Catch-Up and health

So, now we're getting used to the new normal - sort of. Medical scares and problems have a way of doing that.

M. had an appointment with a cardiologist. A cardiologist! Unfortunately, one bus was running a few minutes late, while the next one left a little early...He's had to reschedule, as well as set an appointment with our primary care doctor. Then there's the whole diet thing. Pizza delivery has been curtailed (and we were within a point or two of getting a free pizza; with all that grease, though...).

Then, there's my son-in-law, B, who is on a whole new regime of meds that may or may not make a huge difference. But at least he's home, after two trips to the hospital. (The second trip came less than 24 hours after he got home from the first one.) If one good thing came out of his hospitalization, it's the fact that B. and M.H. now have a car. M.H. hadn't been able to bring their daughter, my granddaughter, to see her dad in the hospital; this will make their life somewhat easier.

Note: Unless you happen to live in New York City or any place where public transportation is abundant and parking is at a premium, getting around without a car makes life interesting, at best. If you have access to a car 24/7, try parking it for a week. Grocery shopping, going to work, job hunting, going to the doctor's, everything becomes a matter of logistics: When do I have to leave to catch the bus to...? Can I afford another cab ride?

My friend Cookie's husband has been transferred to another facility; he hasn't been home for three weeks now. They're not sure when he'll be home. My friend Kevin's dad is not doing well, either. I don't envy any of them.

On top of this, my daughter M.H. told me that her friend Sam's sister died near the end of the week when M. and B. were in the hospital. Her sister was 30, and died of a blood clot.

Life expectancies have slowly gotten longer over the years; most of us are sure we'll live longer than our parents did. And while my friend Kevin's dad may be in his late-80s, the others in my circle who've recently been hospitalized - 30 to 56 years of age - show that we can never take our health for granted. We all need to do what we can, what is within our power to change, to ensure our health. Granted, some things can't be changed; genetics figure into our health. But most of us do need to do what we can to change.

One last thing: I know one person who has done that. When I first met J., an intelligent guy with a great sense of humor, he was way overweight. Many of his friends worried about him, because of his weight. I didn't see him for a while; when I did, he'd dropped quite a lot of weight. He's finally at his ideal weight, having lost the equivalent of two medium-weight people. Two! How did he do it? No surgery, no weird, magical thinking. He went through Weight Watchers, stuck to the plan, even when eating out, and went to the gym almost every day. He's an inspiration to all who've watched this transformation. And while this might not change all the medical things he'll go through in life - age and genetics fit in, too - he has done what many of us need to do to ensure a healthy life.

Punchline is this: if we're doing something detrimental to our health, we have a choice: Change it for a chance at life, or don't. I'm including myself here. We deserve giving health a fighting chance; so do our families.

What a week, or Is everyone in the hospital?

There are days that make a person just want to crawl back under the covers and hide. A good book might help, along with a plate of homemade cookies and a cup of coffee or tea. Or maybe a quart of vodka, if that's your preference. But since I don't drink...But let me back up and explain...

Actually, it wasn't just a day, but, rather, the entire week. It started back about a week-and-a-half ago, on Sunday, February 3 when my friend, Cookie, called. We've known each other for over half-a-lifetime, seen each other through the weird thing we call life. She'd just gotten her kids back from what sounds like a horrible ex- when we first met. Her kids and mine were all younger than our grandkids are now. We know things about each other that would make great fodder for the daily soaps, as is the case with most long-term friendships, but that's a whole 'nother story.

So, when I saw Cookie's number on the Caller I.D., I picked up. "What's up?" I asked.

"Well, I've had the morning from hell," she answered.

Because Cookie has a strong Drama Queen gene, I sighed. I figured it could be anything from The neighbor parked in my space to who-knows-what. I'm not griping, just explaining. I, too, have been accused of being a Drama Queen. For the most part, I honestly love seeing friends' and family members' Drama Queen-ness.

But this time, it was serious, and she truly had had the morning from hell. Her husband, L, was in the hospital with a stroke; she'd found him lying on the bathroom floor that morning, tried to wake him, move him, anything, before calling 9-1-1. They'd taken him to a nearby hospital; after some preliminary tests, and finding out how serious it was, he was transferred to another hospital.

"The place they took him to, XYZ Hospital? It's a train wreck." She knew, since she'd had to work there, years ago. She'd wanted him transferred to a different hospital, but it wasn't in the cards.

We talked while she tried taking her mind off what was going on. The doctors weren't hopeful, though things are starting to look a little better now, eleven days later. With any luck, he'll recover.

Then, Tuesday, February 6, my son M. informed me that he wasn't feeling well. "What's up?" I asked. Turns out, he was having chest pain. At least he told me around 5:00 p.m.; he's been known to let me know he needs to go to the E.R. at much less convenient times, like 2 a.m. Also, he's gone to the E.R. with chest pain a couple of times before, and it had always been something fairly benign. Since everyone in the house had had a bad cold or a minor case of the flu a few weeks back, I figured it was just left over tightness from all the coughing.

