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.