So much darker than daylight, oddly shadowed by occasional exposed light bulbs under dripping eaves, the building bridge protects more from weather than construction debris. Becoming part of the subterranean life of Manhattan in order to arrive on time, I hovered around the entrance to Mt. Sinai hospital under the ever-present scaffolding we’ve come to accept as inevitable in a city with building codes requiring ten year re-pointing cycles. That day it kept me out of the intensifying ‘sleeze’, a combination of drizzle, snow and sleet often expected in winter in New York, but not in early November. It took me and others by surprise, with colder temperatures creeping in with freezing precipitation to remind us we hadn’t dressed for the weather that morning. One can’t always be prepared.
A half hour of pacing under the tunnel of protective framework around the entrance to the hospital and I knew it was time to thaw out my hands and feet for a few minutes. Where in heaven’s name could my husband be? I’d started up from downtown to meet him for his doctor’s appointment very early so as not to keep him waiting, but now he was 20 minutes late with no word as to the reason. I moved into the lobby hubbub around the elevators, uncomfortably aware that the cold and wet outside had been replaced by a dry, scorching atmosphere devoid of oxygen. Hospital halls are always overheated. It was more unbearable than freezing toes, and if I’d been a little worried about catching something nasty outside without proper protection, I was now convinced something much more hazardous lurked in the parched, 80 + degree air just inside the front doors.
Checking my phone to see if my husband had called, I noted its battery was almost dead. I shouldn’t have waited so long to buy a new one. It’s always best to be prepared. With time running out on communications, I called my husband’s secretary to get an update on his whereabouts and let her know this would be our last chance to talk.
“I made him an appointment with the head of neurology at Memorial Sloan Kettering,” she said. “Had to take what we could get…has to wait as long as necessary…she’s leaving on a lecture tour tomorrow…he’ll be up there when he’s through.” Typical! I’ve often wondered if the two of them were in cahoots to ignore me and drive me mad. Was I meant to stand out in the cold indefinitely, stomping around with no boots, gloves, hat or overcoat trying to keep my circulation moving while they changed plans without letting me know? Yes, indeed I was. I should have been used to it, but I was never…prepared.
Two hours after my phone died, I moved back into the oven at the hospital entrance for the third time, hoping the desert atmosphere would soak up some of the numbing November swill invading my bones. One of the groupings of seats had an electrical outlet at the far end with a naked IPhone plug attached to it. Someone had moved away too fast when his name was called, improvising for the quick change in plans. ‘Yours’, ‘yours’? I asked, nodding in the direction of a couple of people sitting further down the line. They both shook their heads. Grasping greedily for the charger like a drowning man with a life preserver, I jammed it into my phone and watched the infuriating apple icon with one toothless bite taken out of it brighten up the screen. It’s all about image with Apple, never what’s inside.
Minutes later I was listening to the secretary’s message saying the earliest my husband would get there, traffic being what it is in bad weather in the city, was 4 p.m.; three hours after we’d planned to meet, and a direct conflict with my own appointment to see my dermatologist for a six month checkup. Yes, I could probably reschedule, but it was important to go soon as I’d already had one melanoma and putting off checkups was a bad idea. I’d wisely made the appointment months in advance, and now looked as if all that preparation was for nothing. I’d miss the appointment if I stayed here, unless I could reschedule it for even later in the day. I got a 5:30 appointment, but not with my own doctor; another infuriating setback caused entirely by the assumption that whatever I was doing didn’t matter. Fuming over the thoughtless supposition, a repetitive and habitual occurrence for most of my adult, and our married lives, and undoubtedly abetted by my seeming acceptance, I forced myself off in the horrid weather on foot to shop for a birthday present for our oldest son.
I told my husband when he did show up at 4:30 that I couldn’t stay long because I’d had to reschedule my own appointment. As usual, I tried to hide my rage over being ignored, as usual, left to freeze for hours without communication and assumed present and accounted for, as usual. Escorting him to the upper floors of the hospital to meet with another neurologist, I seethed privately but assured publicly that I had ‘been prepared’ for the delays ultimately explained by his secretary. But I’d have to leave him with this doctor early. Which I did, soon after the nurse practitioner came in to discuss his medical history with us in preparation for his doctor I never saw. I agreed to meet my husband at a nearby restaurant for dinner after he and I were both done with our appointments, and I left the building relieved to be taking care of my own needs at last. Joining him at a café table an hour later, I informed him I had a clean checkup again with the associate in my doctor’s office, and he informed me that the neurologist had given him only 3 months to live, at best.
The guilt smothering all my memories of that terrifying afternoon spent in November still hides in my bones, ready to seep out and freeze me when I least expect it. Why didn’t I understand I didn’t have to wait because I was forced to; I waited because he wanted me to? Why did I rage over his intolerance for my needs when I knew I could take care of them myself? How could I not have felt the doom in the air and that it was his, not mine? I wasn’t prepared.
And now, finally returning to my own dermatologist ‘just in case’, I’ve been told I do have a melanoma to face again, just a few months later. But I’m better prepared this time.
This nail biting piece – what will happen? how will it come out? – reminds me of the 1998 film “Sliding Doors” starring Gwyneth Paltrow about a London woman’s love life and career, both of which hinge, unknown to her, on whether or not she catches a train. We see it both ways, in parallel. So even though I know the outcome of your most challenging November day, I read it not thinking I do know and living every harrowing moment with you. How random our lives are even though we think we are in charge. The questions you ask yourself at the end are universal questions for every human being. Your reminding us of their importance just might help to be better prepared ourselves. Thank you!
Hi Lucy:Sean’s blogging effort should be very interesting. It is quite a feat to pull together that many people and it should provide for some lively coverage.I wanted to let your readers know that The Chronicle of Philanthropy is planning to live blog the event, as well, for the first time. We’ll have about a half-dozen reporters on hand to cover news, notes, and impressions at the conference.
How clearly described and heartfelt! The quality of your writing this description only magnifies that pain and confusion that that day must have created in you. The unintended necessity to compare pain,blame and inconvenience levels must have left you reeling. Thanks for sharing this- would never have known the level of moment by moment process of your experience.
Peggy, you’ve made that most important of all connections to the universality of our experiences–no matter where, how or to whom the occur. You also instantly jump into the flow of narrative, making it so obvious you see the link between fiction and non-fiction. I do hope you’re doing some writing of your own these days (creative, I mean)! Thanks so much for joining the conversation.
Those moment to moment unfolding of events are so often mixed all together later in a memory that’s one large lump, like a fully baked cake. But when you go back and separate all the ingredients again we find they could have been put together differently if we’d thought about it then. Thanks so much for writing.