A clean, big bill of health after I survived an 8-day hospital ordeal

A clean (big) bill of health

Deep respect for Kate Middleton.

This side of the pond I, too, was dealt a blow. Suddenly, my whole body quivered. Shivered. Icy chills, unstoppable quaking, high fever, face ashen.

Emergency room. Eight days and nights in the hospital. Three-hour blood transfusion. Hooked 24 hours to machines, antibiotic drips.

Even X-rays which Mrs. Ben Affleck’s people might retouch later.

More hands feeling me up than in my high school days.

Diagnosed that some unknown flu, not CV, had discovered me.

So I asked what’s the difference between Asian flu and Russian flu?

They said: “About $700.”

Forget zooming to the moon. Earth’s medical facilities now require Band-Aids. A patient needs a fresh gown by Day 3? Try the Oscars. Fresh towels? Bring your own. And with everything going on, how do I look? Think a Sen. Menendez double. What I need is an LIE repair crew.

The food? Please. Cooked in Guantanamo. Try lunch and next stop’s the ICU. Coffee? Could repair Atlantic City’s Boardwalk. One MD actually peeled off the adhesive tape stuck — since Lincoln’s bar mitzvah — on my wall.

Private practices

Rules are — if requiring a nurse — do NOT walk out or shout out. Instead press a button. Trust me, Methuselah lived to 969. He left us still pressing.

I told one virile young medic in training: “I’d like to change what’s been on my bed.” His answer: “Yeah, me, too.”

Finally home now and it’s still six weeks of two RNs coming for daily nursing care. Nazalene, my housekeeper of 30 years, slept in a hard hospital chair eight nights. I had one Democrat MD who was so left even his car wouldn’t turn right. 

John and Margo Catsimatidis sent “emergency food rations,” Mindy and Randy Levine crates of chicken soup.

Thanks to editors Steve Lynch and Keith Poole whose orchids were so costly it explains why I didn’t get a raise.

Another thing. In hospitals all testing’s at 4 a.m. Nurse: “Your pressure’s high.” Wouldn’t yours be if they woke you at 4 to test it? I felt healthier when I came in.

Scrubs? No. Schlubs? Yes

Gone are white uniforms of yesteryear’s medical fraternity. Today visitors, patients, staffers wear equal sweats and tees. One swanning around was in pink sequins and tight-ass jeans. Family member? “No, nurse.”

Today a hospital keeps you three days if you have big troubles — 10 if you have big insurance. Forget pulse. Now they only monitor your Medicaid number. Shove health. We’re talking wealth. Me, I was attached to multiple drips when some orderly told me I had to get out. He actually said, “Somebody paying more money wants this private room.”

Alive & kvetchin’

Things quickly clarified when minutes later another arrived to request I give the place a donation. The advantage of poverty is you get cured faster. Up next maybe self-service surgery for Biden’s next patient — the nouveau poor.

Look, I’m thankful. Grateful. They took care of me. I’m here. That’s though I never met one physician rich enough to be able to tell a patient there’s nothing wrong with them. But I’m back. I’m OK. Truly appreciative. Willing to forget that the orderly on my floor thought high cholesterol was a religious holiday — and that rebuttal was an ass transplant.

It’s April Fool’s Day.

And what better moment to celebrate our politicians. Me, almost ready to kvetch again.

Listen, due to circumstances beyond this paper’s control, I have returned.