But since it was chest pain and M.'s dad had died at the ripe old age of 49, we called my friend Kevin to take us to Bayfront Medical. Turns out Kevin was tied up and said he could get us in maybe 45 minutes or so. Okay. Since Kev usually goes home early on Mondays and Tuesdays, this was a little unusual, but we didn't think much about it.

But after a few minutes, M. decided he really couldn't wait, could I please call 9-1-1? So I did, while M. called Kev back using his cell phone to tell him not to come by. In a little while, we were in Bayfront's E.R., being hurried into a room, where they started a battery of tests. There were others in the E.R., but certain things - chest pain, included - trump other things, like sprains.

Shortly after we got there, I called Kevin to see how late he was planning to be out. I figured he'd say he was already home. Turns out, he was at another hospital, not far from the one we were in. He had a family member who'd had a heart attack that morning and had gone to the E.R. This family member has had medical issues for a while; for privacy, that's all I'll say. But Kev said that he'd probably be heading home around 8; he'd call me when he was leaving to see if I needed a ride home.

M. was still in the E.R. when I left; they'd already said that they were keeping him for the night. Turned out, M.'d had a mild heart attack. Treated, taken care of, minimal damage, home several days later. Good as new, or as good as possible.

So, Thursday, after we'd gotten home, picked up his meds, etc., I got on the computer and discovered my son-in-law was in another hospital, and had been since the night before.

"I thought I told you," my daughter said. If she had, somehow I hadn't heard it.

M. is now on the mend, working today (it's not heavy work, so the doctor cleared him for that). B. is also on the mend, back at home. L., though, will be in the hospital for a while, as is Kev's family member. The best we can do is pray, send good vibes, thoughts, and wishes.

Would you mind horribly if I just crawl back under the covers with a good book and a cup of tea? One more thing - pass me a cookie...preferably peanut butter...

Ed Koch, New York's "Pugnacious" Former Mayor

Ed Koch, New York's colorful former mayor, died yesterday morning.

Okay, part of that might be obvious; if someone becomes New York's mayor, chances are that person is either somewhat colorful or forgotten. It seems to be that simple. Other cities may have mayors whose names most of us are unfamiliar with. But to be mayor in the city that never sleeps, you'd pretty much have to be a colorful character. Even then, Koch seemed to stand out, with his arms outstreched.

I heard of his death yesterday morning on Today, then read about his death in the Tampa Bay Times. The Times article, originally from the Washington Post, caught Ed Koch's essence beautifully. One paragraph from the article states, "'How'm I doing?' the mayor lilked to bellow as he gallivanted up and down city streets, arms raised above his lanky frame, bald pate bobbing. His signature greeting was delivered in a whiny, nasal voice that was as recognizably New York as the screech of an A train."** If that doesn't paint a picture of Koch and the city he was mayor of for three terms, nothing does.

Every time I think of Ed Koch, I'm reminded of my grandmother, especially shortly before she died. This time was no exception.

My grandmother, Agnes Shwedo, died in the late 1980s. She was a character who tended to speak her mind. She was born to Irish immigrants (her maiden name was Kelly), had numerous brothers and sister (all of whom were outspoken, and tended to live long lives), and married my grandfather, the son of Czech immigrants. Both grandparents' parents were unhappy, since they'd wanted their children to marry people from "the old country;" Agnes's folks wanted her to marry a good Irish Catholic boy, while John, Sr.'s parents wanted a good Czech Catholic daughter-in-law.

Grandma outlived Grandpa by twenty years or so. The last few weeks or months that she was alive, Grandma started to go downhill, as so many people do. Dad ended up staying with her for a few nights to keep an eye on her. One night, probably one of the last nights Grandma spent at home, Dad was awakened after midnight by a heavy pounding on the front door. He went to the door, looked through the peep-hole, and saw several uniformed police officers. "What is it?" he asked, opening the door part-way.

"We need to check on the lady here," one officer stated. "She said she's been kidnapped and is being held hostage."

Once the officers were inside, Grandma came out of her room. Turned out, she'd wanted a glass of water, was convinced she'd been kidnapped and was being held hostage, and that she was the Mayor of New York City!

Of course, Ed Koch was mayor at the time, not an elderly Irish Catholic woman. Once the officers realized what was going on ("Yes, of course I know this nice man. He's my son, and he rescued me before you got here!"), they suggested that Dad get her to the hospital in the morning. He did, and within a week or two, Grandma was gone.

Back to Ed Koch's death: I remember hearing all sorts of stories about him while he was mayor, both from news reports and from family back in New York. The Times' headline ("Pugnacious former New York mayor dies") and the accompanying article and photo capture him perfectly, at least as perfectly as a short obit can.

But whether he knew it or not, I'll never forget when Grandma "helped" him run New York, even if it was for only one night.


**Taken from the Tampa Bay Times; the full article ran on page 3A, Saturday, February 2, 2013.