Chapter 23

DIRTY DANCING

I’d always taken for granted how physically active I was in everyday life. I probably have some kind of hyperactive disorder and should be popping Ritalin like Tic Tacs. When I was nine years old, I could race to the top branch of the highest tree in the neighborhood the fastest and beat all the big kids, and I was always covered with scratches and bruises that these days would raise some eyebrows among social workers. Jim would mock me for getting up during writing sessions and acting out all the characters: “You are the only person I know who makes writing an aerobic exercise!” I got in there deep with the mothering and housecleaning too. When the other moms were going to the gym and asked me if I wanted to join them for a workout, I’d say, “I bench-press babies!” Or, “I’m going to go hit the vacuum machine and work on my quads.” The old neighborhood joke was calling me “the bag lady” because I was always schlepping way too many heavy things around. A neighbor describes a regular, imaginary encounter with me as, “I saw Jeannie hurrying down the street with ten bags of bricks. I said, ‘Jeannie, what are you doing?’ She said (breathless), ‘I’m building a brick wall for Jim, but I need more bricks!’… and then she ran off!”

Being a waiflike shadow of my former self with no muscle tone was like being trapped in a crate. Even though I was exhausted all the time, I knew I had to get up and work on getting my strength back. I was grateful for my life, but now that I had proper nutrition, “pegged” though it was, I needed to get back the quality.

Part of my rehab was that a physical therapist would come over a few times a week for an hour at a time. He was a really sweet Filipino man in his fifties, but it was awkward to be sleeping and have my husband come into the bedroom with a strange man and announce, “Jeannie, wake up, it’s time for physical therapy!” Since I could barely move, we would do a short series of exercises while lying flat in bed, then sitting up, and then a few standing. These ridiculously easy, incredibly boring exercises totally wore me out, even though it appeared as though I was having a vivid dream about synchronized swimming. I was totally annoyed by these mundane activities I struggled to do. I’d never been bored and challenged at the same time. I found myself loathing the three-times-per-week visits, but I hid my annoyance and put on a smile for the therapist so as not to appear impolite (see the Amy Vanderbilt handbook for PT manners).

My brother Patrick thought the whole thing was hilarious, so he filmed some of this and then put together a video montage paired with “Super Freak” and songs from Dirty Dancing. Although I was absolutely mortified that anybody would see me this way, doing lame exercises in my striped prisoner pajamas, there was something hysterical about it, so I let go of my humiliation and agreed to post it on my Instagram. The feedback I got was so inspiring, it was like I had a team of cheerleaders rooting for me to get through my ten stupid leg lifts. I felt like the Beyoncé of physical therapy patients.

Crazy in leg lifts.

One of the things I dreamed about during my recovery at home was riding a bike. I’m not much of an everyday rider, but there was something about looking out the window at the beautiful weather while being so immobile that made me crave riding one, something so easy yet so out of reach. The first time I walked outside, I felt a step closer, like the end of the long road was finally in sight. The sun was shining brightly in a clear blue sky with a cool, gentle wind blowing. I made it all the way to the end of my block with my physical therapist. We slowly strolled down the street like we were on a date in the 1900s. I held my head up proudly as my gentleman companion ushered me with an appropriately placed hand on the small of my back. I savored the breeze hitting my face and smiled at passersby. The funny thing was, no one on the streets of New York gave me a second look, even though I was wearing pajamas and using a granny walker. Gotta love this city.

After this first walk outside, my temperature shot up to 103°. Paul was visiting that night and noticed how hot I was getting and that my oxygen levels were dipping dangerously low. He alerted Jim, despite my protests that I was fine. Jim called Bruce, who insisted we go right to the emergency room at Mount Sinai. “No! I can’t go back there! What if they don’t let me leave?!” I started to cry. I was the prisoner who got released and now they were bringing me up on new charges. “Please don’t make me go!” I was traumatized. Jim and Paul consoled me: “Jeannie, if you don’t go to the ER it could get really bad, and then you’ll have to go back to the ICU!” That was enough to convince me. I knew there were patients in the ICU who never made it out. I’d been so lucky. I might have to spend one night in the county jail to avoid months of solitary confinement. Jim called Dr. Glen Chun, the pulmonologist who had managed my pneumonia in the hospital. He said he would meet us in the emergency room so we wouldn’t have to wait around for hours like mere hospital amateurs. He would be like the bouncer who escorts us to the roped-off table at the back of the club. My lungs were “VIL” members: Very Important Lungs.

