Funny Food and Friends

My hopsital roommate Yossi treated everything with a pinch of salt. We talked and laughed together for three days straight, our rancour aimed at anyone and everyone. Doctors, nurses and support staff all loved coming in to visit, because they would leave our room with a smile.

At the handover of nursing shifts, a gaggle of incoming nurses were bought to our door as a homebound nurse described our cases. "This is the room with the 2 clowns" would invariably be the description we merited. And then I would add, " ! אני המדליק והוא המודלק" (sorry English readers, I can't translate that without losing too much meaning). At one point we even considered trying to get hold of two red, plastic clown noses for us both to slip on whenever a nurse entered the room.

Yossi was not allowed solid food and every day was brought jelly. He hated jelly. Each day we would try to guess what colour jelly he would would be brought, despite the staff being specifically asked to bring something else.

"This is no good, I can't eat it!" he would tell them. "Please, bring something else".

We were discussing our plans to stick a sign on our door saying 'Entry to Jelly Forbidden' when a new staff member wandered in. "I heard you can't eat the food we brought. No problem, I have brought you a bowl of jelly instead…"

Jelly, of course became a sore point and a focus for jest.

One day I complained. "He always gets jelly even though he can’t stand it. I never get jelly. Give me his!" The sherut leumi girl giggled at the game and brought his meal to me. I took one bite and spat it out. The sugary crystals had clumped together and it was totally inedible. Yossi and I looked at each other and burst out laughing for the fifteenth time that day.

"Oh my God" I proffered, "if one can’t even eat the jelly here then we really are in trouble!".

Food Glorious Food

A sherut leumi girl brought me a tray with a dome shaped, silver plate cover. (Sherut Leumi is a national service program in which post high school recruits, usually female, perform a public service, such as assisting in hospitals, as an alternative to compulsory military service).

"Your lunch" she said with great aplomb. Ooh, I thought, that dinner service looks fancy! I tried to sit up to eat but but my guts hurt like hell. Running my hand down my side, I discovered a huge bandage on my belly.

The girl saw my difficulty and uncovered the tray for me. Before me sat a piece of roast chicken, clearly flavoured with soup powder. As if on cue a nurse rushed into the room to change my IV.

"Excuse me, my food seems to be flavoured with MSG to which I am allergic. It's in my file - I can't have any MSG or dairy products".

The nurse, a thickset, big boned, fake blonde, brashly responded with a raised voice: "So what do you want me to do? It's too late to order other food. You should have told me before!"

I was flabbergasted. "I am not requesting anything at all, I am just bringing it to your attention. Why are you (I wanted to say "being a bitch" but instead I looked for an expression that was not emotive) responding with such energy?"

The nurse threw me a dirty look. "A lot of energy? Well if you don't like it I will pack up my energy and just go home!" Yossi, in the next bed, looked at me and made a face. I was a little offended by this exchange with the nurse - it seemed I would be in battle with the very people who were charged with my care.

"Why are you getting angry?" I asked in a quiet, calm voice. She ignored me and left the room. The nurse was clearly having a bad hair day.

Yossi burst out laughing. "It seems we have a Nazi Nurse" he said. As always his laugh was infectious and pretty soon I thought I was going to burst my stitches. A few minutes later my lunch tray was replaced with identical food. The nurse came by and, realising what was going on, began screaming at the sherut leumi girl who ran back to the kitchen. Unbelievably, I was eventually brought clean, unadulterated food. It was delicious.

Little did I know, this would be the last time I received food free of allergenic substances. Every meal that followed for the next three days contained either MSG saturated meat and vegetables or a selection of cheeses. So much for lactose intolerance. This, despite written instructions sent to the kitchen daily which the sherut leumi girls phrased more and more emphatically each day. When I mentioned the problem to a hospital worker, she breezily responded that 'the kitchen reads these instructions as recommendations only".

Apparently diabetic patients put their life at risk during any hospital stay.

Shaarei Zedek is a religious hospital, and it is forbidden for patients (or staff) to bring food from home. Which is exactly how I survived. Friends who heard of my hospitalisation brought me baskets of fruit, balloons, books and newspapers. Some took special care and smuggled in trays of home cooked schnitzel, rice and other goodies.

