Chapter 15

GUESS WHO’S COMING TO THE HOSPITAL

Joking about my family’s “shifts” aside, other people come to the hospital just to see you. There’s no Emily Post–style etiquette book for how to handle people visiting, but if there were, I imagine it would go something like this:

HOW TO HOST AN (IV) COCKTAIL PARTY

When you welcome people to visit in the ICU, it is imperative for a proper hostess to gently insist that her husband, or her hospital husband, meet the guests at the curtain. A visitor lingering in the doorway for too long could make all present most uncomfortable. A polite greeting would include offering a paper cup of lukewarm tap water and a pump of hand sanitizer from the wall dispenser. Should the guest require two pumps, though it is not standard, graciously allow the second pump in order to dissuade talk of your being stingy with the antibacterials. Before the host escorts your visitor or visitors to your bedside, he should announce each guest by their formal name, for example, “Mr. and Mrs. Eric P. Vitale of the Grand Street Vitale family.” After proper introductions are made and the guest has been greeted with a smile, promptly encourage your husband to exit the room charmingly, excusing himself for a much-needed constitutional to “stretch his legs.” Husbands are dear creatures, but their tendency toward small talk is not in good form and can quickly render the atmosphere inelegant. Additionally, all successful hostesses will be sure that their gown has been properly closed in the back, to avoid causing a moment’s discomfort for their honored guests. Petite, feminine bows are preferable to knots. One wouldn’t want their visitor to think, even for an instant, “How is she going to get those knots undone when her gown becomes soaked with drool?” It is uncouth to promote these sort of thoughts when you are hosting. At even the most worthwhile IV cocktail party, it is inevitable that events could go awry and result in a spill, but you must never lose your aplomb. The best thing to do in this situation is to raise one’s hand, preferably the one bearing the elegant hospital bracelet (never the one with the unsightly tube inserted), and point toward the entrance as if something exciting is happening outside the room. While your guest looks away, pull a clean blanket or nearby extra gown over the spill, and then pretend to go to sleep and the visitor will eventually leave.

Visiting hospitals is weird. It used to be a standard thing to visit people at the hospital after they gave birth. You would go see the new mother, congratulate her with a bouquet of cheery flowers, stop by the nursery window and gush about how cute the baby was, twelfth from the left in the Plexiglas bassinet. These days if you have your baby in a hospital, you are usually discharged before anyone can figure out what room you’re in. There aren’t many “happy” hospital visits left in the world. If you’re going to the hospital to see someone, it normally means that it sucks to be them. It’s always an awkward situation, but everyone who makes the trip to the hospital is awesome, whether you want to see them or not.

Guests Who Are Told Not to Come but Come Anyway

Tony is an old friend of ours whom we hadn’t seen in years. I was in a sketch group with him when I met Jim and we were really close. He moved to Los Angeles many years earlier and we’d kept in touch, but you know, like Christmas card touch. Tony just happened to be in town the day I had surgery, and he contacted Jim out of the blue. Jim told him it was a bad time because I was undergoing brain surgery. Since Jim is a comedian, Tony’s reaction was something like, “If you don’t want to see me, you can come up with a better excuse than that!” When Jim explained seriously that he was at the hospital and I was undergoing brain surgery, Tony offered to come and sit with him in the hospital cafeteria. Jim politely but adamantly refused. This was a very private time for him, and he preferred to be alone. Jim is not one to discuss very personal matters with others; he prefers to keep things casual. He’s not great at processing emotions and usually deals with uncomfortable conversations in one of two ways: by either eating something or taking a nap. About an hour later, the friend showed up. Luckily in the cafeteria. I would’ve loved to have been a fly on the wall during that meeting.

“So… what’s been up with you lately? Anything new?”

“Not really. My team didn’t make the playoffs, and my wife’s upstairs having brain surgery…” (bites into a donut).

The irony is that as much as Jim wanted to be alone, it was good for him to talk to someone. Tony is gentle and kind and selfless, and Jim told me later that having him around at that critical time ended up helping so much. Normally I pride myself on being a sounding board and provider of snacks for Jim, so it was nice to have someone do this for me while I was busy having my head cut open. Thanks for ignoring Jim’s wishes, Tony.