When we got to the ER they were waiting for me as I entered with my entourage of Jim, Bruce, and Paul. I was given a CT scan of the lungs by a radiology technician whom I jokingly referred to as “the paparazzi.” Looking at the scan, Dr. Chun determined that the pneumonia wasn’t completely resolved and my lungs were still filled with gunk. They gave me an IV of antibiotics, a prescription, and as a result of my pleading and tears, let me go back home, with strict instructions for Bruce and Jim: “She needs to take it easier.” Which meant no more walks outside for a while. I didn’t really know how anything could be easier than walking half a block, but I complied.

I felt unproductive lying in bed, but my schedule was packed. It was aggravating for me to be so busy without “getting anything done.” I was on a strict medication regimen, my other aforementioned accoutrements needed constant service, and there was a revolving door of home therapists.

Occupational Hazard

An occupational therapist is supposed to help you relearn day-to-day things as you go back to your life at home. I barely remember these sessions. She came by only twice because I think I scared her away. I couldn’t really handle buttons yet, so we focused mostly on this exciting job. Buttoning and unbuttoning multiple times under supervision was awkward. “Take off your clothes and then put them on again.” I felt like I was auditioning for an ingenue role in Hollywood before the #MeToo movement. Once it was apparent that I was perfectly capable of doing the basics of getting clothes on and off, I asked what I had to do next for OT. “You should do something that is meaningful to you,” she said. “Something you would do in everyday life.”

“Okay, can I clean out my basement storage?” I couldn’t wait to get to that project. The therapist looked mortified. “You have to do something very simple at first. Like, why don’t you try to cook breakfast for your children?” It was so me that I wanted to jump into a huge project when doing something directly for my kids was obviously the right choice.

Do other people do things like this? Feel like they have to take on the most ambitious project in order to prove… what, exactly? Don’t get me wrong, the storage needed cleaning. Before I got sick, it was on my “projects to do” list. Over the winter, the skateboards, bikes, and scooters sat unused under the beach stuff and coolers. I’d planned to organize the closet for easy access when the weather got warmer. But even now, as I was recovering from brain surgery, it hadn’t even occurred to me to delegate this. Not because there was no one to do it, but because, as usual, I had convinced myself that I was the only one who knew whose skateboard was which and who outgrew what; therefore, I was the only one who could do it right. This was what I did to “nurture” my family. But I guessed I would try the breakfast thing, as simple as it seemed.

When I make scrambled eggs, I don’t scramble them. I push the edges into the middle of the pan and fold them on top of each other. I also don’t beat them one solid color, and I never use a blender or add milk. I actually think they are better if they are not mixed that well, with big pockets of yolk and a few white bits. As I was making breakfast that next morning, I was getting really into my egg cooking. I let go of my hunger in the name of something bigger. It was as if I were someone grooming their ex for a date with another person for the purpose of a greater good.

Katie noticed my intensity. “Mommy, I love the way you make scrambled eggs; you can pick up a whole piece with the fork and you don’t make them little crumbles like everyone else does.” I was beaming with pride. “Katie, would you like me to teach you how to make them that way?” She was so excited to pull a chair up next to the stove and learn my OCD egg method. Once she had mastered my perfect folded egg, she said, “Mom, now can you teach me how to make a sunny-side up?” I paused. In a past life, I would have retorted with something like, “What do you think this is, Denny’s? I’m busy! I have to get to cleaning out the basement storage!” But that morning, I took a deep breath and said, “Of course I will!” After all, I was the only one who could do it right.

The perfect egg.