Hospital: Day VI (2)

There is no real big news today. Zora moved hospitals. But the big test is tomorrow. If all goes well, in the best case scenario, she could sleep in her own bed tomorrow night! But still hooked up to IV antibiotics every 8 hours for the next three weeks.

If the test doesn’t go well, well, we’ll see. But I like to be optimistic. The bad option would be “vegetation” (aka: bacteria) growing on the heart that could break off at any moment and lodge in a strange place and cause a stroke. Or something else needing open-heart surgery. Interestingly, the leaky heart-valve issue wasn’t mentioned today. We won’t know till tomorrow. But I’m feeling more hopeful than I was two nights ago. But who knows?

So I got my Vietnamese sandwiches (“Awesome!”). Details on that adventure I’ll post elsewhere.

I arrived at Forest Hills hospital at 2:45 PM. The paramedics where already there for her 3PM appointment and ready to take her out. That’s the first time in all these days that anything has been early. The kind paramedics took me along (even though they’re not supposed to—for legal reasons) because they felt sorry for poor public-transportation dependent me. And truth be told, getting from Forest Hills to North Shore University would not be an easy trek.

After a long and slow drive through New York City traffic, through a part of Queens even I consider “outer borough,” we arrived at the new hospital. It’s a big complex. Still not Johns Hopkins in size. But clearly “the real deal.” The paramedics assured me, “you’re going to like this place.” Like it’s some resort. That being said, it is a noticeable step up. All the hooks on the bed partitions are in place. The doctor-and-nurse-of-the-day notice board are up to date. There are two, not three, patients per room. The room bathroom is “for patients only.” They put a pink band around Zora’s left arm (the one with the PICC line) indicated that you shouldn’t do any tests on that arm. Even the Christmas decorations are much more fancy.

That might look like just a snow globe to you. But first of all it’s the size of the hallway. Second of all there’s some constant motion that looks like a waterfall that doesn’t come up in the picture. The hospital seems very ship-shape. At least by comparison. In fact, it feels just like it is: a move from Queens to the richer suburbs. I’m sure a move to Manhattan would be similar, but with a more liberal urbane feel. And nothing that says, “Christmas.”

Before the move, the old, nice, I.D. doctor said, among other things, “the I.D. doctors there are better than me.” Not only was he good. But he’s modest too! I’m glad Zora is already taken.

[By the way, word on the street is (i.e.: one paramedic told me) that Astoria Hospital isn’t really a place you would want to be.]

Anyway, they took Zora, but only after strapping her down like a mental patient. I kind of got a kick out of that. She couldn’t even move her arms. Tee hee.







This is her arrival at North Shore.


Here’s her new bed.



Once we got settled in, Tamara came with dinner.


Tamara and I caught the 8:30 bus to LIRR. The train to Woodside, and then the 7 to the N home. It all worked very well. It’s certainly not as convenient to get to Forest Hills. In fact it’s a pain in the ass. But, given that there may be a transit strike Friday, transport could be for the better to North Shore. I can always bike to Woodside. Of course, I could always bike to Forest Hills. I guess the real issue is that fewer employees at North Shore are likely to be affected by the strike. Or so I hope.

There was just enough time waiting for the train to get a few beers (“Tamara,” I said, “If I don’t make it… just go on without me!” She said, “I’m not leaving you behind.” Until I told her that the next train was in an hour.) Here Tamara is on the 7 Train (for those who care: notice the bucket seats facing in. Neither of us have ever seen that before).



Tamara said she had never drunk a beer from a paper bag. Say what?! From someone a double-wide and a chain-smoking Virginia-Slims habit away from being white trash, she has a strange sense of propriety and decency. On a hot summer day (OK, sometimes other times, too) it’s one of the great privileges of living in New York. I don’t want to say it’s encouraged, but bodegas (corner stores) are open 24 hours, sell and price beers singly, place your beer in a paper bag, and, if you buy a bottle that needs an opener, pop it open for you. I asked Tamara, “you’ve never walked down the street with a beer in a paper bag?” She answered, and I quote, “I only walk down the street with a drink in a glass.” Uh, you go, girl.

You can drink beer legally on the LIRR and most communter trains, by the way. It’s like the Eddie Murphy skit where he disguises himself as white and the then gets to ride the bus for free. Why do white folk get to drink a beer on the way home while we city folk don’t? Ain’t right, if you ask me.

So Zora will (again) eat her last food at midnight. And hopefully the echocardiogram will come out well in the morning.

Last, I just have to post this very sweet e-mail I got from one of my Turkish students. Just be happy you don’t have to grade their papers: “Today we have been sadly learned that madam has been taken to hospital upon her sudden feel of unwell. I hope she will get better very soon.” That sure beats a Hallmark Card.