A Russian ward cleaner who had witnessed the food fiasco on my first day stopped me in the corridor. "Has the food issue worked out for you? She asked with a friendly face.

"Sure has" I answered. And then, leaning into her ear, I whispered "I had some schnitzels smuggled in".

The woman beamed at me. "Good for you. You're learning the ropes. Twenty three years I have been working here and I bring my own food every single day. The same food is served in the staff canteen, but you won't catch me eating that rubbish".

It’s Curtains for You !

I surveyed my surroundings. Unusually, there were no curtains around my bed. I could see a fellow's face in the bed next to me. About my age, I estimated. He seemed to be friendly with the nurses when they came in. I looked at his happy, friendly demeanour but was too weak to introduce myself.

After a while someone was sent to our room install curtains around the beds, to give us each a modicum of privacy. It was the standard cream colour.

"Excuse me, do you have something a little more exciting?" asked my neighbour. The installer stopped what he was dong, looking a bit baffled.

I tried to explain. "Well, we were hoping for something a little more upbeat, maybe with a flower motif. One of the other rooms we had considered had a seascape on its curtains, that looked nice. It would go rather well with my complexion".

"Yes, indeed" agreed my room-mate, loudly.

It took the curtain guy a few minutes to realise we were kidding. Until then he just stood there, wondering whether had mistakenly come to the psychiatry ward instead of surgery.

My bed neighbour's name was Yossi, and it was clear by that stage we would become good mates. When anything untoward or unfortunate happened, we just looked at each other and giggled. It meant that my stay was not too serious and we could laugh off the challenges ahead.

Meeting Yossi was the most positive thing about my hospital experience, I thank God for our friendship. And at the end of the day, we never bothered closing the newly installed, standard, cream coloured curtains.

Warm Welcome

I lay in bed for the next few hours, slowly re-entering the space-time dimension of planet earth.

Two women, one clearly a nurse, came over and looked at me.

"Have you had a pee yet?"

I looked at the tubes in my arm and concentrated on the groggy feeling in my head. All I could remember was going into surgery. I had no need to pee and told them so.

"Ok, we'll be back. If you haven’t pee'd by then, we are going to catheterise you. That means sticking a tube in your…"

"I KNOW WHAT IT MEANS, thank you! I assume you are joking."
But they weren't.

I was astounded that, although not yet recovered from the anaesthetic, my first conversation involved being threatened by a nurse. I suspect the aim was to get me out of bed and moving but a short explanation would probably have sufficed. In the meantime a visiting friend bought me a bottle of mineral water. Unable to sit up, I drank it through a straw. When the nurse returned later I complained that she had not provided anything to drink, no wonder I didn't want to pee. Could she help?

"Water cooler is in the corridor," She said.

When I made the gargantuan effort to reach the water cooler, another frustrating discovery awaited me – they don't provide cups.

The Bowels of the Hospital

4.00 am, I think.
I open my eyes. Ceilings and corridors silently float past me.
What time is it?
There's a clock. Is that 4am?
 It's all disappearing again…

6.00 am.
I am in a kind of hospital room. A woman is beside me, wrapping my arm in something. Testing my blood pressure. Not a word. I turn my head to the right. Everything is disappearing again…

11.00 am.
The sun is streaming through the window onto my bed. A smiling face says hello and removes my blanket, saying I will get a fresh one in the evening. I do not protest.

I lie in bed for the next few hours, slowly re-entering the space-time dimension of planet earth.

Let's Get This Show On The Road

Sunday, 12.30 am.

Dr Dagan silently appeared and, without saying a word, began wheeling me out of the room.

"Are we going to surgery?" I asked.

"Yes".

We had been waiting for my blood tests. That meant there had been some progress.

"Does that mean the blood tests are back? What did they say?" I wanted to know.

"Apparently".

This guy had clearly not heard of freedom of information. Or maybe I was just not qualified to know anything about what was happening to me.

My stretcher floated past a woman sitting on a bench in the corridor. She looked downcast.

"Hello" I said brightly. "Feeling a bit down?" She nodded. "I am off to surgery. Would you like to swap places with me? Please!" I said with a cheeky smile. Both the woman and the doctor laughed. (Yay, I got a smile out of the doctor ! Maybe he is human after all?)

