A Special Sign

I've had a crappy week, both physically and emotionally.  Then something remarkable happened.  I received a catalog, which contained cat related holiday gifts.  Although the mailing label contained an unfamiliar name, it had my address, including my correct apartment number.  On the cover was a black cat that reminded me of Homer, who passed away several years ago.  I took it as a sign from Heaven.  My beloved cat was telling me not to give up. Suddenly, things didn't seem so bad. 

A Cautionary Tale

On Tuesday night, my muscles tightened up. I morphed into a human pretzel, and got stuck on the toilet.  While my TV blasted from the other room, I listened to Covert Affairs, followed by two episodes of Law and Order SVU and an episode of Law and Order Criminal Intent.  I heard a siren, and feared that one of my neighbors had called 911.  (As you know, I'm not a fan of the emergency room.) Then I realized that the siren was coming from the TV. Clara, my guardian angel, came to my rescue, from Brooklyn, in the middle of the night. Note to self: Do not watch cop shows if your post midnight plans include getting stuck on toilet.

I Should Have Read The Instructions

I  just joined Skype.  Suddenly, I was face to face with myself, thanks to the built in webcam on my computer.  I'm lucky I didn't crack the screen.  I look horrible! Then I somehow dialed a number, and a strange woman picked up the phone.  I didn't mean to hang up on you, whoever you are. I admit, I'm a bit technologically challenged at times.  I'm far too impatient to read the instructions.  At least I didn't call overseas.

A New Campaign

Walgreens has a new ad campaign that says it's "at the corner of happy and healthy". In my neighborhood, it's located at the corner of overpriced and understocked!

Too Much Time On My Hands

I'm so bored, I'm reading the label on the water bottle, which lists ingredients. I don't quite understand this concept; it's water! They have a toll free number for people who want to talk about the water. I'm not that bored!

Divorce vs. Murder

I can't decide whether to admit this joke is funny. Since I've never been married, I don't know if it's politically correct to laugh. A nice, calm and respectable lady went into the pharmacy,walked up to the pharmacist, looked straight into his eyes, and said, "I'd like to buy some cyanide." The pharmacist asked, "Why in the world do you need cyanide?" The lady replied, "I need it to poison my husband." The pharmacist's eyes got big and he explained, "I can't give you cyanide to kill your husband, that's against the law! I'll lose my license! They'll throw both of us in jail! All kinds of bad things will happen. Absolutely not! You CANNOT have any cyanide!" The lady reached into her purse and pulled out a picture of her husband in bed with the pharmacist's wife. The pharmacist looked at the picture and said, "You didn't tell me you had a prescription."

So Many Birds, So Little Time

There's a new TV show called 666 Park Avenue. (It's actually filmed at the Ansonia, which is a magnificent building across Central Park on the Upper West Side.) I've always loved the Ansonia, so I checked out the show. A large part of the episode was a modern day homage to Alfred Hitchcock's "The Birds". What were the odds of that?! I was on the edge of my wheelchair. I watched in horror as hundreds (or thousands) of birds descended upon a tipsy exterminator, who happened to be cursing and staggering out of a bar. After the birds pecked out his eyes, a taxi ran him over. Note to self: Get window shades. As soon as possible.

Too Many Birds

Looking out my window, it’s like a scene from the Alfred Hitchcock movie “The Birds”. Thousands of pigeons (well maybe hundreds; suffice it to say there is a huge gathering) are lined up on the rooftop and ledges of the building across the street. Maybe they are just waiting to fly someplace else. I triple dog dare anyone who has seen that movie not to be freaked out by the sight of that many birds, slowly increasing in number, poised to attack. I swear they are staring at me, laughing at my cowardice. Which raises the question: Do birds laugh? One thing is for sure; there will be a massive amount of poop on the sidewalk below. I’m glad I’m not walking under there.

Without A Net

Saturday morning, October 6, 2012, 10:12 a.m., Columbus Day weekend. I’m alone until Monday. Nobody’s coming to visit. For the first time, I’m having a panic attack on a Saturday morning. How ironic. This used to be my favorite part of the week, and my favorite time of year. Saturday morning. Fall in New York. The endless possibilities. The whole weekend ahead of me. Gone are the days when I sat for hours in City Diner, reading, and sipping a bottomless cup of coffee while I mapped out my itinerary for the weekend. Gone. Possibly forever. The thing is, I appreciated every second of every day. Every day I thanked God for taking such good care of me. It was like I was waiting for the bottom to drop out of my life. I was too happy. Two years later, I’m having a panic attack, spastic in my wheelchair. I feel like every time I take a step with my cane, I’m walking a tightrope without a net. If I fall, I’m totally screwed.

Today's Date

"What is today's date?" seems to be the main inquiry of the mental health community. If I give the wrong answer, I might be declared insane. I could have told the psychiatrist, "Last night I ate a live raccoon for dinner". With this he'd have no problem, as long as I knew the correct date. It's ironic. In my BS (before stroke) life, I wouldn't have known the date unless I looked on one of my many devices. My brain was filled with more pressing concerns. Knowing the date has now become the bane of my existence.

An Unexpected Visitor

My right toe has been killing me. I called Visiting Nurse Service of New York, and asked them to send a podiatrist. Imagine my surprise when a psychiatrist showed up at my door. I asked myself what could have possibly led to this particular error. Obviously, a miscommunication of some sort had occurred. They are both types of doctors that start with the letter "P". They both end in "iatrist". Both words have the same amount of syllables. The person that I spoke to had a hearing disorder. I had a speaking disorder (I didn't). They screwed up. My right toe is still killing me, and I still haven't heard from the podiatrist. It makes a fabulous story, nonetheless.

