All That Glitters

 

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              “What happened to your arm?” The perky female physician gazed at my arm and the huge, cumbersome splint surrounding it.

              “I had an accident ice-skating.”

              It was six weeks after this event when I fell and broke my radius while ice-skating, trying to prevent my granddaughter from falling. She did not, but I landed on my left arm, which was twisted and turned in many different directions. I was still in pain, but grateful the cumbersome three week cast was gone.

              I explained to the Mt. Sinai ob-gyn what an ordeal this had been.

              “Where did you go for the procedure—The Hospital for Special Surgery?”

              “No.”

              “Mt. Sinai? Lenox Hill?”

              “No. No. I went to Metropolitan Hospital,” I said with utter confidence.

              “Really?” she asked incredulously. “Why?”

              At the time there was only ONE reason I had gone to Metropolitan Hospital in January. There had been a recent Covid surge, and I knew they had a separate Covid unit. I lived equi-distant from Mt. Sinai and Metropolitan Hospital, and it seemed like a no-brainer to go to Metropolitan’s E.R. Of course, I expected the same chaos as in any other E.R., but I was pleasantly surprised. Maybe it was dumb luck that day, but everything seemed efficient and relatively calm. My point of reference was Brookdale Hospital in East New York, a hospital where my husband, a now-retired physician, had worked for four decades. Because of my familiarity, I went in with open eyes and an open heart. I loved Brookdale with all its challenges because the quality of care I received was always good. Gone were the stereotypes of an inner-city hospital. Gone was the pre-conceived notion that there are two separate hospital systems, which some people believe there are, and that I belonged in the place that had “more shine.”

              December 27^th cemented my world view, my values: my desire for an abundance of heterogeneity. At the end of the day, a hospital and its “alleged” reputation are irrelevant. Privileged people, not just in New York, but all over the world believe in their personal “type” and “class” of hospitals. Inherent in this view and by selecting a certain hospital, people feel the best care is theirs for the asking. Shouldn’t everyone have this feeling and—more importantly—this right? This perception demonstrates a callous disregard for the care poorer patients will receive. And what if there is no insurance? In fact, people of color have reported, in many cases,  sub-par care in ANY hospital, regardless of the so-called “status” of the hospital. Fair? I would say NOT. This did not seem like the case at Metropolitan Hospital.

              Let’s start with the E.R. Not only was it organized and orderly, but since it had a separate Covid unit, I felt safe. When I asked a staff nurse, after a while, if I could wait my turn in the x-ray department so that I could get an ice-pack for my wrist which was swelling and extremely painful, she was eager to be helpful, and steered me upstairs. All of the kind staff periodically asked if I needed my pack to be refreshed.

              When it was time to be x-rayed, the nurturing technician and staff patiently explained the procedure to me. Afterwards, I was seen by a wonderful P.A., Lindsey, and a remarkable doctor, Tyler Lucas, the head of Orthopedic Surgery. They provided options for me to either think about surgery or see what would happen when my arm was casted.

              Three weeks and three visits later, visits which were always timely and consistently met with a  cordial staff—always available to allay my fears and answer all my questions, it was evident the healing was not going properly, and I would need the surgery. Without any deliberation, I decided this would occur at Metropolitan Hospital, and Dr. Tyler Lucas would be my surgeon.

              “Why?” asked family members and friends.

              “Why not?” I responded.

              Only my husband, who had catered faithfully to all populations at Brookdale Hospital, understood. Good medical care  is about the quality and dedication of the staff, which includes EVERY ONE, not just the doctors, nurses, P.A.’s, the technicians, but also the secretaries, the receptionists, the security officers, all of whom  were really quite remarkable. At Metropolitan Hospital, I found a place I could feel at home in, a mixed economic population of diverse racial and ethnic workers and patients. The icing on the cake was the exemplary care.

              From the excellent surgery, to the follow-up, to the rehabilitation for my wrist, I was treated to the finest quality of care. I observed that every patient was greeted and treated with kindness, nurturance and top-quality professionalism.

              What I learned at Metropolitan Hospital I always knew: indeed, all that glitters is not gold. People need to see through the charade. Metropolitan Hospital may not have the external appearance of a “beautiful” hospital, but the care was superlative to all people.  “Private” does not mean better. Of course, this trajectory changes when one has a specialized disease, and needs the case of a specific hospital. For example, a cancer patient would most probably want to and need to go to Sloan Kettering Hospital, for example. In addition, some hospitals might not have a surgeon who has performed every type of surgery. Necessity might dictate alternative paths.

              In an ideal world, all people—regardless of race or class--would be treated equally. This should translate to all schools—or in this case hospitals—providing the highest quality of professionalism to each and every patient. Imagine a world where a Mt. Sinai doctor would not be, at first, incredulous that I was enamored of Metropolitan Hospital? This would mean transcending all stereotypes of race and class, and not designating some hospitals for the richer and others for the poorer, or a segregation of hospitals according to race. In this case, everyone, everywhere, regardless of their status, would receive the best treatment possible. Isn’t this what the Hippocratic Oath is all about? This might make all hospitals equally good and serving all populations. No one, in this case, would ever balk at a Brookdale or a Metropolitan or a Harlem Hospital. It would mean we would all be gifted with the lens to see beyond “what glitters “and would understand the inherent injustice of our system. We would—as we should be—treated as equals by the physicians and hospitals that care for us. I realize this is an ideal, but one we should strive toward.

              At the end of my Mt. Sinai doctor’s visit, after I had shared my affection for Metropolitan Hospital, my doctor exclaimed, “This is an amazing story. You have opened up my vision. You should write about it.”

              And that is exactly what I am doing, hoping not to open just one set of eyes, but a multitude.