Elliot and I were talking about what to write next and how he was going to top my last story and he said," Mel, it would take a miracle to top that.” Not with- standing, Elliot actually had a miracle happen to him. I’m sure you’ll find this an interesting story that can only happen when G-d is in the equation.
I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I have enjoyed listening and reading what Elliot wrote. As an aside, I’m sure Elliot is really from Brooklyn, ’cause I never heard of anything like this happening to someone from the Bronx.
So, go make a cup of coffee, take a pletzel, take a sip, make a dip and enjoy… enjoy reading Elliot’s life adventure.

-oo0oo-

Last month I told you that Mel is my most unforgettable character. Well, I lied. Since I remember more about myself than anyone else, I’m “it”! Tagged, marked and designated to wear the title myself.

It’s 2:00 A.M. and I just sat down to write. There is a reason for that. This morning I had a 24 hour heart monitor attached to my body, six electrodes with wires attached which lead to a box that’s supposed to clip to your waistband, pocket, etc. Try as I may, I just can’t sleep. The explanation is really quite simple. Everyone who managed to survive the ’60’s knows that you never sleep when you’re wired.

It was the second week of the New Year in 1990 when my doctor, (now known as a “primary care physician”), called me with the news that the polyp, which had been removed three weeks earlier was, in fact, cancerous. Any of you out there know that when you hear the word cancer attached to your name the first thought you think is, “I’m gonna’ die!” Well, that was 1990, and now it’s 2005 and I’m still alive, (praise G-D).

My doctor continued his death sentence with the dreaded word, SURGERY. Although the proctologist was pretty certain that he got all of it out, the consensus was that my somewhat dubiously healthy colon should be transformed into a positively healthy semi-colon.

And so the fun began. The date was set and I arrived at New York Hospital around 5:00 A.M. I was tired, I was mean, I was angry and I was hungry. I met my anesthesiologist at approximately 6:00 A.M. and he took care of all of my problems in about one whole New York minute.

The next thing I remember was waking up, (coming to is actually more like it), in the recovery room surrounded by doctors, nurses and a blanket of ice. I looked at the clock on the wall and it read 18:00 hours. Actually, it read 6:00.

My super mathematical mind along with a tiny bit of logic, somehow made the transformation for me, so that I instantaneously knew it was 6:00 P.M.

I knew that the surgery was supposed to last only three hours, so in my drugged up stupor I began making inquiries. I was able to deduce that the surgery actually lasted six hours, instead of the estimated three. I was also able to deduce, in my inimitable Sherlock Holmes fashion, that the anesthesiologist took me at my word when I explained my immunity to most drugs known to man. I guess he used a little bit more than was normal for this type of procedure.

But even with all of the explanations the math just didn’t add up. There were between four and five hours I could not account for. I had to make sure that I hadn’t been abducted by aliens, especially since most of the people hovering over me looked very strange, indeed.

I never did find out what happened to the rest of that day. I knew about the overdose of anesthesia. So I suppose that the extra time it took for the surgery might have been because of what I told the surgeon just prior to meeting my anesthesiologist. I had him bend over so I could whisper in his ear. Then I laid it on him. “Doc,” I confided, “I bought a 9mm pistol last week. I gave it to a very close friend of mine, along with your name, a picture of you, your office address and your home address. He has promised to kill you if I am not able to live a normal life after you do your thing. Doc,” I said, “do it right or let me die on the table!”

He just might have taken me seriously. You, my readers, already know that I tell stories. I’ve even started off by telling you “I lied.” Feel free to form your own opinions and draw your own conclusions.

I woke up the next morning with tubes running into my arm and hand and other tubes in my nostrils to help me breathe, which is not a good idea for someone with sinus problems. They wanted me out of bed immediately to make me heal more quickly. Besides all the internal stuff, I had 34 metal clips holding my skin together from the groin all the way up to the rib cage. Unlike stitches, you can’t scratch metal staples or they fall out. Anyway, since they wanted me up and about I suggested a walk to the lounge. The lounge on my floor was actually an atrium with plants, lots of glass, chairs, sofas and tables. Some of the tables had chess or checkerboards set up but the main attraction for me were the ashtrays on those tables. I wanted a cigarette!

The nurse agreed to let me smoke only if I could walk the whole way down the hall and back without passing out. You remember the old advertisement “I’d walk a mile for a Camel” don’t you? Well, in my case, it was “I’d walk a hallway for a Dunhill.” It was really a good deal since the distance was much shorter and the cigarette much better.

Now to walk at all, I had to wheel the dolly and pole which held the bottles that were attached to the tubes which were attached to me. Once out of my room, I realized that I had the dolly from hell. It had three wheels but only one wheel turned, sort of like a shopping cart at the supermarket that insists on going its own way.

