You are NOT going to the shuk this morning; we are going to the Emergency Room. There was a time – when I was in my salad days – that I would have argued with Barbara: Let’s wait and see if it clears up by itself. These days, when all my salad greens are wilting, I know better. When you wake up on a Thurs. morning, and your catheter bag is filled (filled!) with blood, you don’t ask questions and you don’t make excuses. So I got myself ready, while Barbara made some phone calls to get at least an unofficial referral from Maccabi, and off we went to Hadassah.

If any of you are of a certain age and grew up in The States, you just might remember Gene Autry, the Singing Cowboy, and his theme song, ‘Back in the Saddle Again,’ which can be heard by clicking here. Somewhere around the second or third time we were on our way to the hospital, I began singing, Back in the E.R. Again (That’s where the nurse is your friend/When you’ve suffered through the night/They will surely make it right/Back in the E.R. again)

And who was there staffing the E.R. Admissions Office? None other than Tehilla, née Pomerantz, the same young nurse who had tended to me the last morning I was there, having my catheter changed. Now she was monitoring vital signs when would-be patients first came in. And what did she say to me, after reviewing all my vitals? Your pulse rate is impressive! Most times, that’s a good thing, but I sort of figured that’s not what she meant, because within minutes I was waiting my turn for an EKG.  

The technician, an older man wearing a ‘Volunteers without borders’ shirt (in Hebrew), looked me over once or twice and asked, ‘You’re from the north-east, aren’t you?’ I didn’t bother asking how he figured that out. I just replied, ‘I’m from New York’; I’m from The Bronx.’ Turns out that the technician started out life eons ago in Brooklyn, of all places. Whether he expected an answer or not to his next question, he wondered out loud why it’s The Bronx and not The Brooklyn. And so, while he was fiddling with my chest, I gave him a full explanation of why it’s The Bronx – with a capital ‘The.’ (I hope it made his day.)

All the previous times I needed the E.R., getting processed was fairly quick if not painless. This time? Whether they were exceptionally busy, whether it was because our ‘hafnayah’ was unofficial, or whether it was because of my ‘impressive’ vitals, we waited in the corridor for an hour or so before we spent about a minute and a half speaking to a doctor prior to being ushered into the E.R. proper and given a bed. From our vantage point near a door, we could see people being wheeled in on stretchers one after another, all in much worse shape than I was – if that would be of any consolation.

It took several hours, but my catheter got changed (again!), my system got cleaned out, and I received a ‘kol hakavod’ from another nurse when liquid finally began flowing into my bag. It was something like 8PM, nine hours after we arrived, when we got the word that Barbara and I were free to go home. Any idea what the problem was? The E.R. doctor admitted he did not know and suggested that I see a urologist right away to find out. (I think we’re working on that…) My suspicion is that it had something to do with a medicine I had started taking two day before. I think we’ll just not take it anymore. Another medicine consigned to the pill pile of infamy, for those prescriptions that did no good, or made things worse.

The original plan for the day had been that I would go to the shuk and hustle back home to meet up with our friends the Reeds, who were coming to Ma’ale Adumim to pick up us and another woman and head out to Beit Shemesh to pay a shiva call to Bryna Lee, A.J.’s widow. As we were leaving the hospital that evening, another friend, Chaya, called Barbara to find out how our day went. When she found out where we were, she turned her car around and picked us up at the hospital. I was finally back home, given a clean bill of health, and so I gave out my first sigh of relief, as in, I can probably make it to my procedure on March 1 without further ado. Well, not quite.

Imagine my feeling of consternation and dismay when I woke up Shabbat morning at about 3AM to discover that my bedclothes and linens were more than damp. (As the Wicked Witch of the West would have said in similar circumstances, ‘I’m leaking, I’m leaking.’) To prevent occurrences like this, I methodically tape every catheter connection that might become undone. What was the problem now?

Shabbat morning, we examined and tightened everything we could think of, and I made it through the day without any further mishap, but I wasn’t convinced I had figured out what was wrong. Sat. night, we accepted the Aaron’s invitation to join them, so we could finally pay a shiva call in Beit Shemesh. I sat in the car both ways, nervously fingering my pants leg, not at all sure that it was perfectly dry. The Jacobson’s apartment was filled with friends and acquaintances from Ma’ale Adumim and Sam, who had arrived from New Jersey in time to finish sitting shiva with his mother, so we got to talk to him and listen to the general conversation. One thing I realized on the way back. Esther Aaron had no trouble navigating in the dark, but I could not imagine being in the driver’s seat. There’s nothing especially wrong with my eyesight, but I kept thinking, ‘I can’t see sh-t! Both the wife and I have come to an understanding that our days behind the wheel are at an end. Probably a wise move.

I was hoping for a better night in bed, but the same problem reoccurred. We had tightened and retightened, taped and re-taped anything and everything that might have been the cause of the problem. Was there a leak in the bag; was there something wrong with the catheter, meaning we’d have to go back to the E.R.?

And then in the morning in the clear light of day, something occurred to me. I had noticed a small piece of plastic that was dangling off one of the supplemental tubes in my super-catheter, but I hadn’t given it much thought. Now I examined it more carefully. Wait a minute: if I fold it over, I can attach it to another piece on the tube, and that will…close a little opening.

That’s it!!! That must be it!!!I’ve figured out what was wrong. It’s a little opening, so nothing much will happen if I’m sitting or standing, but if I’m lying down in bed…on my side. Now that I’ve closed it… I could feel the tension being drained from my body, like air leaving a balloon that some kid has just popped.

I was thinking about our lunch on Shabbat. Chaya, the woman who graciously drove us home Thurs. eve., and figuring we were somewhat stressed, came through with a last-minute invitation. After the meal, she began explaining tapping therapy (Emotional Freedom Technique or EFT), something which she is involved with. Apparently, this treatment is all the rage here in The Land to help reduce anxiety – although one might wonder why so many Israelis are stressed out these days. A short video about EFT is available here, although there are many other videos available. I listened carefully and followed along.

But… if a group of people are sitting around, trying to redirect their thoughts to something positive, all the while doing the focused breathing that women do during childbirth (Lamaze), of course it will do some good – even if their objective experiences remain the same. What does the ‘tapping’ have to do with it? But I just solved a problem that was mamash stressing me out. I had every right to feel a lot better. At least, the week that shouldn’t have been ended on a positive note, for which I am truly grateful.

Now all I have to do is make it – in one piece – until March 1, when the procedure is scheduled. That gives me two weeks to remain calm, while I complete all the tests and collect all the paperwork Hadassah-Ein Kerem requires. Keep me in your thoughts and prayers; I’ll take all the help I can get.