Late-breaking Hanukkah at Erica’s house
Yesterday I went to the Union Square Medical Center for my second-to-last doctor’s appointment of the year. In the waiting room, an old, frail man, who had a former troublemaker vibe to him, with his dangly cross earring and scratchy, jokey voice, was escorted in from the exam area by two nurses, who deposited him warily on a seat. Moments later two EMTs showed up, and began asking him questions.
He had nearly passed out during his exam, as it turned out. His number one problem was diabetes. They asked him what he had eaten that day (a roll, butter, coffee), and what pills he had taken (the blue one), and then they asked him if there was anything else they should know.
“I got a whole medical file in there,” he said, referring to the exam room beyond the waiting room. “I got a whole history you can look at.”
One EMT took his pulse and, with a smile, said, “Well, you’ve got no pulse.” Everyone in the waiting room laughed nervously because by now we were invested in it. There was no way not to be. “Probably we’re going to have to take you to the hospital,” he said.
“I can’t go to the hospital,” said the man. “I have to take care of my mother.”
The other EMT, a woman, took his blood pressure and reported an extremely low number.
“Is that good?” said the man hopefully.
“No, it’s not good,” said the EMT.
“I really gotta take care of my mother,” he said.
“You can’t take care of your mother if she has to take care of you,” she said calmly. “What if you pass out on your way home? And then you have to go to the hospital anyway, only no one knows where you are. How is that helping your mother?”
He didn’t try to fight it after that. He pulled out his cellphone and began calling family members, trying to wrangle a visit for his mother. He offered cash to a brother. “She’s in 2B,” he said. “2…B,” he repeated loudly and slowly.
I tried to picture myself in apartment 2B, that suddenly my day had completely changed and I took a cab to wherever 2B was, and I brought some food to his mother and made her take her pills. I couldn’t, of course. I had other places I had to be.
2B is a place that exists in my head now. Yesterday a man took a cab there. He never takes cabs – they are too expensive; he’s been riding the subways his whole life – but his brother promised he would pay for it, plus another twenty on top of that.
I can’t get beyond the doorway, but I can see the door. Someone scrawled the number of the apartment in magic marker on it. It’s really noisy in the apartment. I don’t even know if people knock before they go inside. Maybe everyone just walks right in.
I really loved how much the man in the waiting room loved his mother.
The nurse finally called me. My doctor was wearing black boots that came over her knee. She and I are probably the same age. We talked about my test results. It was a reassuring, interesting, and slightly gross conversation. (My gross face involves me sticking my tongue out. It’s not pretty.) But I don’t need surgery or anything, so, gross or not, I’m going to be just fine.
At the end of our discussion, my doctor told me that whenever she performs surgery on people she takes pictures so people can see what their insides look like, and I said, “Yes. I get that entirely.”
