I am just back from a difficult hospital/rehab center stay of two weeks. It was brought on by going for my usual epidural, which infrequently lessens my problems with spinal stenosis. This time, it not only failed but left me howling with shooting muscle spasms in my legs, as well as a few hours without feeling in my feet. The first ambulance my wife and I called did not take my situation seriously, sloughed off my pain, and took off without taking me to the hospital. The second ambulance we called came from Hatzalah, an Orthodox Jewish nonprofit ambulance service, which operated with consummate efficiency, effortlessly taking me to my home hospital’s (NYU Langone) emergency room. In Hatzalah’s case, their religious beliefs seemed to bring out a commitment to being of genuine service to the sick. This ER visit was less the nightmare experience that it can sometime turn into and was just more of my enduring a crowded, cacophonous ward—with beds in the hall, some of the patients in great pain, and my having little physical separation from them. And as usual, it took a tedious and anxious night and much of a hard day to find an available bed.
When I settled into the modern, high-tech single room looking over the East River, I was in as comfortable a space as I could inhabit, given that I was experiencing intense pain. I was in greater physical trouble than I had thought: The hematoma on my spine that the epidural had brought on placed me in danger of paralysis. Luckily, the hematoma began to heal and no surgery was needed— I am grateful that at 86 I did not have to undergo another surgery. I had model care—smart, sensitive, watchful nurses (whom I admired greatly) and teams of doctors from the neurology department who came by often to check on my progress, moving my legs and doing other simple exercises. They kept me there for about week, until I got stronger and they were sure I did not need surgery. I was essentially cut off from the rest of the world, though I continued to watch mostly agonizing television news and commentary—with the authoritarian President Donald Trump undermining democracy with every executive order he issued. My only visitor was my wife, who gave me the feeling there was an outside world worth embracing.
After the first week, I was transferred to Rusk Rehab (which is linked to Langone). The nurses at Rusk were professional, and the aides who did a lot of the heavy lifting ran the gamut between caring to perfunctory and harsh. But the therapists were excellent, and that is Rusk’s strength. Two young Long Island women handled my physical therapy (three hours a day) for the week. And they did not allow me to slack off and just ask them questions about their lives and how Rusk works as a way of avoiding the exercises I had to do to heal. They were both extremely intelligent, perceptive, and patient instructors, and they helped me begin to walk again. I began at Rusk barely able to move more than a step or two and ended after a week by walking four city blocks, though my feet gave in at the end of my walk.
I am now at home with different aides coming to help me during the daytime. Some aides are passive and barely conscious and of little help. But a few of them, especially two smart, vital nurses from Guyana, have taken the initiative and have helped me greatly adjust to my condition. I get by in the house by using walkers, and I have walked in the hall each day for exercise. I conjure up haunting images of my father’s last years in his 60s as a semi-invalid, doing crossword puzzles and rarely seeing anybody but my mother. However, I am hopeful I still have some time left to attend screenings and meet the friends who remain in cafes and restaurants. Hopefully this essay is to be continued.
