Endless Knots

Sort of a scene: How the person who introduced me to "my person" and I...

When I began drafting my hospital scenes, I didn't know how to refer to my reason for writing them. I wanted to protect my daughter's privacy but realized that my posts would have little credibility unless I could put a face to them. No one hangs out in hospitals without cause.

But how to refer to her? Grey's Anatomy to the rescue, a hospital show, no less, providing the proper referent. I remembered the scene where (oh, do I hope I've got this right) Cristina says to Meredith, "You're my person." And thus "my daughter" became "my person" for the sake of this writing.

So that's the foundation for this note, about how someone else can be one's "person." I always think of that phrase when the show is on.

Next layer: my hard drive crashes in the midst of my person's ordeal, causing me to spend a lot of time on the A. New Yorkers will understand this next sentence. If a train could be my person, it would be the A - with the B, which sadly is shutting down for a couple of years, a close contender (but all of that is for another post). The A has this beguiling trait: it races from 59th Street at Columbus Circle to 125th Street without a stop. In subway life, this is at least an eon's worth of time saved - and because the hospital that my person endured was just a few stops beyond 125th, I clocked many a ride on the A, racing downtown for various things, including numerous journeys taking my broken machine to a surgeon near Columbus Circle.

Much as I love the A, I hated this particular trip that I am about to describe. I was often tired during my person's ordeal. No, I was always tired during those many weeks and, when unforeseen obstacles got thrown in my path, I became a very unhappy person. Grouchy. Irritable. Ungiven to smiling at strangers. 

On this particular Sunday (third layer), I was very very tired and really really annoyed. I was desperately seeking my files, which, as noted below, were supposed to be on my backup drive but which were in fact...missing! I was carrying about fifteen pounds of technology, when adding in all the cables and power cords and my phone and its charger and my camera and its battery. And it was hot. And I only had a little time. And all I could think about were the twelve blocks ahead of me once I got off the train, the long slog to the Mac technician's shop, which, in fact, was in his bedroom, or his bedroom was in his shop, or it was his photography studio because, being a Mac tech, he was, obviously and actually, a photographer, and clearly headed for Paris in a few days, not to mention the gym, toward which I was preventing his departure because I was a little late and...

The A was pulling into Columbus Circle. I slung my backpack over my shoulders in a less than graceful swoop. One strap caught in my pendant, the other tangled around my purse, my shirt got caught behind my back, falling off my shoulder altogether, the train jerked to a halt and I stumbled off the A onto the platform directly into the path of a "person" waiting to get on the train.

Have you figured it out yet? Cristina Yang! Yes, Sandra Oh! And until tonight, when I caught up with the season opener, I hadn't put person-to-person together. Cristina (and your writers), that bedraggled woman with the forlorn look on that Sunday several weeks ago, owes you (all) one big THANK YOU for providing cover for "my person."

Now I understand why I (almost) always wear black

In completely uncharacteristic fashion (so to speak, given the subject of this post), I went to a film on opening night: Coco Before Chanel. The line down 58th Street in New York was long and studded with people in pretty outfits, and although I wouldn't call his outfit pretty also in line was the former mayor, Ed Koch. Perfect venue, of course, for a film about the life of Coco Chanel, right around the corner from Bergdorf and such.

I'm not offering a review here, except to say this: people who make themselves, in this case close to literally from whole cloth, are deserve to have films made about them. Coco Chanel's story is improbable--orphaned, poor, and starting from nothing, and fascinating/sad/inspiring, all three in about equal proportions. Go see it and tell me if these scenes stick with you too: her designing a simple black dress for herself then dancing in it with the man she loves while all the other women are in white and froufrou and her sitting on the stairs in a classic Chanel suit at the close of her first fashion show, remembering her life.

Trying on Fort Tryon again

We took a few hours last Sunday afternoon to walk through Fort Tryon Park near The Cloisters in Washington Heights, New York, again. Oh, New York. First we encountered Orthodox Jews facing toward the West praying along a fence by the park, then we came across signs pointing toward "Yoga for Peace," and finally, on the terrace in the park, a very small wedding. Plus there were about a quadzillion pedestrians like us, walking the paths.

Man, woman, and child praying,
all barely visible in the shadows, just before dusk
 on the second day of Rosh Hashonah
 

I joined the group, long after it started, and a young boy, noticing my using the lawn as my mat, got up and offered me one of his mats. When doing Downward-facing Dog, someone walking a dog came past and said that his dog could do the pose better than I. Probably right.
 

It was like a microwedding, only about a dozen guests
 

Act 2: Scene 1 - Hip bone not connected to thigh bone

Now we're into the next phase. "My person," previously revealed to be Daughter #1, who spent about as long in the hospital as anyone I've ever known, and who, along with Son-in-Law #1, has two beautiful identical twin boys to show for it, is no longer a patient at the hospital but the little guys are, being premature and all.

Just when I thought I'd gotten the hang of the antepartum floor, with all its equipment, numbers, and terminology, now there's a whole new specialty to pretend that I understand, nod knowingly about as various numbers flash and cause alarms to go off, however briefly, new faces to connect to names, and I could go on but won't right now because I want to capture this:

Now truly I am without any medical training and so I can't make any kind of judgment about medical choices, which have overall seemed quite good (the results, healthy mom and babies speak for themselves), but I can make some judgments about the cross-boundary communication I see in this hospital. I know something about this topic, in fact, I know quite a bit about cross-boundary communication and I'd have to say that the handoffs here could benefit from some improvement.