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

12:00 p.m. An entourage of Neurologists appeared at my bedside. There were so many that I couldn’t count them all; they took up half the room. Included with the pack: the man I had seen earlier and another woman who had treated me in August. She commented that she was glad to see me making such a great recovery. The last time she saw me I had been unable to talk. This was absolutely what I needed to hear right now. The head of the pack was Dr. Cho, who inquired if anyone had spoken to me about Botox injections in my legs. I said I’d prefer it on my eyes, like a normal person. She then uttered the most beautiful words in the world: “You can go home; all the tests came back normal.” It was music to my ears. I love my apartment and will do whatever is necessary to remain there. I couldn’t help flashing back to when POD gave away my apartment. I will not let that happen. Ever again. After checking my insurance, Dr. Cho said she will be seeking pre-approval for the injections from Oxford. Good luck with that! I’ll be lucky if they approve this emergency room visit and the ambulance. They have previously declined some of my emergency room visits and ambulance trips, claiming it was not an emergency. They sent a questionnaire to my physical and occupational therapists which contained the queen mother of all time stupid questions: “How is your health?” If there is a hall of fame for stupid questions, Oxford is leading the pack. F*cking Oxford. I’m going to ask Dr. Greenwald about the Botox injections when I see him on Wednesday. *************************************************************************** 1:00 p.m. I still had not peed. I had to have a catheter inserted. Guess who had to do it. “Are you sure you can’t walk to the bathroom?” “Had you bothered to glance at my chart, you’d know the answer to that brilliant question.” “You said you could walk to the bathroom at home.” “I’m not at home. The nearest bathroom is miles away. My bathroom at home is within inches of my wheelchair. Besides, I need my cane. I was too busy being rushed to the hospital to bring it.” “I can give you a cane.” “I’d need a quad cane. If I was able to walk, which I’m not.” “I don’t have a quad cane.” “I’m here because my entire right side is as useless as this conversation. I can’t move my entire right side. How am I supposed to walk? Where did you graduate from charm school? Are you really a nurse?” After two very painful attempts, the catheter was finally inserted. She complained that it was too dark. I almost said, “It’s your mood that’s too dark.” But I stopped myself, considering what she was doing. I was already in pain. My hoo-hah hurt for hours after the catheter was removed. I’m lucky she didn’t castrate me. 1:15 p.m. The attending doctor came around to speak to me. I told her that I’d already seen the neurologists who said I was being discharged. She prepared the paperwork. She said they would arrange an ambulette for my trip home. I decided to wait until Clara, my home health aide, arrived. I had told her to stop at my apartment, pick up my wheelchair, and call the car service. I guess I didn’t make myself clear enough. You try to be clear at 4:30 in the morning, calling from the emergency room. I guess it’s impossible. I was very glad to see Clara. She’s the first person I called. She’s the one person on whom I can depend. Clara arrived, sans wheelchair and car service. I had to rely on the ambulette. My favorite nurse from Hell returned to cross examine me. “Didn’t you cancel the transportation?” “My plans changed. I don’t owe you an explanation. Just make the arrangements so I can get the heck out of here. Am I going home with the i.v. in my arm?” Of course, she forgot to remove the i.v. ************************************************************************* 3:30 p.m. The ambulette finally arrived. There’s nothing like waiting two hours for a ride that takes less than fifteen minutes. Thank heavens Clara was there to quiet me down; they probably would have thrown me out of the emergency room for my abominable behavior. Or arrested me for murdering Cruella (I could have successfully used justifiable homicide as a defense. For the record, that was a joke. Having to spend thirteen hours in the emergency room was as close to prison as I intend to get.) Not that I didn’t misbehave, or give them anything they didn’t deserve. My behavior would have been much worse if Clara hadn’t been there. It was comforting to have someone there to care about me; to put my pants back on; to put my leg brace back properly. 4:10 p.m. Arrived home. I would have kissed the ground if I had been able to do so. Clara put me in the shower because I’d peed myself. She was late for work. I gave her extra money this week because of her generosity of spirit. I’d have given her more, if I had it to give. Some nurses are only in it for the money. They might think that they are fooling people, but they’re not. These people should be fired; they should screen them out before they admit them into nursing school. Cruella is a shining example of this type of individual. I hope she has to go to the emergency room and is treated by the mirror image of herself. Karma is a bitch. Clara is the exact opposite; she is the nurse you are lucky to get. She actually likes to help people. She’s kind, competent and personable. She truly cares. I bless the day I met her. I hope to make her a part of my life forever. 6:00 p.m. Fell asleep in wheelchair until 2:00 a.m. When I got into bed, I thanked God for letting me go home. Looking back on the experience, I learned that it’s better to be unconscious in the emergency room. I’m reminded of the old joke about people who don’t have very long to live: they should do something that bores them to tears so they’ll feel like they have more time. My time in emergency seemed like a lifetime. That thirteen hours seemed like thirteen centuries; it was as though time had stopped. I never want to go through that experience again. On the other hand, it provided a gold mine of material. Maybe someday soon, I’ll laugh (after my butt heals. . .it’s Saturday and it’s still sore).