I took my blood pressure today per doctor’s instructions, removing the apparatus from the top of the laundry room closet, worried that it wouldn’t work. I strapped it on and watched the high number going down, wondering when it might stop, am I about to die. The mystery of it. And is this making it worse? I was one point above high blood pressure, if they call it points.

This morning as I walked from the school to the train, I perceived in the corner of my eye a man prone on the street. A team of EMTs were huddled around him. One held a bandage against his brow. I wanted to look, so I turned away. I knew it wouldn’t be right somehow. I crossed the street and navigated a little crowd of people who’d stopped and turned around. I looked at them. Their expressions were unconcerned, unalarmed. Maybe the guy was alive, alert. Maybe he was going to be OK. Or maybe that’s just the way humans appear when they’re watching someone die.

I thought of that day in London with my dad. A cloudburst had come and the sidewalks and streets were suddenly slick. We approached a group of people who seemed to be standing still for no good reason. Then I saw between them a tall, dapper, dark-haired man who had fallen and cracked his skull. His dark crimson blood flowed over the slate-gray pavement and mingled with rivulets of rain. Someone was on a knee beside him, doing what he could, I guess, while help was on its way. My dad gripped my hand a little harder and we walked past.

The cough is back. Dormant for hours sometimes, other times spasmodic to the point where I wonder what will happen if I don’t stop. I see myself pounding on our bedroom door, rousing Sara and wordlessly directing her to dial 911. But this has all happened before, and before, and before.

In the middle of the night I awoke from a dream about football that had turned into a dream about soccer; a pleasant dream, about a ball lofted through the air into a net, and felt so sick, so miserable. I figured it was because I’d had too much to drink. But I hadn’t been out—couldn’t have been that much, could it? Just a whiskey or two, or maybe three, on top of the wine of course, as the quiet night wore on. Still I felt that pang of guilt that readily accompanies the pain.

I got up to take two naproxens. Just that effort accentuated my misery. Waking up Sara, inevitably, reassuring her I was OK. Feeling a little unsteady on my feet, in the dark. And of course there’s no immediate payoff to the drugs. Just doubt on top of the agony.

I thrashed about, unable to find a tolerable position. I flipped the pillow to the cool side and noted dismally that the cool sensation, normally blissful, universally recognized as such in fact, was now a taunt, a reproach. I was in desperate need of relief and it gave me none. It mocked me with cold, awful truth. I thought I could vomit. I thought maybe I should.

And then after some fitful sleep, as I lay in a reverie, I felt the painkillers kick in. The very moment they kicked in. It was like my head opened up—it felt good, almost too good. All the wretchedness flowed away. I felt a kind of wonderful void, exhilarating and a little scary. And then I slept a few more hours.

The neck pain returned early in the afternoon. I tried to do some of the exercises I’d read about online. Stick your head back and your chin down into your chest. I imagined it felt better but it probably just felt different. I foresaw a tangle of trips to the doctor, unpredictable absences, work in disarray; then to the chiropractor, then perhaps a discussion with HR about ergonomic chairs. Or maybe I’ll just live with it.

Medical Equipment I Have Seen

The ConMed Hyfrecator 2000.

The last few nights, there’s been a period when I’ve emerged from the beginning of sleep, or from a reverie, and been wide awake, unhappy, restless. I’ve considered getting up and doing something with that time—writing, playing the guitar—but of course I haven’t, because all I wanted was to get back to sleep. It’s the terrible quandary of the insomniac. All that precious wakefulness, and you don’t want to use it.

Do we participate in medical rituals superstitiously? Are they doing us any good, or are they merely fulfilling some ancient, neurotic need? We have all the equipment in the world, the drugs, the antibiotics. But what if we’ve really just come all the way around again to treating our ailments the way we did in the Middle Ages?

The ophthalmologist told me my eyes were fine but I still needed to take the drops.

“You’re still showing characteristics of pre-glaucoma,” she said. “So that’s something we still need to manage and still need to follow.”

I had taken the peripheral vision test, where you look into a scope and click a clicker every time a little white light blinks somewhere in the field. It always seems more like a test of reflexes, or of honesty. Sometimes I just click mindlessly, thinking a light must have blinked, however faintly, and so why don’t I just guess and hope I got it right? Never mind that it does more good, in a medical exam, to do honestly poorly than to do luckily well. It’s nerve-racking and fraught; it’s a performance.

At one point the assistant said, “Sir?” I was vaguely aware that she must be talking to me but I was somehow reluctant to respond, lost in my blank, blurry world with its occasional pinpricks of light.

“Sir? Do you need any help?”

