Reporting LIVE from Glendale Memorial Hospital - Nine O’clock update

Morning comes early to the Cardiac Ward, as it does in hospitals everywhere.  And though yesterday’s Main Event was not without delays and complications, we’re still reporting LIVE from Six North here in Glendale.

And while our story was overshadowed on Sunday by the Oscar show, we weren’t able to make a broadcast last evening due to a clutter of tests and other impediments throughout the day, leaving our viewers plenty of time to ponder the expected questions during the last remnants of Oscar madness.

Monday’s schedule was taken up with various tests in advance of the Main Event, starting with a Resting Test early in the morning.  Viewers will remember that there was no breakfast yesterday, in preparation for the Stress Test – guess they want you running on a treadmill with a light head.  And while other patients were celebrating lunchtime turkey on wheat bread sandwiches (viewed longingly as we were wheeled down the hallway, riding in a wheelchair dressed like Gandhi) we had to content ourselves with passing that Stress Test with flying colors.

And ‘flying’ almost turned out to be no metaphor.  That Stress Test, instead of being cut short like the previous on was, ran the full length, as we were put on a treadmill that was then turned up in increments to about seventy miles an hour.  Hilarity ensued.

(Parts of the preceding description may be lacking in veracity.  But not the part about hilarity.)  And speaking of humor, how does the following rate for an exchange, taken in context?  Pierre, the ER intake nurse, says to me, “I figured you have some history.”  “Oh, yah – I got some history.”  Ok, maybe you had to be there – moving on.

At one point, then whole enterprise took on the aspect of a scene from I Love Lucy – the candy factory or the bakery production line, not the head-in-the-trophy episode – and we fully anticipated being flung off the treadmill into the surrounding lab equipment in the climactic pratfall.

And that trip to the basement, as the previous one, did not include a visit to the morgue – where’s Quincy M.E. when you need him?  But the staff who administered the test (Annoush the lightly anxious lab tech) were as expert and accommodating as the rest of the staff we’ve encountered here.

We were in the midst of prepping our notes for the evening report when we had a nice visit from Steve, a Nisei nutritionist who specialises in diet for a healthy heart.  We inadvertently embarrassed Nisei Steve with a question about the two empty piercings in his earlobe…  After some hesitation he said, “Misspent youth.”

Discussion about a healthy diet awakened hunger, since we hadn’t had anything to eat since the late-evening snack of the burrito the night before.  Crankiness and a mild headache was the logical result.  And, of course, the annoying anchor of the IV tower was present for the entire day until late in the evening, a constant reminder that one may hide but one can’t run.

And once again, all the staff here is cheerful and helpful, as well as professional in demeanor.  Very pleased with the human element.  Adding to the building list of great staff persons are Gonzalo, Jennie, Adrian, Edna, Donald, Anna, Douglas, Linda, Jay-jay, Doris, Robert, Skye, Maria, Eduardo and Melissa.

The Main Event itself was accompanied by family confusion and other issues, predominantly the worry of octogenarian parents.  While we were mostly bored with the entire run-up to the Main Event – having had so much experience in these areas after a lifetime record of nine surgeries and scores of ‘procedures’ – apparently others were concerned about various aspects, no matter how much they were reassured.  In fact, a state of expanding returns was reached at one point, as the reassurances seemed to actually *increase* feelings of doubt and uncertainty.

And of course the situation was not helped by certain scheduling uncertainties.  The doctor, described by the OR staff as “optimistic about time,” wound up being like two and half hours late.  Something about his previous surgery running long, making him rather tardy for our little procedure, leaving us fully prepped on the hard and punishing table.  But patients must be willing to have patience, so we tolerated the discomfort as long as we could before telling the nurse that it was time to go walkabout.

And of course that didn’t happen, but we were transferred back to a more comfortable situation for the duration of the wait.  Finally the doc showed up and we had a nice conversation about heist movies – and confidence game movies.  And then the morphine kicked in, which removed from the brain the title of a great heist movie that he recommended.

We came out of the chemical haze in good fettle, and pretty soon after that the crazy parents showed up with a taco and some of Mom’s home-made chili.  Yum.

Everything a success:  the ablation didn’t take too long and it was all in all much like having a tooth pulled.

This will be our final LIVE report from Six North of Glendale Memorial Hospital, and thanks to all for following this not-too-exciting story!

