Throughout my cancer journey, one of my biggest fears has been needing to be hospitalized. The “rule,” when you’re undergoing chemotherapy like mine is that, if your fever spikes beyond 38 degrees Celsius (100.4 degrees Fahrenheit) and it’s after hours (nights, weekends), you need to race to the emergency room, as the chemo depresses the body’s ability to fight off potentially fatal infections.
If you can wait until morning, though, your doctor might choose to admit you as an inpatient rather than put you through the indignity of the ER’s hard plastic chairs and wearisome waits.
My turn for hospitalization finally arrived when a high fever wouldn’t come down and the kidney pain for which I’ve been perkily popping Percocets became too much to handle on my own.
Before being hospitalized, I tried to imagine what it would be like. I envisioned the experience being somewhat akin to taking an international flight to an exotic location.
That, it turns out, was not so far off.
My “seat” in the hematology inpatient ward was more spacious than any in basic economy; it was closer to business class, with a full lie-down bed containing various controls to position one’s head and even a remote control for a flat-screen TV.
I was served three meals a day on plastic trays with plastic cutlery while a bevy of friendly flight – er, hospital – attendants checked in on me regularly to make sure I was OK. True, airlines don’t serve you a mix of medications – painkillers, steroids, stool softeners – but that only contributed to the feeling that I was flying high.
Even the food reminded me of airplane grub – not the nicer meals you get in the upper classes – but for lunch, there was always some sort of meat (variations on chicken with a side of spiced rice, couscous, or steamed veggies) plus a granola cookie for dessert.
Breakfast and dinner largely consisted of the same menu: cottage cheese, a plain white roll, artificially flavored strawberry jam, a couple of cucumbers and tomatoes, plus a hard-boiled egg with sporadic salt. One time, I even got a small container of cherry Jell-O.
Before heading to the hospital, I packed a carry-on wheelie – the same exact bag I take on board for a long flight – although this time, I loaded it up with pajamas, a robe, slippers and toiletries, in addition to the usual: reading material, laptop, charging cables and snacks.
My Hadassah flight included something you don’t get even on El Al (unless you’re a prime minister): an ensuite shower!
The inpatient wards at Hadassah-University Medical Center, Ein Kerem, are functional but embarrassing, with the décor not updated, it would seem, since the 1970s. That, I learned, was thanks to Bernie Madoff: Hadassah had much of its money invested with the notorious Ponzi scammer. When the fraud was exposed, Hadassah ran out of money, just before the ward was to be renovated.
Another annoying overlap with flying: You never know who your “roommate” is going to be, although, in all likelihood, he or she is going to keep you awake half the night through violent snoring.
If this were a friend or family member sleeping next to me, I’d have lightly jostled him or her to stop the discord of nasal extrusion, but in my case, it was an elderly man who spoke no English and little Hebrew, just Yiddish.
He was surrounded by a cadre of black-hatted brethren who didn’t have the ability (or perhaps the desire) to distinguish between morning and evening voices. The flimsy paper curtain between us did nothing to damper the distraction.
Fortunately, my dear friend David had volunteered to sleep over (a pull-out bed had been wedged into the corner). David’s presence came in handy when my roommate’s phone blasted out an alarm at 5:00 am, presumably to wake the faithful in time for morning prayers.
David described it in a recent Jerusalem Post column as being like a “Hassidic fight song, complete with rousing male chorus and a cacophony of horns. It was like being in the front row of a haredi Coachella.”
That too-early alarm was swiftly followed by the first nurse of the morning, who came to check my vitals (temperature and blood pressure). An hour later, another attendant entered, demanding a pint (or so it seemed in the pre-dawn light) of blood. Then came breakfast, more checks, and doctors to update me on my day.
By this point, I was so tired and miserable from not sleeping that Merav, my daughter, who had come to take on the morning shift with me, asked the staff if there was another room I could move to. Miraculously, there was a single room to which I was promptly whisked.
The difference was dramatic. Instead of sharing, I now had a private space where I could finally rest peacefully. Two more days and I was released.
It was during this hospitalization that I had the biopsy that ultimately determined what was going on with my kidney pain and locked in the plan for my coming CAR-T treatment, where, if all goes according to plan, I’ll be readmitted as an inpatient for at least three weeks as I receive back my lab-engineered T-cells.
In a way, this “test run” was calming. I know what to expect, and the protocol for my next stay – after three more chemo sessions intended to sufficiently depress my immune system so it doesn’t reject the T-cells – will definitely be in a private room.
I’m also happy that Hadassah doesn’t give out frequent flyer points. As nice as the doctors, nurses and technicians all are, scoring a free “upgrade” is not on my travel bucket list.
I first wrote about being hospitalized for The Jerusalem Post.
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