Friday
Aug272010
My Sister Eileen, Coleman Hawkins, My Appendix
Friday, August 27, 2010 at 5:47PM
My way of getting to a different story is by ascending or descending via a spiral staircase. I never take a direct route to my ultimate destination, unless forced. That was how it went with my appendix.
It was August 1, 1970. It was 4 AM. I was alone in my apartment. I lived at 84th Street and Third Avenue. Both of my roommates were away. I had awakened to a pain on the right side of my abdomen, as if I had swallowed a large watermelon that was trying to exit through a small orifice. The pressure was unbearable. I was feverish. When I stood up, I doubled over.
I reached for an old copy of New York Magazine. I dialed the 24-hour phone number listed in its article about being sick in New York City without a doctor.
I got instructions to go to 89th Street and Third Avenue, northwest side, second building from the corner and ring apartment 1A. I walked there carrying only a small purse. A man wearing white opened the door. He spoke English with an accent. He was alone. There was a philodendron on the windowsill. Its leaves were brown, dried, and curled. On the wall were his medical degrees from Iran and Germany.
I told him my symptoms. He told me I was suffering from chronic appendicitis that was now acute; my appendix had to come out. He said, “You have more than 103 degree fever. You may get peritonitis. That’s a terrible infection, which could be fatal.” Then he added, “By the way, you were built to have babies.”
All I wanted to know was which hospitals he was associated with and their addresses. He said, “Midtown, 309 East 49th Street, Trafalgar, 161 East 90th, and Wickersham, 133 East 58th Street.” I never heard of any of them, yet I chose Wickersham, because of where it was, across the street from Bloomingdale’s. My friends liked to shop. I wanted them to visit.
I had no cash, only tokens, so I took the subway to the hospital. I walked inside an office building. In the lobby, I read this sign, “Hospital 5 –11.” I pressed five on the elevator, while holding a letter from the doctor. I walked into the Admitting Room. The nurse said, “Sign in and find a seat.” I found the lone vacant one in the back, in the last row. Young women were everywhere, sitting next to men of varying ages.
One hour later, a nurse was scolding me. She was reading my doctor’s instructions. “You should have come directly to me. You have an emergency. These women are having abortions.”
Another nurse led me upstairs. I asked if I could make a call. I phoned my parents. My brother answered. I had seen my mother, father and brother the night before. We had dinner at a restaurant. I ate a couple of fried shrimp, fried onion rings and a few spoonfuls of coleslaw. I did not touch my favorite dessert, peppermint chip ice cream. Everyone wondered what was wrong. I said, “Nothing, except my head throbs. I have a pain on my side, then my back, then my arm, for weeks. I feel hot and then cold. Sometimes I’m dizzy. “
They responded with, “Wish yourself well and you shall be well.” Off we went to see the musical “Coco” about the life of the French designer, Coco Chanel. That French star, Michele Morgan, had replaced Katharine Hepburn and she had garnered raves.
I had gotten house seats in the tenth row, center orchestra. I worked for Shubert three nights a week selling theater tickets on the first floor of Macy’s. One of the benefits was free tickets to any show, if seats were available, the day of the request. I saw 48 shows in a year and a half.
Watching the models adorned in their Chanel creations, I forgot what ailed me. Yet here I was, the next day, lying flat in a bed, recuperating from having my appendix removed. I was the fourth bed in a room that was designed for only two. There was no space for any visitors to stand except at the foot of the bed.
I was at the window. The woman next to me had a heart attack. The woman next to her had her gall bladder removed. The woman close to the door had a breast reduction due to severe back pain.
Today, there is no more Wickersham Hospital, but a modern office tower in its stead. Yet two celebrities knew of it before I ever was a patient. One was Ruth McKenney, reporter for the New York Post and author of a best seller, My Sister Eileen. That became a play, and “Wonderful Town,” the musical. She was in its maternity ward, January 29, 1937. Her sister Eileen had given birth to a son.
Jazz aficionados knew of it as well. That was where, on May 20, 1969, tenor saxophonist Coleman Hawkins died. He was known for his big tone, and heavy vibrato, especially playing “Body and Soul,” “Out of Nowhere” and “Day Is Done.”
When the day is done, we are just the sum of our stories. Some we find directly. Others take us on a circuitous route, or a spiral staircase. It is we, who create our Stairway to Paradise.
It was August 1, 1970. It was 4 AM. I was alone in my apartment. I lived at 84th Street and Third Avenue. Both of my roommates were away. I had awakened to a pain on the right side of my abdomen, as if I had swallowed a large watermelon that was trying to exit through a small orifice. The pressure was unbearable. I was feverish. When I stood up, I doubled over.
I reached for an old copy of New York Magazine. I dialed the 24-hour phone number listed in its article about being sick in New York City without a doctor.
I got instructions to go to 89th Street and Third Avenue, northwest side, second building from the corner and ring apartment 1A. I walked there carrying only a small purse. A man wearing white opened the door. He spoke English with an accent. He was alone. There was a philodendron on the windowsill. Its leaves were brown, dried, and curled. On the wall were his medical degrees from Iran and Germany.
I told him my symptoms. He told me I was suffering from chronic appendicitis that was now acute; my appendix had to come out. He said, “You have more than 103 degree fever. You may get peritonitis. That’s a terrible infection, which could be fatal.” Then he added, “By the way, you were built to have babies.”