                       #                     #                     #

oh, PS:  For anyone who thought that 'Argo' really deserved a Best Pic Oscar, I'll point out that it merely joins the long list of falsely-elevated films that exploited Hollywood politics tugged heartstrings that were louder than common sense, among which these injustices stand out:

1941 - How Green Was My Valley over Citizen Kane
1948 - Hamlet over Treasure of the Sierra Madre
1976 - Rocky over Taxi Driver, Network, *and* All the President's Men?
1979 - Kramer vs Kramer over All That Jazz and Apocalypse Now?
1980 - Ordinary People over The Elephant Man and Raging Bull?

Really?  Argo over Lincoln?  Really?

And don't even bring up the Deer Hunter in 1978… please.

Reporting LIVE from Glendale Memorial Hospital – Morning update

Before I start my report, Walter, I just have to say, “What the hell was the Academy thinking?”  I like Ben Affleck, and I don’t agree with some of my friends that he should stick with his duckish insurance company and get out of the show business.  I liked the critic’s note in The New Yorker that he is the actor most at the mercy of his jawline, and I find him well-suited to both acting and directing.  But a best pic statue for Argo?  Forget ‘not so much’ – not at all.

Ok, here in Glendale, the story was much different than *fifteen hundred people* at the Governor’s Ball last night.  (Since when has the Gov’s Ball had so long a guest-list?)  As crews are rolling up the red carpet at the Dolby Theater and sweeping up the post-Oscar party-rooms, dawn’s rosy glow creeps across the San Bernardino mountains and the scene at GMH is much more subdued.

Dr Habashy, the meerkattish renologist, made me feel comfortable right away by calling me ‘habibi.’  Though there was no wafting on the air of chai or coffee, I seemed to hear a taksim in the background for the slimmest moment, over the chatter of gaiety going on in several languages at the nurse’s station right outside my door.  I like waking to the sound of laughter and the rapid-fire talk that I can’t understand.

Dr Habashy appeared (in stylish t-shirt, strategically-faded jeans and expensive driving shoes) in the murky light to reassure me that I may finally be disconnected from my chief nemesis (yes, that is redundundant, but entirely fitting):  the IV bag leashed to my arm.  I don’t know why I need this infernal annoyance.  The catheter in my arm (connected to some kind of fishing-bobberish valve strung in the middle of the supply tube that catches on everything) is constantly a bother (I have to unplug it if I want to leave the orbit of the bed – which is like every hour or so because of the super-hydration that the contraption occasions – and when I go walkabout it must be dragged along like a giraffe out for its micturational duties).  I  just can’t understand why I have to be hooked up to it at all.  As much as I might snark around about the food, this damn IV setup is really the only annoyance about my mini-vacation here on Six North.

Breakfast in the predawn hour

The one-liter bag of saline (more salt?  really?) finally emptied itself (with the help of a pump) after 29 hours – that’s what, three centiliters an hour?  Kinda ridiculous.  The supply line hooks on everything, like a child pulling on the doorknob to anchor himself out of having to go to the dentist.  I told them and told them, “Just give me a straw and I’ll drink the damn stuff.”  (I didn’t even suggest that they put some gin in it, as I normally would!)

And what you’re hearing behind me, Walter, is the parade of night nurses and orderlies going off-shift – “Bye by Jesse, bye Malu, bye Emma!” – after a long but quiet night here at Six North.  At the risk of applying a cliché, it really is like a family here.

Which reminds me, I have to add to the list of wonderful folks Pierre, Jesse, Abby & Albert.

This morning’s waking was different, however:  lovely Emma, the Yeravani siren who stopped me for speeding in the hallway on my first evening here, had suddenly turned from a brisk effectuator into a hyperefficient automaton, jerking me out  my  dream with a madrugadal demand for blood, and in my sophorific haze I was certain that she was Doc’s wife Assiduacia from Snow White & the Seven Dwarves.  And no matter how many times I tell them that I don’t want the blood-draw from the ditch (the soft crook of my elbow), it seems they always head to that spot as if it’s the only vein in my body.

I ate the last of the burrito last night and there is no breakfast this morning.  No juice, no water even, no nada.  Neante.  The big stress test comes today – in a short while in fact – and later in the day, the Main Event, so no food til dinner, such as that will be.  The continue to tacos haunt me – the lovely tacos that can’t be eaten, the phantom tacos just out of my reach.  The Americanos, crunchy and overstuffed.  The little blanda morditas, waiting for the cilantro and the spray of lime.  My nose reaches into the air in search of the savory tang of grilled chicken.   I am Tantalus, chained to an IV tower and smelling hospital cooking when not imagining merghez, chalao, or seared bonita with wasabi dressing.