If someone has been a patient for nearly eight weeks in an institution and then that person's little babies become patients in the very same institution, indeed, in the very same building, you might think that there would be some kind of communication between the departments. Perhaps medicine is the last bastion of silos (quiet down, I can hear a thousand boisterous voices saying, "Nay, *my* industry is even more silo-ed") so perhaps medicine is the penultimate bastion. Regardless of where it ranks in the stack, the lack of same is pretty astonishing.

While I have no quarrel with the care any of the family has received (well, maybe a little nit here and a tiny gripe there), I don't see the basics in play here. I've seen doctors on the maternity service shrug their shoulders when asked about people in neonatology and I've yet to see anyone from maternity on the neonatal floor. Granted, I'm not there all the time but our little people are now a week old and I have been in the hospital every day...but more than that, I can see a number of ways to connect the two departments so as to make things better for mother and child(ren). Simple stuff really, none of which I'm going into here as it brushes up against my people's privacy.

But, hospital-people, if any of you is reading, ask me. I have a jugful of ideas for seamless care, which I think could help everyone, including staff.

And, I will say this: there should be easy access to healthy snacks and water for new parents right on the NICU floor. If you don't bring it in, you've got to go buy it. At least provide free water. New moms in particular really need that. Costs $1.75 a pop in the vending machines where, by the way, there is no fruit. Lots of candy, however. Lots.

And there should be a comfortable place near their babies for the new moms to rest (dads too but honestly they didn't just go through one of the great body quakes of all time: giving birth) during the day while caring for their kiddies. Healthier moms have healthier babies. Simple as that.

Clowning around

I guess I must attract them.
 Got out of the elevator today at the hospital and who was waiting for me?

Dr. Quackenbush and Dr. Binkie

What a scene - unusual request

Those reading closely know about my terrible hard drive crash of several weeks ago. Among its many sequela is the loss of all my mail for the past several years...which means the loss of all my email addresses. It's possible they will be recovered over time. I'm still waiting for the prognosis of the drive, which has been sent to data recovery specialists on another planet, so far as I can tell. I only get the faintest of signals back about its status.

So...here's what I need. If you have my email, please send me an email ASAP, which will then help with the short-term problem. I will then be able to capture it and begin to rebuild my list.

And if you want to be on my list, here's my spam'bot-protected email, no spaces of course: myfirstname dot mylastname at netage dot com.

The next act: Lake and Finn

Identical twin lights

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

At 11:59 AM and 12 noon

Phineas "Finn" Richard Albany, 3 lbs, 1 oz, 19 inches

and

Lachlan "Lake" Elias Albany, 4 lbs, 3 oz, 19 inches

Little boys

born to

Miranda Stamps and Jay Albany

New York, NY

Scene 10: To my "bleaders"

Unlike everyone else I know, I have not been able to make time to see "Julie and Julia," the movie, but I have had time to read the book, which has made me forevermore grateful to its author, Julie Powell, for the neologism that captures the spirit of you, dear BLog rEADERS.

The post that follows explains why I've been such a poor blogger of date and...for those of you who've dropped me notes, asking what's been happening with "my person," as per the previous paragraph, blead on.

 

Scene 9: Spit it out

Medical professionals should not chew gum. No further comment necessary.

Scene 8: Please don't drink the water

Even after all this time at the hospital, I find it hard to believe: in the building where my person is (there are many), the water in the patients' bathrooms, as well as in the patient kitchen, is not potable. Not for drinking, brushing teeth, washing hands. Not for nuttin'.

Yes, this is in the Northern Hemisphere, yes, it's in a major American city (NY) and, yes, it's in a teaching hospital.

Because I prepare breakfast, lunch, and dinner for my loved one, I generate dishes. No way around it. Even if we use massive amounts of paper.

About a week ago, a nurse told me that there was potable water in an adjacent building, just through some locked doors at the end of the hall, in the Pediatric Oncology unit. My immediate reaction was that it would be intrusive of me to go over there to wash my dishes. And the nurse allowed that while it would not be intrusive and that some other patients' families had done it, it was in fact illegal for the nurses to let me in and out. However, she said, if I wanted to try it, I could take the elevator to the first floor, walk about a block through the halls to the adjacent building (past the performance space which I've posted pictures of before), and up the elevators in the other building, then ask the desk there whether they'd let me in. Mind you, I'd be carrying a trayful of dirty dishes.

As appealing as this sounded, instead, I boiled water (from the water machine in the patient kitchen or from the plastic water bottles that supply all the patient drinking water) in the electric teapot my person had bought for the hospital, burned my fingers a few times, and hoped that I'd managed to get out all soap and contaminants.

Then, a few days ago, someone from Patient Services showed up to see my person. She dealt with some more important issues in regard to care and then, just as she was about to leave, I asked her where I could find potable water. She was from a different building, filling in for the regular person from the building, said she didn't know -- I was hoping that she'd mention the kitchen just down the hall -- and when she didn't, I said that I'd heard about this other place but that it was against policy for the nurses to let me in and out.

A couple of days later, word came back through the nurse manager on the floor, saying that I could get permission to go through the doors at the end of the hall.

Which I did for the first time at noon today. What a relief. There is a kitchen no more than 100 yards from my person's room, with potable water.

That I've had to clean up around the sink before using it (likewise the patient kitchen microwave on our floor) deserves its own post. Cleanliness is next to...hygiene in a hospital?