“No, I’m fine,” I said finally. It occurred to me that I probably had missed an entire series of flashes and got her worried. And it further occurred to me that I hadn’t reacted to them not because I hadn’t seen them but because I just didn’t want to for a little while. I didn’t want to play along.

I finished the test feeling I must have done terribly. Not clicking for stretches at a time, clicking spasmodically for others. The assistant told me to return to the doctor’s examining room. As I waited there I imagined her concerned expression, her suggestion that further investigations were in order. Perhaps deeper and more time-consuming examinations at a better-equipped facility in a hospital annex uptown. I imagined having to explain to her that I really was fine, I just didn’t want to click the clicker sometimes, you know? Even when I saw the light. And other times I clicked it again and again for no good damn reason, I’m sorry. Can I please, please take the test again?

When she came in she pulled up my results on her computer and said they were fine.

“Your pressure’s fine. Your peripheral vision is fine. Come back again in four months and we’ll do it again.”

“Keep taking the drops?” I asked.

“Yes,” she replied. “Of course. Keep taking the drops.”

Medical Equipment I Have Seen

The Philips SureSigns VS3.

Medical Equipment I Have Seen

The OxiMax N-600X.

All Those Times I Bought You Fireworks

(A one-act play.)

CHARACTERS

The Man: A man in his late twenties. He wears a Yarmulke and speaks with a strong Brooklyn accent.
Julie: A woman in her late twenties.

TIME

The present. Early Friday evening.

SCENE

The emergency room of a Manhattan hospital, ringed by long banquettes and end tables piled with magazines. A few framed posters for Impressionist art exhibits hang on the walls. The receptionist's head is just visible above a tall counter at the far wall. A large clock hangs on the wall behind her, reading 6:17 when the curtain rises. A closed door, leading to the examining rooms, is to the right of the reception counter. The Man is sitting a bit hunched over, speaking on his phone. His girlfriend, Julie, sits beside him. They are angled toward each other so that their knees touch. She occasionally fondly caresses his knees and thighs. Around them other patients sit and wait silently, doing the things people do in waiting rooms: leafing through magazines, checking their phones, urging restless children to keep quiet and behave.

The Man: I’m still in the city.

No, I’m still in the city. I need to ask you a favor. Big favor. You going by a liquor store?

A liquor store.

A LI-QUOR STORE.

I need a bottle of wine.

[A few seconds pass.]

What about your uncle?

He’s not home? Where is he?

[A few more seconds pass.]

You think he’ll pass by a liquor store on his way home?

Why? I need him to buy me a bottle of wine is why. Like I told you so.

[A few more seconds pass.]

Alright.

[The Man hangs up and dials another number.]

Jonah! Where are you?

You’re not home? You heading home?

Are you by any chance driving by a liquor store?

LIQUOR. Liquor, liquor, liquor. Wine.

Not now. On your way. On your way home, Jonah. Do you think you will be driving by a liquor store on your way home? If it’s on the way.

Why? I would like a bottle of wine.

What do you think I’m going to do with it? I’m going to drink it, that’s what I’m going to do. I like to have a nice bottle of wine for shabbas.

The Carmel. I like the Carmel.

Well are you going to pass one?

You don’t know. [To Julie, mockingly, not making an effort to cover the receiver: He doesn’t know.] Where’s Morty? You think he’s at work still?

I’m still in the city.

His train is two stops shorter. He’ll get home before me. Maybe he can go pick me up a bottle of wine at the liquor store.

OK. Alright.

[The Man hangs up the phone. Julie gazes at him quizzically. She no longer caresses him but her hands still rest on his knees.]

The Man: Why you looking at me like that? The look.

Julie: I’m not! It’s just...

The Man: It’s just what? It’s what?

Julie: It’s just... Nothing.

The Man: It’s what? It’s what? It’s what?

Julie [loudly]: The wine!

The Man: The wine?

Julie: The wine! You and your bottle of wine.

The Man [defensively]: What, I like to have a nice bottle of wine. What’s wrong with that? For shabbas.

Julie: I know...

The Man: We’re stuck in this verkochte waiting room. I would like to have a bottle of wine when I get home.

Julie: It’s just...

The Man: What, it’s just?

Julie: It’s just that you’re being so weird about it.

The Man [shaking his head and rolling his eyes]: I gotta call Morty.

[The Man dials another number.]

The Man: Morty! Where are you?

I’m in the city still. I’m still in the city. Listen—

No, no. I know. What?

[A few seconds pass.]

Really? She what?

She said that to him directly?

She said that to him on the phone? She said those words to him on the telephone?

What’s he going to do?

Uh-huh?

Uh-huh...

Ruthie warned him about that! She warned him about exactly that! She warned him about that exact thing.

