I'm Still Here

Herein lies an excerpt from my forthcoming memoir, Not Yet:

In the winter of my junior year of college, I developed a persistent cough. The college nurse sent me for an X-ray. I had a spot on my lung. I was diagnosed with tuberculosis. 

Hunter was a public college.  I was banned from attending school until my x-rays were clear.  That was OK.  All I wanted to do was sleep and do my interpretation of The Lady of the Camellias.  I had a disease.  You don’t get many acting opportunities like that in your lifetime.  

At the beginning of my internment, I played almost dead brilliantly.  

It was fortunate my sister Lucille had married; I finally had my own bedroom.   My dialogue was straight out of a bad movie.  “It’s all right.  You don’t have to worry about me.  I’ll be gone soon enough.”

My brother David, always the jokester, “When?”  

~~~

When I was 18, I used my illness as an opportunity to exhibit my acting skills. That was as natural to me as a duck taking to water. 

Abed in my ragged flannel pajamas and unmade hair and bed,  I gave the glamorously gowned and beautifully coiffed Norma Shearer, who played the invalid Elizabeth Barrett Browning in the 1934 movie The Barretts of Wimpole Street, a run for her money as a not so imaginary invalid. Ever the drama queen.  

Today I am 90 going on 91. No more playing the part of a real or imaginary invalid.  Every blip is taken seriously.  Not that I’m a hypochondriac or an over-user abuser, but the personnel at my local hospital’s Emergency Room are my NBF (new best friends) and on my Christmas list.    

All to say, I AM CAREFUL.
Guess what?
No matter how careful I was, the fickle finger of fate had other plans for me.

Our present plague has been with us since 2020.  I followed each and every Covid directive and was rewarded with a perfect score.  Not even a sniffle.

On July 19th, 2024, someone blew a damn horn somewhere, and the walls of Jericho, aka Covid, came crashing down on my head, nose, and throat. 

I didn’t even have time for a proper “Why me”?

Initially, I didn’t feel so bad, but as the days passed, the script changed.

To Paxlovid or not to Paxlovid… that was the question.

As a latecomer to the Covid party, I thought it was de rigueur.  I confess I am not medically qualified.  However, that has never hampered my ability to diagnose my condition. Ask my Doctors. So I made the decision to Paxlovid.

No thanks to that drug, I am happy to report I am still here. Full disclosure: I probably took the drug later than it was supposed to be taken, which meant it would have no effect. But as my relationships in my local ER deepened, I discovered, to my chagrin, that nurses and doctors all agreed: Paxlovid is not the miracle drug it is touted to be and causes more problems than cures them.

Paxlovid and my gut were allergic to each other. 

After constant coughing, not eating for a couple of days, and non-stop bathroom visits, my friend took me once more to my neighborhood ER.  Like the prodigal daughter returning to sanctuary, I was immediately hydrated.   As I received the elixir of hydration, I was reminded by both doctors and nurses (my NBF) one more time that Paxlovid was the cause of all my symptoms.  They had served more patients with reactions to Paxlovid than to Covid.  Too much, too soon,  too late, too everything.

Home again!  Hoping, in a couple of days, to be able to say to one and all as I did when I fell in Florida I had escaped the bullet.  I couldn’t say that.  Like Ulysses trying to block his ears to the call of the sirens, I was being drawn back into the ER. And this time, the diagnosis was pneumonia. 

Covid, for which I finally tested negative, had morphed into pneumonia.  This was no TKO.  This was a real knockout punch. I decided the horrific reaction I had to Paxlovid lowered my immune system creating an opening for infection.  Hey, I needed answers, so who better than Dr. Heit to give them?

Right off the bat, let’s put the important facts on the table.   

Fact:  I  am certifiable.  Always have been.  Frankly, I don’t know how anyone survives in the world today without a healthy dollop of insanity.  

Fact:  Crazy or not, I was really sick. I am not a good patient.   Of all the roles I have played in my life… sick is my least favorite.

Here it comes.
If I don’t want to deal with something, I retire to my favorite river…
DENIAL.

Honestly, my friends, I have lost count of how many of my 90 years have been spent denying reality and living unconsciously in consciousness. I think being ill is one of those conditions that is ripe for denial by both the patient and surrounding family and friends.  Permit me a caveat to my wandering thoughts. (a little violin music, if you please)  I have worked hard to “grow up.” 

To take responsibility as a mature adult for my words and actions. Truthfully,  I miss the olden days of how easy it was to blame someone else for my problems.   The good old days of pointing a finger were gone.  Damn!  I shall have to focus on what I feel and think as I navigate my return to health.  Life just isn’t fair, is it?

As I descended into the netherland of unwellness, I discovered something about myself I had forgotten. I knew it at 18.  I just forgot. When I am really ill, do not leave me alone with me.  I am completely capable of creating havoc out of a hangnail. Like Rumpole of the Bailey (a British Television show) said of his wife… ATTENTION MUST BE PAID.  Mea Culpa! 

My recovery begins with an audience.  Shakespeare had me pegged.  All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.  We have our exits and entrances.  And one man in his time plays many parts.  

Well, when I am ill,  I am telling you, this WOMAN  plays many parts.   After seeing Jennifer Jones in The Song of Bernadette, when I felt pain,  I wanted to be a saint.  Being Jewish made that difficult.  As I matured, I realized being part of the human condition made being a saint impossible.  So I fell back on trying to be funny and irreverent during illnesses.  

The ability to laugh at myself is key to my recovery and survival.  As I get older,  balancing taking care of myself seriously and, at the same time, laughing at myself as I slip on an unseen banana peel becomes more difficult. When I was younger, like yesterday, I was in control of everything.  I was always going to get better.  At 90 years old, recovery is no longer a certainty.  The Angel From Death (Mel Brooks's 2,000-year-old man’s nemesis) was a lot closer at 90 than when I was 18.  These days, going for the laugh is a lot harder than it used to be.  And yet, for me, it is the key to my recovery and survival.  

I know I am getting better because, on my last visit to the ER, I greeted the staff with a shout-out from  The Shining  “I’m baaaack” smile, and  Get Well cards for my fellow patients.

Contrary to general opinion, if I am not feeling well, send in the clowns and the audience.  

I am happy to report my friends and family ignored my whining and complaining and did not leave me alone. I am in deep gratitude for all the wonderful home and medical care I received.

PHEW!

I gotta tell you, Stephen Sondheim knew what he was talking about when he wrote this song for his under-appreciated musical Follies.

As sung below by Elaine Stritch at 85, at Sondheim’s 80th Birthday Celebration at Lincoln Center, I’M STILL HERE

My sentiments, exactly!

Love, Sally-Jane