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.

             

The Joys of 65

This Wednesday I turn 65. It would be absurd to say this is all thrills and chills; it is not. I have your typical post 60 aches and pains. I was never a good sleeper, and my sleep is worse. Whatever I feel now, I fell more deeply; hence, in many ways I am sadder, since I look at the grief of people I love, and I, too feel their pain. The flip side of feeling this pain is also feeling enormous joy and gratitude-not just for my Medicare, part A and my discounted Metrocard, but for what I have.

Let's begin with  confidence. I now understand what really matters. When my children were growing up, I felt it was WRONG to have them booked up the wazoo with a million classes because I knew-deep in my heart of hearts-a creative child is never born   out of an overly-busy schedule. How did I know this? Since I had so many hours growing up with just my imagination, and this enabled me to become a writer, an inventor of stories. People I know in the arts all share the same trajectory-no way would they ever have started drawing and painting it they were overly-booked. NOW there are countless articles with what is wrong with contemporary parenting; these children will never have the opportunity to discover themselves because their parents make them TOO BUSY.  Why did I feel insecure about my own thoughts instead of trusting myself? I gave my children countless do nothing hours, but did not trust it was the right thing (though instinct told me it was).

I was right. And now I am confident in what matters.  I consistently trust my instincts and have confidence in myself. It matters to have freedom to become, to have lots of leisure, to do important work in the world, to give and give generously. My job grants me the pleasure of giving in the world, and my writing ventures now consist of good deed projects, whether they be writing about children devastated my Hurricane Maria or children at the border.

I know who my friends are, I have good ones, and-if not-I am able to discard. I like people who are real, honest authentic-not fluffy, superficial friends. The same goes for my family; I value them deeply, and am not afraid to tell them how I feel. What use is pretense?

I deplore pretense, the superficial, the meaningless.. Because of this, if a friend or family member is struggling, I feel this sorrow, so sometimes I am weighted down, but this is a good thing because it allows me to empathize, and be grounded in the REAL; life is not always frivolous. Sometimes the sorrow has no legitimate outlet, but I am always hopeful things will get better. And if I am down, I allow myself to feel this.

Yes, I am still idealistic and hopeful-the thing about me that has not changed. And toward this end, I feel to mine own self I am always true. I am appreciative that I can say, "Too old for this shit."

This is the truth of 65. And so-let the good times roll and I will follow them on whatever journey they take me on.

Happy birthday, Pam

Being Humane

We all think we are. We love our families. We would all like to think of ourselves as good people. We would never hurt anyone intentionally. We try to do good deeds in the world.

But how many people really do good deeds in the world? Today my colleague told me she is taking in a family from the borders-a Mom and two children-for the year. She is affluent, and lives in a  four bedroom apartment on the Eastside. Since her children are grown, she lives alone-in real comfort. These two young boys only speak Spanish, and will be enrolled in a NYC public school on the Eastside-a very fine one. My colleague's life will no longer have the comfort she has grown accustomed to, since she now has to worry about her new "extended family."

I am bowled-over. Yes, I write my checks in the name of humanity. And-as a writer-I write books about social and politically significant issues. I even-as in the case of my latest novel WHY NO BHINE-give the money to on organization that supports immigrant rights.

But would I ever take that next leap? I am not so sure. It means such sacrifice, one I am not certain I am ready to make not now, not ever.

At the end of the day, though, we will all be remembered for the decent things we have done in the world, for our principles, for the way we have helped others. I always tell my children your best legacy is the goodness you have spread in the world.

Think about it. What have you done? What have your children done??? More importantly, what can you do???

Character

What does it mean to have character? It means you have a depth that is extraordinarily multi-layered, that you can empathize deeply and profoundly. Today I told Ira most people can not.

This is not to say there are not good people in the world who aren't deep-there are. They are superficial-your classic "good-guys" and "good gals" who have a knee-jerk reaction to adversity. They mostly do the right thing, but in a very superficial way.

I grew up with extraordinary adversity; there was challenge every step of the way. I understood loss deeply and profoundly-loss of a family member; loss of a job; mental illness; illness; grief. I would not wish this on anyone.

But what it DID give me  is character-a deep and abiding sense of what it means to endure and how to nurture and care for people when the going gets tough. It is easy to comfort on a superficial level. But what does it mean to nurture someone who has faced incomprehensible challenges? And what if those challenges are not limited to one or two instances, but an endless barrage of grief and loss? Do you call? Are you there for them? Or do you just skip along on your merry way. A lot of people skip. It is easier.

If you are a person who does not flinch at this (I do not) and is not just good time Joe and Josephine, but has the back and front of someone whose life has been filled with hardship, but you are still there-every step of the way-then you have character in the deepest sense of the word.