Uh-huh...

I cannot believe she said those words to him by telephone. Morty, you are pulling my leg. Listen!—

Uh-huh?

Uh-huh...

Well tell them shabbat shalom from me, OK?

[Julie nudges the Man on the knee and gives him a pointed look.]

Tell them from me and Julie. From Julie too. Hey! I’m forgetting what I called you for with your crazy story.

Hmm? I need to ask you a favor. A simple favor. Will you pass a liquor store on your way home?

For what? A bottle of wine. A bottle of red wine.

Get me the Carmel. I like the Carmel.

What do you mean, you don’t know? A man doesn’t know if he passes a liquor store on his way home from the train? Day after day after day? You don’t know.

Morty, you get home fifteen minutes before me. Even if I leave now.

In the city. I’m still in the city.

[Away from the receiver, to Julie]: Honey, find out if we’re next. Please. Find out if we’re next.

[Julie releases his knee brusquely, with a trace of contempt (but only a trace), and walks up to the counter to find out if they are next. She and the receptionist can be seen speaking to each other but their words are inaudible.]

[In the meantime]: Yeah, so, Morty. I need you to do me this favor.

Well go out of your way a little. Not too far. A little. As a favor to me. For all those times I, you know.

[Julie returns. The Man looks up and inquires with his eyes. She shakes her head and sits back down. The Man shakes his head slightly as he returns to his conversation.]

All those times, I don’t know. All those times I bought you fireworks.

[A few seconds pass.]

[Dejectedly]: Alright. Yeah. Alright, bye-bye.

[The Man hangs up with a sigh and notes the time.]

[To Julie]: What, are you saying we should get out of here?

[Julie gives him a funny-reproachful grimace.]

[About 10 seconds pass.]

The Man: Alright, let’s go.

Julie: You sure?

The Man: Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go. Come on. Up.

Julie: But what about—

The Man [interrupting]: We have to go. The time.

Julie: OK.

The Man: We’re running out of time.

Julie: OK.

[They both get up but the Man does so with extreme difficulty. He can barely put any weight on his left leg. He winces and makes some half-suppressed exclamations of pain.]

Julie: You OK?

The Man: Yep.

Julie: Take it easy, honey. Easy.

The Man: Yep.

[They walk slowly, laboriously out of the office, Julie supporting the Man from under his shoulder, and helping to direct him until they are finally out the door.]

THE END

Medical Equipment I Have Seen

The Biosonic US100R ultrasonic scaler.

Medical Equipment I Have Seen

The Kowa VX-10 fundus camera.

Medical Equipment I Have Seen

The Canon RK-3 Auto Refractor Keratometer.

Medical Equipment I Have Seen

The Gendex GX-770.

Medical Equipment I Have Seen

The Den-Tal-Ez AS3000.

It starts out like a little, wheezy cough. It grows into an apprehension of frailty, a faint dizziness. My face and forehead are hot now and when I feel them it feels good and it feels good and suddenly I feel my pulse from inside and from out; I feel it beating on my hands and fingers.

It Was Something You Ate

Pinkas Lebovits, my new dermatologist, walked in and took a quick look at my arms.

"It was something you ate."

"Really?"

"Yes. What did you eat last night? Pork?"

"No."

"Seafood, shellfish?"

"No."

"No? Fish? No?"

"No."

"Spicy foods? Tomatoes?"

He broke off to take a call in Polish. The black cord hung across the door as he stood at the counter and faced the glass cabinets. Dobrze, dobrze, he said. Dobrze. Finally he hung up and turned around.

"So are you sure that's what it is? It's what I ate?"

"Yes. It comes from the inside."

He took his pad out of his lab coat pocket and began to scrawl.

"It will go away. Eat simple foods, simple."

"OK."

"No spicy foods, no pork. No fish."

"OK."

"The poison is leaving your system. No shellfish."

"No shellfish."

"Sometimes maybe you feel uncomfortable, but you don't worry." He made a circular gesture with his hand. "You gonna be fine."

"Good."

"Come see me in two weeks. It goes away already, cancel."

"Sure."

"If you cannot breathe, you call the emergency room."

"Right."

"No shellfish."

"OK."

"No pork, no fish. No red wine."

"Oh?"

"No eggs."

"OK."

He turned to open the door.

"Thank you," I said.

"You're welcome," he said.

"Thanks," I said.

He walked ahead of me back down the hall.

"My name is Dr. Lebovits," he said. He didn't turn his head.

Medical Equipment I Have Seen

The HLS-500 Halogen Light Source.