I lay back and tried to take in my surroundings, to enjoy the ride. The ceiling and wall paintings passed me by as I levitated through a number of brightly lit, deserted corridors. The experience was exactly as it is portrayed in the movies.

Giving Birth

Eventually we reached the surgery department and the doctor gave my stretcher one last shove towards a type of empty lobby. The stretcher rolled a bit before coming to rest. I was alone, but not for long. A young man walked in, oblivious of me, speaking on his cellphone, summoning his parents to the hospital. He had just become a father to his firstborn son. I wished him mazal tov and we chatted a while.

"Have you got any cigars to hand out?" I asked. He shook his head, puzzled. Times certainly have changed.

"What about you?" he inquired.

"I am all excited" I responded. "I have had contractions for a few hours now, and I am hoping to give birth tonight to an appendix!" He giggled as his American parents came in, and I called over to them "Congratulations Grandpa and Grandma". They were all smiles.

Don't Steal My Stuff!
An orderly came by and saw my small shoulder bag.

"Damn, we have to call security!" he complained. Soon enough the security fellow came by and recorded all my belongings – including cash - on a deposit slip before taking my things away for storage while I was anaesthetized. I had not thought of it but was impressed by the procedure. He left my pants on the bed with me.

"What, you're not locking up my trousers? Better make sure the surgeon doesn’t steal them," I muttered in jest.

A Short Delay
The orderly dropped my medical file on top of me and disappeared. Alone, I took the opportunity to flick through it and make sure everything was in order. At first I felt like a sneaky schoolboy doing something naughty, but then decided I had a right to view my own records.

I defiantly held my file in my hands when the doctor appeared all scrubbed up.

"The operating room is busy, so our procedure has been postponed". I was not used to getting so much information out of him. With that I was transferred to the OR recovery room. In truth, I was philosophical about it all. I imagined myself on another journey, having just been informed that my plane was delayed. I love journeys and, with the right attitude, a stay in transit can be fun. So there I was, in transit again.

It's strange how, lying there, unable to sit up, I had no control over my immediate destiny. In a short while someone was going to stick needles in me, poison me with drugs, cut open my guts with a knife and play around with the machinery of my body, in the hope that it will heal itself from the wounds he will inflict. And all I could do was let these people have a go. It always makes me think of the guy who wanted to fix his watch and, after dismantling it into a million pieces, he managed to put it all together again, only to discover a piece left over. I just hoped the doctor would not leave out any bits that he shouldn't.

A lovely nurse called Bracha placed me in the corner of the dimly lit recovery room, only a few feet from a mother who was recovering from a C section. The surrounding silence was powerful, and I ruminated a few moments over the only audible sound – that grandest of all medical equipment, described by Monty Python as "the machine that goes 'ping!' It was 1am and, with Bracha's help, I managed to get hold of some paper to take notes. It was a real epiphany to discover that the OR recovery room after midnight is a great place to work quietly.

How Fickle is Fate?.
"Bracha, I gotta go to the toilet". Bracha swiftly approached and disconnected my IV tubes. Slowly, and bent over like an old man, I hobbled over to the bathroom with Bracha's help. She left me at the door. The right side of my abdomen was in excruciating pain. As I stood there, a thought flickered through my mind. How fickle is fate that only a few short weeks ago I was in the stunning rugged terrain of western China. And had my appendix played up then, I would probably be dead right now. I smiled at having cheated death. Why me? Why am I been lucky enough to be blasé about this whole situation, while others have not been so lucky? With great effort I managed to push the door open and return to my stretcher.

Happy Is As Happy Does
At about 2.00 am another orderly walked in and looked at me from across the dark room.

"Hi!" I greeted him cheerfully, my writing paper resting on a slightly raised knee. My happy demeanor caught his fancy.

"Wow, look at you, bright, awake, smiling! You have made my day. Now I am happy. Good on you son, I am so pleased with you". He raced over to shake my hand and I just had to laugh. I hid my notes inside my trouser pockets as I was wheeled out to the operating theatre by a smiling, friendly, elderly orderly. His happy face made me feel good.

