Welcome to the Hospital Transylvania

Best Care Anywhere... for real.

“There’s nothing more I can do for you...here,” the hospital doctor said gravely.

To any other patient in Hospital Transylvania—especially if possessed of two good ears and a dormant third—the connotations of such a statement might have blown their wrinkled bottom right off the cold bedpan.

But… a) “histrionic” is recessive among my genes; b) I knew that, given context, what he said was good news; and c) I understood how this guy communicated. I had already had a similarly weird moment with him two days before in the emergency room.

The scene: I had come in through the almost empty ER. “Where is everybody?” I thought to myself. And then I saw the signs: “Abusive Behavior will not be tolerated: this includes threatening speech, intimidating behavior…”

Soon, I would wonder if the signs might be reminders for the staff in regards to their treatment of patients.

I started toward the lady at the Registration desk. (“Witch Hazel!” I thought. “I haven’t seen you since Bugs Bunny!) She slowly mooed, “Do you need to be...seen?”

Uh, that’s why I am here.

A pair of unsmiling triage nurses interrogated me almost without looking at me: “What brings you here?” Was that a rubber hose I saw on the desk?

“Uh, I have pneumonia. Lower left lobe pneumonia.”

A few minutes later, the ER doctor sounded accusatory: “What has brought you in here today?”

“I have lowe…”

“Your x-ray is negative! The radiologist said it’s negative.” A waifish scribe, one of the Veela, stood behind the doctor taking notes. She never looked up.

“I’m just telling you what I was told. The x-ray was taken two days ago. Now, I am worse and coughing-up blood. My PA said come in for more evaluation.”

“Hmmpf,” she snorted (did the Veela record that?). The ER doctor suddenly moved toward me and took a quick listen to my chest. Wordlessly, she and the scribe exited. I would see them again about three hours later when the doctor re-entered the room and said brightly, “Well, we were right. It is lower left lobe pneumonia.”

Uh, yeah. That is what I said when I got here.

In between, I saw the vampire phlebotomist, the zombie tech, the very nice CT lady (who might have been Marilyn amongst the Munsters), and one guy whose flapper-hair was a tight lavender Marcel wave. The Louise Brooks bob might have worked better.

I was glad my daughter was with me for the production. Absurdist theater was never so absurd.

Soon, the hospitalist arrived. He stared at me meaningfully and said, slowly, “Is there anything you want to talk about?”

Uh, about what? My mother? My views on Israel? The Dunning-Kruger Effect?

“Well, I am glad the CT scan showed the pneumonia, I guess. The ER doctor seemed skeptical.”

(Cue the dramatic piano chord: da-DUMM)

“Unfortunately, that is not all the CT scan showed.”

“Okay, tell me. What else did it show?”

My daughter was with me but I thought it best to get the news out there, whatever it was.

“You have a compression fracture in your back. T-10. No way to know how old it is.

You will need to be checked for osteoporosis.”

I nodded slightly. Inside, I’m all “Thank you, Jesus! Thank you, Lord! Thank you, Jesus!” Outside, I say, “Well, I certainly will make that appointment.”

+

When I was a kid, I used to watch Game of the Week on Saturdays. Tony Kubek, Pee Wee, Dizzy on occasion. One Saturday they did a feature on Mickey Mantle, the Yankee great, who was still playing baseball at the time. They had made a cardboard cut-out of him mid-swing, whereon somebody had drawn circles everywhere he had had an injury during his career—meaning, just about everywhere: knees, feet, shoulders, hips, etc. Pee Wee, I think it was, asked if the drawing were accurate; Mick said, “Well, I did have a toothache, too…”

I am thinking about getting such a cut-out of myself and going to work with a Sharpie. And now, a new circle on my back! And the lower left lobe of my lung.

+

To doctors everywhere: this word: If you want to insure people rejoice to hear they have a broken back, are in fact happy with such news, preface it with, “Unfortunately, that is not all the CT scan showed.”

Two days later, same doctor: “There is nothing more I can do for you...here.” What he was telling me was that he was sending me home.

Which he did. And I was glad. For my stomach’s sake. I was starving.

I’m not saying the chef at Hospital Transylvania was not Michelin rated, but...no, not Michelin rated.

Then again, the Food Service order takers were proficient at ensuring “freedom of choice”: “Would you prefer the grilled cheese sandwich with your broccoli-cheese soup, or the steamed veggie selection?” They would make fine ABA therapists.

Anyway, I am home. But “home” does not mean “well.” Not yet.