Septoplasty

There were morbid moments that had the air of ceremony. On the form: List your next of kin. And the small, mustachioed man at the intake desk asking, Any particular religious preference? Funny way to ask that question. Like he was asking what vodka I wanted in a bloody mary. Whatever's fine, I should've said. But I said, emphatically, None at all, and his reaction was like that was precisely what he wanted and expected me to say. And when the surgeon handed me a form and said with a forced chuckle, This makes people nervous when we ask them; it really shouldn't, but we have to ask anyway. It was consent to receive a blood transfusion, should the need arise. Initial here. It didn't make me nervous. Once, the litany of questions asked again and again by various parties—Do you smoke? Do you drink? How much? Do you take drugs? Any allergies?—took an abrupt turn when recited by a clipboard-carrying nurse: Are you a Jehovah's Witness... at all? She stumbled a bit at the absurdity of it. I think that's why she added "at all," as though I might be one just a little and that may still pose some sort of problem. I'm thinking about it... I'm almost one, frankly. But I reassure her no. OK, because they don't take blood transfusions, she said quickly, and hurried to the next question.

Do you drink? the kindly, motherly Asian nurse was asking me. Do you smoke? I had not yet been submitted to the indignities I knew were to come, the donning of the assless gown and padded sockies. In fact, there was a weird dignity to my present circumstances: I was seated in a high-backed chair against the wall, half-drawn curtains separating me from similar stations on either side. There was a thronelike quality to the chair and its position, its role in this ceremony of deference. A robotic-looking blood pressure machine stood like a sentry to my right. So this is what it's like to be king for a day. Any allergies?

Before long I had to go to the changing room and pile my clothes in the gunmetal gray locker. I was given two gowns and told to wear them each way. One forward and one backward. Go both ways. One way is life and the other is death. I took note of the pattern of rubberization on the soles of the beige ankle socks: It was a striation that could almost but not quite be termed decorative.

I padded around the waiting area in my beige socks and both-ways gowns. No one seemed to have an immediate agenda for me. There I was a few feet from the desk, a few feet from the chairs. Neither coming from nor going to. Like one of the undead. Nurses clutching clipboards gossiped and fussed with paperwork and looked through me for awhile. Sit over there, I was finally told, and so I sat in the third row of an impromptu gallery of plastic chairs facing nothing, the kind of arrangement you see in a small-town DMV. I sat there and read New York magazine for a long, long time, an article about a memoirist who might be lying, as others around me came and went and I began to wonder whether I'd been forgotten or whether the whole thing had been some kind of mistake, some complete and hilarious misunderstanding: You thought what, sir? You thought you were getting surgery!?

Then very quietly someone came over and got me.

The surgeon greeted me and escorted me to a place behind the doors. You were born exactly ten days before me, he said. I think I said that's funny. He instructed me to lie on a wheeled bed.

The anesthesiologist was tall and had a heavy accent. Eastern European, I thought. Romanian, Bulgarian. Do you smoke? No. Do you drink? Yes. You don't take any kinds, you know, illegal drugs or what.

Of course not.

To my left a young Asian doctor introduced himself, shook my hand, and plumped up the crook of my elbow for a good vein. You're going to feel a pinch. And I did feel a pinch: the pressure of my entire being escaping into the world at large. Suddenly my circulatory system was connected to the cosmic ether. I felt vaguely idiotic and serene. Whatever may go in me, may go in me. I'm in the blood and the blood's in me.

The surgeon grabbed my bed by a railing at the foot and wheeled me down a series of halls, around corners, through doors, cheerily greeting colleagues along the way. It was impossible to overlook the infantile aspect of the experience. Or a dream where your bed is a car.

At the end I was asked to get up and I felt a vague irritation at this - wasn't I in bed already? I'm stricken, for Christ's sake. I have on backwards-forwards clothes and my body's hooked up to a plastic bag. I stepped gingerly through the swinging doors and into the operating theater. There was a forbidding padded plank in its center, with masked figures all around. Remove the top gown, I was told. Lie down. Put your arms out like this - that's right, like that. It occurred to me that I'd crucified myself - my arms were outstretched on the lateral extensions of the cross and all there was to do was drive the nails.

The anesthesiologist rematerialized. You comfortable? Good. Now we gonna give you something to relax you little bit.

It dawned on me to ask him what it was. What is it? There was a beat or two of pause. This was not a question he was accustomed to answering.

It's valium and, um, morphine.

Good, I said, and I tried very, very hard to focus on the high, to know the high, to get inside of this high now, right here, now, this high right now, I watch the ceiling, feel it, to be high, to feel it, feel it, feel it, feel...

I woke up with a shot and no idea where the fuck I was. Why, what, light, who? OK, surgery. I just had surgery.



Illustration by Louise Asherson