must apologize for interrupting their perpetual coffee break. “I need my Keppra. I am not going to be quiet until I get it.” “You’re making the other patients think that we’re not taking care of you.” “If the shoe fits. . .I’m sure they’re already aware. You’re not taking care of them, either. I can hear them complaining; are you deaf?” I began to moan. 10:45 a.m. I get my Keppra anti-seizure medication. “Can I please have some water, or does someone have to approve it?” 11:30 a.m. The magic pill hasn’t worked. I’m still a human diving board. The side effects are working, though. Now I have a raging headache, accompanied by a full bladder which I cannot empty. I dialed the emergency room again. Cruella answered the phone, after it rang about one hundred times. “This is your favorite patient. Can I please have some Tylenol?” She hung up on me. I continued to call the emergency room. I hung up as soon as she answered. I repeated this procedure periodically for the remainder of my time at the emergency room. They couldn’t prove that it was me. I started to cry, loudly. I’ve perfected the art of crying at a volume that’s going to get things accomplished. I don’t like to do it, but if nothing else works, I won’t hesitate to pull out all the stops. It’s somewhere between many decibels and breaking the sound barrier. A female doctor walked by and asked Cruella why I was crying. I heard her inform the doctor that I’d requested Tylenol. Apparently the doctor was not happy with Cruella ignoring my request. I got my Tylenol, and I got her in trouble. Win, win. Good for me.

"Comedy Equals Tragedy, Plus Time"

Where the heck do I begin? “Comedy equals tragedy plus time.” Carol Burnett. . . Hello there! :) jhjkgkjgjhghjg this place stinks! The above was written from Village Care Rehab Center/Nursing Home. I am typing this with one hand because the other hand no longer works. Prior to August 20, 2011, I had the world by the balls. I was a lawyer. I genuinely cared about my clients. One of my bosses nicknamed me Norma Rae because I always stuck up for the underdog. I did a lot of pro bono work. That’s what I miss most from my days of practicing law; it felt fantastic to help so many people in need. I helped people who had been wrongfully accused of acts that they didn’t commit. I helped people fight for, and save, their jobs in a world filled with sexual harassment and a**hole supervisors. I represented whistleblowers who had the guts to say something was unsafe at their company. I helped people save their homes. I helped people buy their homes. I helped people adopt children. I counseled many abused women, and enabled them to leave life threatening situations. I represented many people who were innocent and injured. Every day I did battle with an insurance company, or a defense attorney. I had just received a thirty-thousand dollar raise. I had recently moved to my dream apartment on Manhattan’s Upper West Side. Then my world collapsed. Little did I know at the time, that I was about to face the most challenging battle of my life.

To All of My Friends (Part 2)

To my Jewish friends: I hope you have (or had) an easy fast. To my non-Jewish friends who have (or had) another day off: Don't you just love the Jewish holidays?

Happy Monday

I, for once, have nothing to say. Except for that!

To All of My Friends

To my Jewish friends: Have a Healthy and Happy New Year! To the lucky folks who took the day off because of Rosh Hashana: Good For You! Enjoy the Day. To everyone else: Better luck next year!

Water, Water, Everywhere, But Not A Drop To Drink

Today I had no water. The fire department was here. They made the building clean out the enormous water tank, which apparently had reached unsafe levels. Now I have water, but it's coming out dark brown. So brown that it could easily be mistaken for coffee. Or worse. If I had an empty Starbucks cup, I'd fill it with the water and say it was their newest blend. I pity the fool that asks me to make coffee tonight. . .

Why Doctors Have Illegible Handwriting

Doctors have atrocious penmanship because nobody will notice when they misspell the very long names of generic prescriptions. The brand name prescriptions are much easier to spell, yet nobody can afford them. Insurance companies rarely pay for a brand name drug when a generic alternative is available. You might think you have excellent health insurance coverage, until you have to use it. People have health insurance to protect themselves, but insurance is big business. Bean-counting fools that aren't even doctors are making life-altering decisions. When choosing your health insurance, be afraid. Be very afraid.

In Memory of the Victims of 9/11/01

I dedicate my blog to you. You are sorely missed by your loved ones and friends. You'll remain in our hearts forever!

A Beautiful Day, Weatherwise at Least.

Today was the worst day of my life. CVS, the worst pharmacy on the planet, refused to honor my drug coupons. They tried to charge me over $200 for my anti-seizure medication, when I had a coupon for $25. They tried to say it wasn't the same drug. (Of course, it was). It would be cheaper to have a seizure. I don't know what I'm going to do now. But that wasn't even the worst part of my day. The worst part was when I tried out a job in telephone sales, which pays nothing unless you make a sale, which is impossible. I spent hours listening to "how to get past a gatekeeper, how to sell to a lawyer, blah, blah, blah." I didn't get any writing done, and I feel guilty, like I wasted the beautiful weather on this precious day doing something terrible. On the bright side, I was able to walk a short distance outside, with my physical therapist, without the wheelchair. That's what I'm going to focus on.

All's Well That Ends Well

At last, the reason I didn't find an apartment: I was out of a job. The company I had worked for went out of business, and I collected unemployment until I found my next job. Had I moved, I wouldn't have been able to afford the massive rent increase. The baboon also lost his job, and got evicted. My new neighbors were much more considerate. It all worked out for the best.

Running Out of Time

I feel like giving up on my search for the perfect apartment. I don’t feel like watching Craigslist. I feel like closing my e-mail. If I never hear from another broker again, it will be too soon. I saw a few ads yesterday, and I still haven’t called. Something inside is stopping me. Maybe it’s the summer cold that I caught by being trapped, wearing only one layer, on an air-conditioned, 40 degree below zero, cross-town bus, that had to detour because a car blew up on 67th street in the middle of Central Park. (What were the odds?). Maybe fear of the economy. My favorite Tasti-d- Lite closed yesterday. All of those lovely people who actually cared about customer service showed up for work to find a stone-faced bean counter who ordered them to close up shop. I gave my phone number to the manager who’d been kind to me, offering a reference. I wished I could do more. This hit me hard. It could happen to anyone. New York has always been the city where dreams come true. People come here from all over the world, hoping to find their miracle. I was one of those optimists. I’m trying to stay strong. All my friends said I was crazy to move to New York. I ignored them. They say I’m crazy to remain. I ignore them. I don’t know what it is, but something in my gut is keeping me from doing anything in furtherance of getting an apartment. I’m sick and tired, literally and figuratively. Last time, getting an apartment was so easy and this time. . . There must be a reason why I haven’t yet found an apartment. I pray it’s nothing bad. I only wish I knew. The only thing I know-I’m running out of time.

Quote of the Day

"18 years ago the USA had Steve Jobs, Bob Hope & Johnny Cash. Now they have no Jobs, no Hope, and no Cash."

Alternative Job Opportunity

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