Guests Who Come Uninvited

During one of the first blurry days in the ICU, I remember opening my eyes and seeing Ms. Alvar, the beloved head of the school my daughters attend. She was standing in front of my bed. It was so odd to see her in this situation instead of behind a podium addressing a packed auditorium of enraptured parents. But yet, I was not surprised. This is the type of woman who is the first person at the scene whenever something goes wrong. It’s just in her nature. When a tragedy occurs, it’s an awkward time for friends and acquaintances. We don’t know if we should call, visit, or what the appropriate behavior is. The people who are closest are allowed in. They’re expected. Everyone else is unsure what to do. But Ms. Alvar didn’t ask if she made the cut; she just came. I don’t even know how she got by the front desk. But she carries herself with such dignity and authority, they probably thought she was the owner of the hospital. Note: Recently she was hospitalized and I tried to do the same thing in return, but her family wouldn’t let me in. I guess I didn’t make the cut.

Invited Guests

Then there are other friends who ask to come, and you want them there. These are the folks you need on your immediate friends list if anything ever goes wrong in your life. The smart people who look at the big picture in all situations. They come bearing gifts. Not sweet but useless get-well gifts that they purchased five minutes before at the gift shop, but essential supplies like snacks for the round-the-clock family members, lotions for dried skin, and tons of bottled water. You want these people in your group during the zombie apocalypse. Yes, I’m talking about the Fitzpatricks.

Those Who Don’t Come

These people can’t be called guests; rather, they’re nonguests, because they don’t come at all. Most folks don’t want to visit you in the hospital. And who can blame them? Back in the day they used to just put sick and disabled people on a boat and send them off to sea: “Not my problem anymore!” Truthfully, you don’t want a ton of visitors. It’s not like you want to run a reception line. It’s not a meet and greet after a show. It’s exhausting to have visitors anywhere, but particularly in the ICU.

Funny People Help You Heal

Due to the wild and unpredictable schedule, and the fact that Jim needed to be around our apartment with the kids during the nonschool hours, the two of us were somewhat isolated from each other during the longer stretch of my hospital stay. I had taken for granted the fact that I was married to a funny person, and I missed the constant source of humor I was accustomed to. Little moments like when I would be watching one of those bad kids movies with a great soundtrack with the family and Jim would get up in front of the screen and start doing a ridiculous dance. I wished someone would come in and do a ridiculous dance in front of the IV monitor. This new, serious, overwhelmed Jim had not cracked one joke since I’d gone in for surgery. Due to the weight of the situation, it seemed hard for Jim to be funny, which was normally his go-to when things got bad. He’d even come up with a whole comedy routine the time we completely totaled a car. Through the years, Jim’s joking in the face of adversity had been comforting and had helped me maintain equilibrium. Now I felt scared and imbalanced, and this time not from high-heeled shoes.

Would Jim ever be the same? The thought that this catastrophe might have stifled the funny man filled me with sorrow. Through the years we’d gotten many letters from people who were going through enormous suffering: a serious diagnosis of an illness or even the passing of a loved one. The letters expressed how they’d seen Jim on television, or gone to a show, and the comedy was so healing for them. They would be filled with such gratitude and often would state some form of “It was the first time I’d laughed since . It meant so much.” I’d be so proud of Jim and thankful that I’d had a part in the writing. We could do what we loved and also bring joy to others. The first time I wrote something for Jim, I saw the power that comedy had over my life. He used it during an appearance on a late-night talk show. I wasn’t at the taping, so I was as nervous about how the joke went over as if I’d performed it myself. Terrified that it might have bombed, before the airing I called Jim: “Well, did you use my joke?”

“I did.” Then he was quiet.

“Well, how did it work?”

“It killed.” He sounded surprised. I was ecstatic. I never knew I could get such a thrill from writing for someone else. What followed were years of a fantastic comedy partnership. I hoped it wasn’t over.