Come On, Hit Me!.
The OR room was large and sterile, probably a good thing in this context. With great difficulty I slid off the stretcher onto the operating table, feeling like a piece of meat at the butchers. Everyone busied themselves, sharpening their knives. Everyone except the doctor, who sat uneasily on a chair in the corner, resting his chin on his hands, staring at the wall. I was going to tell him not to be so nervous because it was making me nervous, but it's not good policy to piss someone off when they are about to physically assault you. True, my signature on the consent form sanctioned the pending assault under the law, but it would be my loss if he exceeded his authority. I again recalled the appendectomy patient that came out circumcised. So I shut up.

A Horrifying Image.
A horrifying image of an anaesthetized bladder leaking over the operating table suddenly flashed through my mind.

"I think I should pee before surgery. Is that possible?" I got ready to hop off the table to go to the toilet when, from behind, the doctor handed me what looked like an enormous paper mache dildo.

"You do it here, now, on the table" he insisted coldly. I looked at the thing and knew I was in trouble. Nonetheless, I carefully positioned the accoutrement under the sheet and waited. Nothing.

"Sorry" I said to the orderly, handing back the surgical room accessory. He smiled at me warmly.

"It's okay, don't worry, it must be nerves. It’s hard to perform when you are anxious" he said, and I blushed like a nervous groom trying to apologise to his disappointed bride.
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Good Night Sweet Prince.
A Russian anesthetist introduced herself to me before placing a mask over my face.

"It's only oxygen" she said, but I was not so sure. And before anyone had even told me to count backwards, the world just seemed to disappear…

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Saturday Night Fever

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Lingering Discomfort

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Had a lovely, pre-wedding Shabbat lunch with Binny's family. My stomach discomfort has lingered on, but I have managed to hold myself together. Will definitely try to see the doctor tomorrow.

Nightfall. Feeling a bit peckish, like I usually do on a Saturday night. I looked in the fridge and decided on a bachelor snack: peeled carrot dipped in fresh homous and olive oil – that should do the trick. I crunched on the carrot and swallowed.

Whoa! A sharp stabbing pain hit me on my right side. What the hell was that? I drank some water but it didn't help. A sobering thought crossed my mind – could I delay seeing the doctor until tomorrow morning? I called a medico friend for advice. "I've got this pain. I dunno, maybe I am just overreacting. But you know, just in case it is appendicitis, I don't want to miss it". I placed my hand on my belly. "Let's see; if I place my pinky on my pupick, then the pain is exactly where my thumb is, to the right and down". Silence. "Alan, that's exactly where your appendix is."

I looked for my medical benefits card and wallet, and prepared to go Terem, the nearby late night medical clinic.

Penelope was just stirring from her long afternoon nap. "Where are you going? Want a drink first?" I didn't want to worry her. "Na, just gotta go out for a bit". "She rubbed her eyes, yawning. "Suit yourself. I am going out later on. I migt be away for a few days". "Fine".
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You gotta go when you gotta go. But can you?

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Should I take a cab? Somehow I knew the doctors would tell me it was just bad gastro from a suspect tuna sandwich, and that I would be back home in an hour. A friend had gone away for a few weeks and left me her car keys, so I decided to drive to the clinic. I walked out of the house, leaving on the kitchen light, tempting fate that I would be back soon to turn it off. (P can't reach the house lights anyway, and as she is instinctively nocturnal, our arrangement is that I turn the lights on and off as I please. It actually works quite well).

With the car alarm deactivated I put the keys in the ignition, before realizing that I need a code for the immobilizer. Damn it - the last time I drove the car was 12 months ago and now I have forgotten the code! I locked the car and came back upstairs. P was already in the shower. I telephoned my friend overseas to get the car code. The phone number she had left me didn't work. I called another mutual friend, but she didn't know the code either. Hmmm. I locked the house again and returned to the car. The pain was much stronger now. If I couldn’t get the car started I would just catch a cab. I put my fingers on the keypad and shut my eyes. (This is really true, folks!) In my mind I heard the words "Use the force, Luke". With that, my fingers danced across the pad, and the car started. Cool!

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It won't be long

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I managed to park adjacent to the front door of the clinic and admitted myself. "Please take a seat, you will be called soon. It won't take long." Indeed, I was called within 15 minutes and ushered into a doctor's room where I was asked to wait. I took a seat. It amused me to see medical diplomas issued to the attendant doctor from Melbourne University.