There is still fake beer in the cajon by the bed, but none of that either til I come back in the late afternoon from the Ablatatory.  And Robert Louis Stevenson, another comida-obsessive author, floats into my consciousness:  “I dream of cheese – mostly toasted.”

I missed taking a pic of last night’s repast, because when they brought it in I was deep in conversation on the merits of poetry and the plotting of fiction with the lovely Echo Tech Lisa.  So the skinless tarragon chicken breast sat untouched for an hour, alongside its companion zucchini and roasted potatoes.  Then my hero, Dr McKenzie, visited to discuss the Main Event, and I was so famished that I made short work of it while discussing the merits of various ‘treatment modalities.’  So, no pic.  But I’m here to report that the meal was an improvement, even if the pechuga was a bit dry (not that *I* might have had anything to do with that, by leaving it on the side while conversationalising with Lisa).

Reporting LIVE from Glendale Memorial Hospital - 11:30 pm update -

David Hakim

February 24, 2013

Reporting LIVE from Glendale Memorial Hospital - 11:30 pm update -

so a lot of people *always* complain about friends who tweet or post about the 'wonderful' sandwich they just had or how great that foot massage feels (*while* they're getting it), and i have never seen the appeal of reporting in from the supermarket line or the carwash.

and then here i am, in the cardiac ward of the hospital on one more saturday night, and i thinks to myself, "well, why not?"

so i'm here to tell you that the food is somewhat adequate and too salty (!)... but the people here are cool and helpful and great in pretty much every respect.

had a nap for like three hours in the ER after they told me to forget getting any morphine. like they stopped all attention when they realised i wasn't gonna croak on the spot, so i had all that time to snooze. because of that, i was keyed up when we got to the CW... thinking, "well, my doc says i should get exercise every day, and i just had that nap."

so here i am taking a stroll around the floor, like on my seventeenth lap when this charge nurse pulls me over for speeding!

yah, i was shocked too. "too fast?" says i. "how can you tell?"

"heart rate's over a hundred," says she, "so get in the slow lane or i'll run you in." (parts of this exchange might not be verbatim)

just got me a nightcap (full liter bag of Saline Light - "breakfast of former champions!") - dominic the cheerful orderly guy just brought it in, sans paper umbrella.

"cheers!" i said as i first tasted the metallic flavor hitting my taste buds.

he looked at me slanticular and smiled: "sure!"

not sure if that "signs of the times" magazine came from him, but it was an interesting angle to see the world from.

moms came earlier and brought me some enchiladas - she smuggled them in wrapped in an old new yorker, so i'm set for now: food and reading. check. (see accompanying photo, live from the scene)

breakfast will be another story. longing for tacos. wistfully remembering the best tacos in ensenada (in hollywood with capt slanty). or those ones actually *in* ensenada. or those ones in mazatlan. or those ones at hotel colonial just south of rosarito with ric. or mi tierra. yah, it's tough in glendale on a saturday night: yearning for even one. small. relleno.

Reporting LIVE from Glendale Memorial Hospital - 9 O’clock update

 This update was originally scheduled for the 11 AM slot, but technical difficulties got in the way, so we’ve rescheduled it for the 9 PM broadcast.

So yah, breakfast was a little sketchy.  What’s the deal with “Belgian Waffles” anyway?  The association of “Belgian” is misleading – they are nothing like Belgian bulldogs.  Here is what I found when I lifted the insulating cover on the plate:  two tiny waffles (suspiciously like frozen waffles and nothing like actual Belgian waffles) with two small turkey sausages on a plate with a piece of miniature purple cabbage the size of a confession wafer, which was the most attractive thing on the plate.

So my mind is going, Ok, we got some kind of post-modern hotdogs here that they expect you to put fake maple syrup on and nom nom nom boy that’s some good eatin’.  It all makes me wonder what Jim Harrison (The Raw & the Cooked) would make of this.

I mean, look, the waffles really do resemble the crypt systems in modern graveyards, which are like the cubbyholes of old post offices but all poured concrete, installed at the same time and capped later to keep out vermin et al.  The other visual association is with “waffle stompers” – vibram-soles on shoes.  Yum!  That’s attractive.  So you got these “waffles.” 

 

And then you got this little cluck-weiner bedded there.  Now I don’t need eggs, and I certainly don’t want a Grand Slam, but jeez… there’s got to be something edible around this joint.