When my Dad died, my friend Janet was there for me 24/7-not for the laughter, but for the tears. She understood implicitly that life is a roller-coaster, and sometimes you have to take a ride all the way DOWN with a  friend or a family member who is down, not for a day or a week, but perhaps for months.

There are not many people who want to get their hands dirty in such a hard way. But if you are that person, rest assured, you are admired, you are respected and your goodness is authentic. And it is the authenticity of character which travels with your throughout life, not standing with someone when things are easy, but holding up the back of someone who is struggling, and knowing you will keep on doing this, until that person can rise up again. Character.

The Arrival by Shaun Tan

I selected this book simply because I took over a course from another teacher. It arrived yesterday and I read it today-with tears in my eyes. It is particularly poignant in light of the  horrors taking place at the borders where families are being separated. Children are tearfully sobbing for their parents, sleeping on the floors, It is sickening. I would like to remind Donald Trump that his mother and his wife did not come here legally. His wife was on the genius visa. I do not profess to know Melania very well, but she is no genius.

THE ARRIVAL is a reminder that we were all immigrants; we all came from somewhere. else. And the truth is, some of us had not choice. World War 11, for example, brought many people to America, and some of them  (many) came with forged papers. NO ONE makes this journey, filled with so many dangers, unless they feel it is too dangerous for their families where they are-political persecution, gun violence, drugs. There is a desperation so many parents have had to get their children onto safe soils, and a place where there are opportunities.

THE ARRIVAL had me in tears and also had me wondering; how can you be a parent, have children; have parents who also-once upon a time-had to escape, and continue to support this administration. It is an abomination.

We are all immigrants. This is America-a nation of immigrants. And Stephen Miller, who will now be overseeing this deportation, is the perfect example. His grandparents escaped the Holocaust, and last I read, they have no interest in a grandson who is gleefully taking on this role. It is a shame.

I get it. I, too, would feel that way, but I trust the people in my immediate family to never, ever be such a scoundrel like he is. They understand what is means to do the right and decent thing.

Happy Father's Day

From the NYT and my Dad's day wish to all dads, including those dads crying for their children, trapped in detention centers:

Stand up for the safety of schoolchildren instead of bowing to the NRA
Ensure the right to clean air and water for all and protect open spaces
Refuse to be beholden to coal, oil and gas industries
Show kindness and compassion to those less fortunate, especially victims of tragedy
Speak out against obvious lies and distortions of scientific facts
Denounce bullies and public figures who preach hatred, racism and misogyny
Model integrity, morality, honesty and decency.

Thank you for the admirable legacy you leave for all children.

Happy Father's Day.Thank you for being a good man.

Happy Anniversary, Ira: Four Decades and Going Strong!

How does a marriage survive four decades? Certainly, it is no easy task but-if like myself you are fortunate enough to have accomplished this and are still fulfilled, respect, appreciate, have fun with and sometimes squabble with the other person, consider yourself blessed. During this time, I find myself reflecting how I have come to be a member of this club, and I realize two things.

1. It is hard work. A marriage is like a roller-coaster; there are highs, but also lows, and what one must do is work through those lows, discuss them, argue about them and come out as each other's strongest advocate at the end-or walk away, and

2. It is important always respect the other person and his opinion. You may not agree, but still-you can not put down the other person for a difference in opinion. You must LISTEN and NOT PUT DOWN, and this is something I have had to learn to do.

Making a marriage work means being thoughtful and sensitive to another voice, another style, another way of doing things-and also appreciating that. Over the years, I have learned to appreciate or-at the very least-accept what I can not change, and I am always aware how important it is to COMPLIMENT, to SURPRISE, to NURTURE the person who is your mate.

I am blessed that Ira has made that task, in most recent times, so easy, because he respects me, values me, has fun with me, nurtures me and always makes me laugh. We make each other laugh. We enjoy doing thing together-traveling, walking, biking, but we also enjoy and appreciate our alone time, which makes the marriage even better-finding a space with the person you love, and finding your own space and world, too.

Our worlds are surely different, though given those differences we have managed to NURTURE and RESPECT each each other, laugh a lot, poke fun in a loving and never mean-spirited way. What is the good of being nasty and caustic when you can be good?

Our politics have brought us together. We were always on the same political page, but this new decade of moral decadence has brought out the fighting spirit in him. Ira is a moralist and a humanist. Who wouldn't admire this?

We have also raised two wonderful children, and our family now includes two terrific grandchildren. We have good friends, separately and together. And we are friends to each other.

Ira is my great friend who I admire, respect and want to be with. I hope to write this same piece forty years from now. We may not be traveling the larger world at that age, but our smaller world, when we are together, will be one which will bring be great joy, deep-seated fulfillment. And for this, I consider myself lucky!

Happy anniversary, Ira. Thank you for being you!