As I waited the pain got worse. A young male nurse wandered along the corridor like a lost sheep. I asked him how long the doctor would be. He wandered off to check and on his return reported that "you are almost the next patient". Almost. What the hell did that mean? I wondered if I might die waiting for medical attention. Other people waiting in the corridor got fed up and left. I called another doctor friend who advised me throughout the ordeal.

Finally, the doctor came in, a friendly Arab fellow. I told him my complaint and he looked anguished as, doubled over in pain, I struggled to reach the examination bed. "A close mate of mine is getting married on Monday, so as long as I can make it to the wedding…". He felt my belly before declaring, apologetically, "Sorry, I am ordering you an ambulance".

The doctor disappeared and from there things moved rapidly. The lost sheep nurse – also a friendly young Arab fellow, but clearly new to the job, came in to insert an IV. I felt like a maple tree as he tried looking for a strong vein to bleed. All I could think was that my fate over the next few days was uncertain. With my free hand I pulled out my cellphone and called Binny. "Listen mate, an ambulance is on its way and I don't know if I will be able to make the wedding. OUCH!" A ripping pain went through me as I saw the young nurse pull a bent needle out of my arm. "Oh look" he said, "I bent it. I better do it again." Despite my suggestion, he insisted there was no need to get someone else to put in the needle. There wasn't much I could do; I was in such pain that couldn't even sit up.

Just before 11pm a hip young couple of good looking paramedics in their 20's walked in, behaving like they were on their way to a party. One of them flashed me a big smile. "Hey buddy how's it going? Don't worry, we're gonna have a fun ride. We'll put on some cool flashing lights, great music, and boogy on out". Then turning to the doctor, he asked "Standard delivery?". "Urgent!" cried the doctor and the paramedics suddenly got serious. What I didn't realize was that I was surrendering my life to the responsibility of others, who would hand around that responsibly over the next few days like a football. "Where do you want to go?" I was asked. Apparently I was given the choice of hospitals and had no idea how to exercise this last, independent decision available to me. Not being in the medical profession, I sort of assumed that the professionals would just take care of everything (How naiive I later doscovered this attitude to be!). Being most familiar with Shaarei Zedek, I chose there, hoping it was the right decision.

Being wheeled through the corridors on a stretcher, I thanked the receptionist for a lovely time and asked her to make sure the car didn't get a ticket; "I might be away a week - I have no idea".

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Word gets out

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My phone rang. "Alan, I just heard what happened. What's going on?". It was a concerned friend. Geez, word gets around quick! "I am being put in an ambulance. I can't talk". He didn't get the message. "Don't hang up! Where are you going, keep me informed. Call me in an hour, or I will call you". I was beside myself by this person's misguided expression of concern. "I will probably be under the knife by then, bye" I said before hanging up.

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The journey is half the fun
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The paramedics folded me into the ambulance. "I am your driver" said the young man with curls, "and this woman is your hostess for the evening" he added. The pretty woman scrunched onto the bench next to me. With lights on and sirens flashing, the ambulance took off through the streets of Jerusalem. Fighting every natural instinct within me, I decided not to flirt with the young lady as she took down my details. But it was difficult. "Name? Father's name? Date of birth? No really, how old are you? I can't believe it. You look great!"

The ambulance sped along with jerky movements and I kept getting thrown from the stretcher. It was like the driver was trying to swat a fly on the brake pedal. I would have been safer driving myself. Not only that, but the vehicle clearly needed new suspension. I mentioned this to my "hostess" who gleefully informed me that the ambulance was only 4 months old.

The pain in my abdomen was sharp and I couldn't take any deep breaths. I lay there, watching the flash of light through the back window and listening to the siren. I was overwhelmed by a sense of how serious the situation was; serious enough to be urgently thrown into an ambulance. Wow, that's what they do when people are flirting with death! My eyes moistened as I thought of myself dying in the back of a dark, bumpy van far from my family, and I closed them to meditate on the thought. My angelic paramedic saw the apparent look of anguish in my face and sprang into action. "Are you ok? Faster, faster!" she called to the driver. I opened my eyes and tried to smile. "No worries, I am fine".