I know that airline food is notoriously terrible, and hospital food is famously terrible.  I get it about the airline food – they have factories where they make about ten thousand meals at once and they’re bottom-lining and you’re trapped in this speeding aluminum cylinder miles above the welcoming earth, so you can’t complain.  And you’re probably hungry, right?  I mean after the long run down the concourse to the gate and all.  So you’re gonna eat at least some of it.

But what’s the deal with hospitals?  Is the quality level of the food meant to make sure you don’t come back?  Are they doing you a favor on some subliminal level?  You’d think they want to take pride in the food – especially since you might want to stay longer in the costly room.

Why no miso soup?  Oh yah, too much salt in the miso.   But you know – and this is no kidding – the staff here is exemplary.  Emma & Francisco & Hector & Kathleen & Lisa & everyone is just super.  And not only that, they laugh real authentic laughs at my attempts at humor.

 

Hector took me down to the basement in a wheelchair, bound for the big stress-test machine that is rather reminiscent of a MRI maw.  And I thought, The basement, huh?  So I says to him, “Hey, Hector – you ain’t takin me to the morgue, are ya?”

And Hector says, “Naw, you ain’t dead.  Why would I take you to the morgue?”

“Oh, I don’t know.  I kinda pictured you  opening the door and sayin, ‘See all those guys?  If you don’t straighten up, you’re gonna wind up here!’”

And he answers, “Scared straight, huh?”

“Scared stiff, is more like it.  If I owned a hospital, that’s what I’d do.”

 So dear dear Lorin smuggled in a nice fat burrito and a six-pack of fake beer, so lunch was double good (as if to disprove my assertions about the food in the graphs above, the spaghetti & meatballs was pretty good – al dente to the tooth-edge!   Not as good as Mom's, but then whose is?).  We had a nice visit, and then off she went.

Now sharing poetry with Lisa, the Echo Tech.  And ain’t that a cool phrase for the moniker…

Reporting LIVE from Glendale Memorial Hospital - 11:30 PM update

So a lot of people always complain about friends who tweet or post about the 'wonderful' sandwich they just had or how great that foot massage feels (while they're getting it), and I’ve never seen the appeal of reporting in from the supermarket line or the carwash.

And then here I am, in the cardiac ward of the hospital on one more Saturday night, and I thinks to myself, "Well, why not?"

So I’m here to tell you that the food is somewhat adequate and too salty (!)...  But the people here are cool and helpful and great in pretty much every respect.

Had a nap for like three hours in the ER after they told me to forget getting any morphine. Like they stopped all attention when they realised I wasn't gonna croak on the spot, so I had all that time to snooze.

Because of that, I was keyed up when we got to the CW... thinking, "Well, my doc says I should get exercise every day, and I just had that nap."

So here I am taking a stroll around the floor, like on my seventeenth lap when this charge nurse pulls me over for speeding!

Yah, I was shocked too. "Too fast?" says I. "How can you tell?"

She points to the monitor on her rolling cart, where my name blinks like a "Don't Walk" sign in two-inch-tall red letters – then swings that accusing finger to the transponder slung against my chest.

"Heart rate's over a hundred," says she, "so get in the slow lane or I’ll run you in, pal." (Parts of this exchange might not be verbatim.  Your mileage may vary.  Contents may have shifted.  Objects are closer than they appear.)

Just got me a nightcap (full liter bag of Saline Light - "Breakfast Of Former Champions!") - Dominic the cheerful orderly guy just brought it in, sans paper umbrella.

"Cheers!" I said, as I first tasted the metallic flavor hitting my taste buds.

He looked at me slanticular and smiled: "Sure."

Not sure if that "Signs of the Times" magazine came from him, but it was an interesting angle to see the world from.

Moms came earlier and brought me some enchiladas - she smuggled them in wrapped in an old New Yorker, so I’m set for now: food and reading. Check. (See accompanying photo, live from the scene.)

Breakfast will be another story.

Longing for tacos. Wistfully remembering the Best Tacos in Ensenada (in Hollywood with Captain Slanty).

Or those ones actually in Ensenada.

Or those ones in Mazatlan: tacos de atun, in a rich tomato sauce.

Or those ones at Hotel Colonial just south of Rosario with Ric.

Or at Perone's on Boulevard Baby Heroes in Tijuana.

Or Tacos Delta near Sunset Junction, where Lucille crosses Sunset.

Or, while we're in that neighborhood,  Casita de Campo on Hyperion.

Or Mi Tierra... always.

Yah, it's tough in Glendale on a Saturday night: yearning for even One. Small. Relleno.