All I wanted to know was which hospitals he was associated with and their addresses. He said, “Midtown, 309 East 49th Street, Trafalgar, 161 East 90th, and Wickersham, 133 East 58th Street.” I never heard of any of them, yet I chose Wickersham, because of where it was, across the street from Bloomingdale’s. My friends liked to shop. I wanted them to visit.
I had no cash, only tokens, so I took the subway to the hospital. I walked inside an office building. In the lobby, I read this sign, “Hospital 5 –11.” I pressed five on the elevator, while holding a letter from the doctor. I walked into the Admitting Room. The nurse said, “Sign in and find a seat.” I found the lone vacant one in the back, in the last row. Young women were everywhere, sitting next to men of varying ages.
One hour later, a nurse was scolding me. She was reading my doctor’s instructions. “You should have come directly to me. You have an emergency. These women are having abortions.”
Another nurse led me upstairs. I asked if I could make a call. I phoned my parents. My brother answered. I had seen my mother, father and brother the night before. We had dinner at a restaurant. I ate a couple of fried shrimp, fried onion rings and a few spoonfuls of coleslaw. I did not touch my favorite dessert, peppermint chip ice cream. Everyone wondered what was wrong. I said, “Nothing, except my head throbs. I have a pain on my side, then my back, then my arm, for weeks. I feel hot and then cold. Sometimes I’m dizzy. “
They responded with, “Wish yourself well and you shall be well.” Off we went to see the musical “Coco” about the life of the French designer, Coco Chanel. That French star, Michele Morgan, had replaced Katharine Hepburn and she had garnered raves.
I had gotten house seats in the tenth row, center orchestra. I worked for Shubert three nights a week selling theater tickets on the first floor of Macy’s. One of the benefits was free tickets to any show, if seats were available, the day of the request. I saw 48 shows in a year and a half.
Watching the models adorned in their Chanel creations, I forgot what ailed me. Yet here I was, the next day, lying flat in a bed, recuperating from having my appendix removed. I was the fourth bed in a room that was designed for only two. There was no space for any visitors to stand except at the foot of the bed.
I was at the window. The woman next to me had a heart attack. The woman next to her had her gall bladder removed. The woman close to the door had a breast reduction due to severe back pain.
Today, there is no more Wickersham Hospital, but a modern office tower in its stead. Yet two celebrities knew of it before I ever was a patient. One was Ruth McKenney, reporter for the New York Post and author of a best seller, My Sister Eileen. That became a play, and “Wonderful Town,” the musical. She was in its maternity ward, January 29, 1937. Her sister Eileen had given birth to a son.
Jazz aficionados knew of it as well. That was where, on May 20, 1969, tenor saxophonist Coleman Hawkins died. He was known for his big tone, and heavy vibrato, especially playing “Body and Soul,” “Out of Nowhere” and “Day Is Done.”
When the day is done, we are just the sum of our stories. Some we find directly. Others take us on a circuitous route, or a spiral staircase. It is we, who create our Stairway to Paradise.
Reader Comments (14)
I love it ! Now you've got to get all these published ! did you submit this to Mr. Beller's Neighborhood ? and all the others - Ny Times Sunday Magazine, Metropolitan Diary, etc, etc, etc.
You are the next Julie to be published !
How about a story on this past week ?
Ah luvs ya, Baby, you know I do !!!!!
Hi Jane,
I agree with Mikey. You must get these stories published. I don't know how many you have now, but when you have a good number please visit some publishers.
"When the day is done, we are just the sum of our stories." I love it. Truer words have never been spoken.
What a story - you are the only person I know who would walk to a doctor's office while suffering an appendicitis attack. You are lucky nothing went wrong and I love the comment from your folks. If only that would be true!!!
Jane, no one writes like you do. We, as readers, are spellbound. You must get these published......think Nike and JUST DO IT!
I want to be able to say (when you are on Oprah) "that is my friend"...
Your posts always are a bright spot in my day. I agree with everyone above. Publish! Leave your legacy in writing.
We love to read your stories and to stay connected with you and NYC!
A perfect opening story for your future published works:"Spiral Staircase."
I think it works!
Great. I love that you saw 48 shows in 1 1/2 years. I agree with all....publish!
I agree! You HAVE to get these published!!! You are a great storyteller and have a wonderful descriptive ability so the reader can actually see you what you see throughout the stories. That, my dear friend, is talent! And I think Netta's suggestion would be an appropriate title for you. I'll be looking for you in B&N or Amazon.
Jane, Your best ever! You must compile your writings.
My grandfather died of peritonitis after a ruptured appendix. He wasn't yet 50. My Father was 19 at the time. I'm glad you made it! You remind me of my mother who took herself to Hospital and the doctor insisted she couldn't have -- her blood count was so low -- she was diagnosed with leukemia. I agree with your other commentators -- get your stories published!
I'm beginning to feel in partnership with Ruth...where is she??? Some event or someome will spur you on to publish...it's inevitible. I can hardly wait!
omg........omg..........how brave you were to go alone to a doctor & unknown hospital. this would not have happened in the south. in this world, your neighbors would have known. they would have alerted other friends & the church. by the time you got to the doctor, there would be several reports on that doctor for your consideration. you would have been accompanied to the hospital, where, some steel magnolia would have gotten you right in. the hospital room where you were taken would have been decorated with flowers & cards (only in "your" area). by the time you arrived home.........you would have more food than you could eat covering your kitchen table & filling your refrigerator & a list of others to bring dinner for the next 2 weeks. God, i love the south! alternate routes........why not?
Upon reviewing your blogs to select my choices of the best, I came upon this one that I had missed...like so many of your others, it is too GOOD to be missesd.!!! I loved it. LA