I looked away and surveyed the vehicle's interior. I tried to imagine all those who had been transported in here before me. In my mind's eye I saw blood splattered on the ambulance walls from the ubiquitous victims of terror being brought to hospital. Who has the job of keeping the ambulance clean between each job? How unique is this – back in Australia, any ambulance fetching me would not have such an illustrious purpose or past as to deal with victims of terror.

I reached the hospital emergency room a little after 11pm and was overjoyed to discover that the paramedics had taken care of the paperwork for my hospital admission. I was brought into the emergency room. I thanked the paramedics as they said goodbye. "It's been fun. You guys were great. Have you got a business card?" We hope you won't need us again" they responded before handing me over to the hospital's responsibility.

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Emergency! Save me from the doctors!

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A young doctor walked in, very business like. "I am Dr Dagan" he said officiously. I told him my complaint and he felt my abdomen. It was a painful examination. I wondered if he was just a resident. Suddenly an older man entered. "What have we here?" he asked Dagan, who responded suspected appendicitis. Ignoring my presence, the new fellow repeated the examination (which I thought unnecessary) and insisted on putting much harder pressure on me. He waited for my cries of pain before stopping. Even then, as he was leaving the room, he suddenly turned back (in what "appeared to be" an act of revenge of some sort - I have not I idea why) and ran his hand with great force and speed along my right side. The pain was excruciating and I hollered. No warning. No apology. No bed side manner. No acknowledgement of my existence. With that, he left. My situation was clearly urgent. As such, I decided not to speak up but instead to just let the doctors do their job.

A religious nurse walked in and said hello, taking down my details. Then a familiar face appeared. After my phone call from the clinic, Binny had rushed over to the hospital to be with me. What a sweety! We chatted and laughed while I had an ECG and a battery of standard tests including blood, blood pressure and the like. Surgery would apparently depend on the results of the blood test. I asked the nurse if I would be able to attend Binny's impending nuptials and the conversation, as always happens in this part of the Middle East, turned to the ignoble situation of unmarried life in Jerusalem. How I miss China, where being unmarried is a simple matter of fact not demanding further inquiry, and not a status or syndrome to be cured by every yente in town.

The young doctor – a resident – brought me an "Appendectomy Consent Form" to sign. With great paternalism he summarised its contents. "It just says that if your appendix is healthy we might still take it out". His attitude stank of "just sign, you are not qualified to understand". I looked at him blankly. "I am a lawyer, so I am going to read it over, ok?". Of course the consent form said much more than the doctor suggested and his verbal explanation of its contents was vastly insufficient. But, hey, I was in a situation of either signing the form or suffering an almost certain ruptured appendix. Which would you chose!

Often in life I find myself in situations well described in case law. This was no exception; I well remember, while at law school studying medical negligence, a case involving a patient hopspitalised for an appendectomy who came out circumsized. Luckily for me, both procedures are only done once. (For all you sticklers out there, I am not, for the purposes this blog, going to entertain a discussion on the halachic definition of circumcision or of stub appendicitus...)

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The inevitablilty of fate

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By midnight I told Binny to go home, I was in good hands. After a little coaxing he agreed. I waited silently, wanting to use this time. Eventually I managed to attract the attention of a passerby in the corridor, who brought me a pen and small piece of paper to write down my feelings. It was not easy. I was in too much pain to sit up. I tried to scribble a few lines upside down on the handrail of my stretcher, but only managed a few squiggles. I lay back and concentrated on my breathing. A new week was just beginning and I had not yet said havdalah.

Funny Tummy

It must have been that tuna sandwich I bought.

Why did I have to get a funny tummy right now? With my friend Binny's wedding coming up in a few days I want to be healthy enough to dance and eat well. It's something I've been looking forward to since before my return to Israel. And to think, I felt absolutely healthy from the food throughout my time in China.

I always seem to get sick from the food here in Israel. Someone yesterday told me I should avoid mayonnaise in the summer. Another friend has a different theory: "Oh no, it's all starting again. You really are unhappy living here, aren't you. And you express it through your stomach!" I laughed of course. My stomach ailments are clearly diet related.

By golly, this is a weird stomach pain. And it seems to go away when I eat. How strange! If it still hurts on Sunday morning, I better go to the doctor first thing.

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