Winter Songs

Medicine and Me

If you read my last posting, then you know that I am quite familiar with the medical system. It’s not 102 years of medical school, nor do I read old medical journals. I live the role. Lucky, Lucky me, I have been afflicted by some of the neatest, deadliest and most inconvenient problems available.

Somewhat like a flat tire on the entrance ramp of life, I was diagnosed with a brain tumor when I was 12. An ‘Astrocytoma’ (I just love throwing around those five syllable words.) was growing on my right optic nerve. At 12, I didn’t know I had an optic nerve. However, I spent an entire summer dealing with it.

During 7th grade, I was half a person. I went to school but had headaches all the time. I would come home from school and go to sleep. It wasn’t until June, while swimming in the local pool, that I developed double vision. The odd part was that if I covered one eye, my vision was fine, but the two eyes were simply not coordinating.

I saw an ophthalmologist, then he sent me to a neurologist and he in turn passed the buck and booked me into North Shore University Hospital and Delicatessen. I can tell you now that their turkey sandwich is much better than their medical advice.

I spent the next week being poked, prodded and generally abused, and at the end, these jokers had only discovered how to bill the insurance company. One of the test they treated me to was a brain scan. This was long before the CAT or the MRI and essentially they had me lie on a board, and a scanner passed back and forth above me. They positioned me lying sideways, leaving my nose to bear all of my body weight. For almost an hour I endured the rumbling of this stupid machine as it radioactively lit up my brain. When the test was done, I was quite anxious to return to my cell, but the tech came in to inform me that they had made a small, insignificant, unimportant mistake. They’d forgotten to put film in the camera. So, my nose resembling a prune, they had me resume the position for another hour of fun.

Another time they had decided that I needed a spinal tap. I was not very happy at the notion, but they told me to expect a gurney to come and take me to the spinal tap arena. I think they also used this room to insert tooth picks into olives. However, at the last moment, they cancelled the test. Seems someone realized that if they released the pressure in my spinal column, that I could possibly develop a clot and die on the table. There was a strict hospital rule against murder, and so they passed on the whole idea.

One of my favorite memories was a nurse coming to my room to close and lock the door. I later learned that someone had inconveniently died, and rather than frighten us with reality, they would lock us in our rooms until the body could be removed. I realize that this was a devastating thing to happen (what would the hospital administration think?), but for me I suspect that the reason I am claustrophobic today comes from that.

After a week, they knew nothing; fortunately someone in the family knew someone with pull and got me booked into Columbia Presbyterian Hospital in New York City. This was a real hospital and didn’t have to rely on pastrami to make money.
It was a Friday, I was due to enter the hospital on Monday, but my grandfather had tickets to the Mets game that weekend. Rather than miss the game, I was given an eye patch. That way, as long as one eye was covered, I would be able to enjoy the game.

My grandfather worked for a company that owned box seats at Shea Stadium. They were wonderful seats, just beyond third base. I sat there, thrilled to see my beloved Mets. (yes, at 12, the Mets were still more important than girls) However, in the box next to us I noticed a small boy staring at me, and in particular, my eye patch. It bothered me to be the object of his staring and the longer it went on, the more I felt I needed to do something. I imagined him wondering what could possibly be under the eye patch. He must have thought it was some disgusting sight to be that enthralled with staring at me. So, when he turned to talk to his dad, I quickly reached up and switched the eye patch to my other eye. Then I waited for him to turn back.

I was watching the game, but I saw him jump in his seat. I think he’ll be getting out of the mental hospital any year now.

Columbia Presbyterian is way up in New York City. It is actually in the South Bronx, rather than Manhattan. It is very close to the George Washington Bridge and is set in one of those neighborhoods. However, it’s an amazing hospital. In one hour, after an EMI scan (the grandfather of the CAT scan) they knew that I had a tumor, where it was and how they would deal with it. Fortunately for me, this hospital had operating rooms and scalpels, not deli-counters and meat slicers.

…more to come, dear reader, hang in there. Oh and by the way, Happy Mothers’ Day to all of the mothers out there…and you know who you are.

Posted by bbrother at May 8, 2005 06:36 AM