I tried to inject some humor into my hospital life, but my attempts at pantomiming among the medical staff often fell flat. Many times even Joe didn’t get me, and I felt comically deprived. When Jim was around for his daily visit (shift), we would be inundated by technical conversations with nurses, prognoses made by doctors, and other general hospital busyness. Jim would of course give me detailed reports on the kids, occasionally bringing me drawings and love notes they’d made, depicting me as a stick figure in a hospital bed, which at this point was a pretty accurate representation. I smiled and cried with Jim over these priceless works of art by our children, who now just seemed like beautiful memories to me. I had no idea how long it had been since I’d seen them in person, because every moment away was like an eternity. The hand-drawn pictures and letters brought me joy, but no laughs. I needed to laugh, and I needed to make people laugh. Laughter was as important as oxygen, so I relished visits from funny people.

My brother Paul has one of those laughs you don’t hear much, but it’s so good and validating when you do that it becomes a primary goal to make it happen. I would try to find the intelligent yet obscure humor in everything just to hear that laugh. When he would take me for walks down the hall, I would always touch the fruit picture and make smacking sounds with my mouth. It became a thing, and I always got the elusive guffaw. Sometimes I would pretend to struggle more with the walk so he would be distracted and forget about the fruit picture. I would slump over my walker as if to catch my breath and Paul would look at me, concerned: “Jeannie, are you okay?” As soon as he let his guard down I would reach for the fruit picture as if I were stealing an apple. Smack, smack, smack! Paul would break up and I would get stronger.

My friend Karen came to visit me as soon as Jim gave the go-ahead. Mount Sinai is pretty much out of the way, and I was always impressed when someone who wasn’t on a “shift” randomly came up to see me. It wasn’t a place you could just drop by. Karen generously came several times just to hang out with me, and she didn’t make a big deal out of it, which totally put me at ease. We could just as easily have been sitting in my kitchen with a glass of red wine, splitting a Domino’s thin-crust pizza with ham, pineapples, and jalapeños while the kids ran around and we made each other laugh.

Karen had reached out to Jim right away about wanting to visit me, and it was not just the usual obligatory statement; it was sincere. A sincere desire to come sit with me at the hospital. I don’t even know if I would want to visit me at the hospital. Karen was a close friend before this ordeal, the type who always asks you about what’s going on in your life and really listens to your responses and cares what you say. I was so happy that she came. She’s a stand-up comedian, and having her perspective on the situation just made everything better. She walked in, took one disappointed look at me, and said, “You’re not even bald!” I welcomed Karen’s irreverence with open arms. She would joke about my emaciated appearance: “That gown looks great on you. I guess you can wear anything when you are model-skinny.” She talked to me about the outside world and brought me out of myself. She brought me a plush, bright blue, anatomically correct stuffed brain with a smiley face on it. Cute, horrible, and funny, just like my current situation in that hospital.

At the point she came to visit me, I was progressing in my daily walks and was strong enough to spit in the garbage cans in the hall rather than drooling all over myself. Even though I had a walker and was really weak, Karen and I would slowly make our way out of the ICU and down the long hallway almost to the end and back. She would roll the IV stand alongside me like my personal assistant as I carefully lifted the walker step-by-step, watching the portable oxygen monitor clipped to my finger. This hallway at Mount Sinai is in a giant open atrium and you can see down all eight floors to the lobby where there is a grand piano, and often there is a concert pianist playing elegant music that fills the whole hospital. One flight down from us there was a gift shop filled with the aforementioned sweet get-well toys, cards, flowers, and balloons.

On the walks, we listened to the piano while achieving my distance goals. Kind of like getting steps in on an Apple Watch, but redefined as my making it twenty feet to the point where I could grab the rail and peer over to get the bird’s-eye view of the gift shop. With Karen, it became a fun outing. I created the character of “Karen’s grandma,” and she played along. My voice was coming back little by little and it sounded awful, like a bullfrog. “I want to look at the gift shop, dearie!” I would croak. We even invented fictitious characters of my other senior friends that I would pretend to wave to between spitting. “Hello, Erma! Gladys, how’s the hip replacement? Hi, Otis! Oh, Otis died.” We laughed and laughed. Well, I croaked and wheezed, but it was kind of like a laugh.