Since I wanted to complete the hike so I could get my nicotine fit satisfied, I simply picked the dolly off the floor about two inches and carried it instead of rolling it. I’d made it halfway down the hall when the nurse noticed what I was doing and said with complete authority, “You’re supposed to push that, not carry it!” I set it down and said to her, “You push it!” She ordered me to stay where I was until she returned with a working dolly. As soon as she turned the corner I picked up the dolly again and made my way to a comfortable chair in the smoking area. I assumed that she’d know where to find me.

A word about smoking after surgery. The Doctor asked that I give up smoking so I could heal faster. I asked him if going through nicotine withdrawal was wise after another major shock to my system. He just walked away. Push come to shove, my hospital recuperation time was supposed to be 8 to 10 days. Well, folks, I smoked, I ate non-hospital food, (some of it even at the cafeteria on the ground floor — when I got hungry, I’d put on my sweat suit, pull the sleeves down over my hospital bracelet, slip on my sneakers and escape from my floor) and I still went home after only 5 days. So there you go, Doc, I healed faster by continuing my lifestyle instead of being a good patient.

There’s another great story about my first day, up and about. My oldest son, Scott, along with my wife took me to the hospital for check in. Scott spent the better part of the day in the lounge. He met some people and spent a few hours talking with a burn patient. It seems that this guy tried to commit suicide by pouring gasoline all over his apartment and all over himself. He had been in treatment for six months and had another six to twelve months to go.

Scott looks very much like me. We were the about the same build and weight with long hair and full beards in 1990. There were and still are two major differences. Scott is two inches shorter than me and his hair and beard are very dark brown, (almost black), while my beard and hair are silver/grey. Well, it just so happened that the burn victim was outside his room, standing in the doorway when I came by. He stopped me and with terror in his eyes and tone of voice asked me, “What happened to you?” I replied that I had major surgery yesterday. He said, “No, not that.” I quizzically inquired what he was talking about. He stuttered out, “Your hair and beard turned white over night!” I hadn’t heard Scott’s story yet so I moved on down the hall puzzled at his comments.

Let me tell you about the breathing tubes. The second night I woke up sneezing. I sneezed so hard the tubes came flying out of my nose and throat and landed on the floor about three feet from the bed. The night nurse came in approximately two hours after I lost my “breathing apparatus”. She woke me up and said she had to reinsert them. I said, No! First of all, they’re dirty from lying on the floor and very far from being sterile. Secondly, I’ve been breathing on my own for at least two hours.” She said that she would have to get a new set of tubes and that required calling the doctor for a requisition. I told her to ask the doctor about my needing them at all any more since I didn’t die from lack of air. When an hour went by without her returning, I assumed that I didn’t need them anymore and that I wouldn’t be seeing her again.

My regular night nurse was Chinese and super petite weighing in at about 90 pounds. She took good care of me, even smuggling in some Jack Daniels and some good New York Chinese food.

Well, on the third night of the most expensive vacation of my life, she was fifteen minutes late. The resident doctor waited for her in my room. When she arrived, she apologized for being late and explained that she had to take two trains to work. The doctor kept pushing her verbally and threatened her with Dismissal. She finally broke down and left the room in tears.

The next morning, I called the hospital administrator and told him that I thought this doctor should be fired. I also made it quite clear that I did not want this doctor to come into my room. He thanked me for my report and said that he would look into the matter. Several hours later he came to visit me. He pleaded with me to not go after this doctor because he was an excellent surgeon and the hospital was very short of staff doctors.

When I first checked into my room, I took out the name card and replaced it with a cassette cover from “Sippin’ Slow”, (my album released in 1989). It had a close-up photo of me and my name in script. I also asked the entire staff to please call me Elliot because their name tags had only first names while the name card I had removed said Mr. E. Rothpearl. I was also on a first name basis with all of the doctors except the one I was after. He insisted that I address him as Doctor Bla bla bla.

So, the Administrator and I made a deal: The doctor would apologize to the offended nurse in front of me and all the nurses. He would address me as Mr. Rothpearl. He would stop being stupid while on the job. And he would show a little more respect towards the nursing and intern staffs. The terms were accepted by the doctor. He came to my room and apologized to me and the mini-nurse, with several other nurses present, and with his apology going out on the P.A. to the nursing station.

Two days later I checked out of New York Hospital. Before I left the nursing staff had a little party in my honor. They gave me a card signed by about twenty people. After that, I would occasionally come back with my guitar and play and sing for both the kids and the older patients.

That’s my Hospital story, Can You Top This story, and my Most Unforgettable Person story, all rolled into one. So, Mel, go ahead and try to top this one.
El

Elliot, the only way I will top this is if I tell about my brain transplant.
Oooops, wait a moment, UPS is delivering it now.
Mel

Happy Chanukah and Shalom to everyone,
El and Mel