I saw “A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Gynecologic Oncology Unit at Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center of New York City”

What I saw: “A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Gynecologic Oncology Unit at Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center of New York City,” a play, at MCC Theater at The Lucille Lortel Theatre, 121 Christopher Street, in the West Village of NYC.

What I wore: limited edition Puma X Swash States, white jeans, eShakti tunic top, tiny fancy dark mauve handbag with an extra-long strap.

My chatting up strangers game is not enough to get a smile from NYPD

— Hamsteria d'Relish (@hamsterRelish) June 22, 2016

What I did beforehand: braved a traffic jam without honking, rode the E train, tried unsuccessfully to get a smile out of a pair of bored and surly NYPDs, succeeded with a haughty hipster barista when I got my coffee and cookie at Joe on Waverly Place.

Who went with me: lots of strangers, including some women from Florida celebrating , a couple whose daughter was a gynecological oncologist in Madison, Wisconsin, grumpy old folks next to me who were quietly uncomfortable with my cackling.

How I got tickets: online, because I thought the name was stupid and therefore great.

Why I saw this show: having seen two hospital-room black comedies, I now hope to see them all.

Where I sat: row G, seat 107, behind a guy with a huge neck and head, and between some old people and some even older people.

Condom jokes, vibrator jokes, cancer jokes, simulated oral sex, & I embarrass the old people next to me because I'm laughing like a mad hen

— Hamsteria d'Relish (@hamsterRelish) June 23, 2016

Things that were sad: this is a play about people whose moms are fighting cancer. This is not a play about brave survivors, or courageous 5K fundraising participants. It is about people who are fundamentally broken.

Things that were funny: vibrator jokes, a long condom story, and that long name, which isn’t even accurate, since the funny things happen at the Gynecologic Oncology Unit at Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center of New York City, not on the way to the Gynecologic Oncology Unit at Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center of New York City.

Things that were not funny: someone to my left fell asleep despite my loud laughing, and when he woke up he wanted his wife to tell him what happened.

What it is: a play, set in a hospital room at Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center of New York City, featuring four skillful actors and lasting about 90 minutes. 

Who should see it: anyone seeking something better than the absurdly simplistic and unrealistic portrayal of people with cancer being “brave warriors,” audiences prepared for simulated oral sex onstage, fans of Law & Order.

What I saw on the way home: a warning light on the dashboard of my car alerted me that the front seat passenger was not wearing a seatbelt. My front seat passenger was my purse, made somewhat heavier than normal with the addition of my laptop. Nothing like the engineering choices of some German car-feature designers to remind me that I, being a hand-bag-carrying woman, may not always be thought of as a car-owner or otherwise relevant person. 

Cat Panic: Part 2

The next day, I woke up after having hit the snooze button on both alarms. I had to rouse The Battlefield and deliver it to school by 7:28 am. I had to rouse the Middle Child and deliver it to the train station by 8:24 am. I had to rouse the dogs and walk them up and down the driveway. I did the dishes, fed the cat, and looked at my arm.

Was it even puffier than the night before?    Was it turning red?

It certainly was very tender. None of the wounds themselves looked like anything, but my left arm was painful and swollen.

I cancelled my plans and called the doctor.

Of course, having only moved here in September, I do not yet have a cat-bite-doctor. I have a women’s-parts-doctor, and a dentist, and a dermatologist. I called the Middle Child’s internist’s office. I explained that I had an animal bite on my arm, and that it was swollen and painful, and I wanted to get it looked at that day so I could avoid going to the emergency room.

The nurse on the phone replied, “You need to go to the emergency room.”

To me, the emergency room is for people who were run over by a car, the kid who fell off the monkey bars and broke his arm, the rider who came off her horse, the sous chef scalded by hot oil. You know, emergencies.  “My cat bit me yesterday” is not an emergency, it’s a thing to take care of, today if possible. But not an emergency. An emergency is falling off a ladder, it’s a venomous snake-bite, it’s a tornado, it’s a heart attack, it’s a stabbing. Yesterday’s cat bite is a stupid emergency.

Northern Westchester Hospital (which I passed three times the day before without realizing) is doing some construction in its parking lots, so when you go to the emergency room there these days you get valet parking. Hospital administrators everywhere need to know this important thing: valet parking at the emergency room is the best thing since sliced bread, since the germ theory of disease, since the agricultural revolution, since Skype, since the birth control pill or even since the invention of the Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup.   You drive up. You’re having an emergency! Hurry! You are greeted by a fellow who opens your door, and in exchange for your car he hands you a valet ticket.  You can even leave it running.

Inside, the Northern Westchester Hospital emergency room has a huge waiting area, with chairs for at least 75 people by my estimating glance. Behind a counter sat two pleasant, cheerful staffers, one of whom took my name and summoned a nurse. I sat in a chair and started to wonder how long the wait would be in a suburban emergency room at 9:30 am on a Tuesday. I never got to finish wondering, because Tammy, the nurse, had arrived to take me to a room.

Mine was room 15, though the door never closed. Tammy took my story, my name, my vitals. She told me they were very busy and to be patient.  Within the next half an hour I had seen the nurse who gave me the IV and the doctor, talked about what happened, and heard about other people’s cats. It was agreed all around that cat bites are nasty, and decided that IV antibiotics were warranted. I tried to read the paper, but never really had time. I was out the door again by 11:30 am.

I still say it was not an emergency, and that IV antibiotics could be administered in a doctor’s office.

A day later, my arm was still sore but no longer as swollen.  The cat seems to have resumed a normal activity level, though his toes bother him noticeably.

A Story for Mother's Day

My mother died of a primary brain tumor in April of 2004.  Recently, I found a number of things I wrote in the year before her death. 

The story below is dated 18 March, 2004. 

John called tonight to say that Mom was going home from the hospital tomorrow but was “not very communicative.”  She had a transfusion or something because her red cell count was really low.  He sounded tired and on the verge of tears, but managed to relate this story.

He leaves the room for a minute to get coffee and comes back to find the room full of doctors and residents.  Apparently she was due to take a pill and a nurse gave her two pills and some water to swallow them with.  John says she hates to take pills these days and she made a face at them and would not take the pills.  In John’s brief absence, it was decided that she would not take the pills because she could not swallow them, and the speech pathologist was called.  After a thorough examination and palpation of her neck and mouth, which John walks in on, they decide to see if she can swallow some Jello.  They put it in her mouth and she makes another face and doesn’t swallow.  John is by this point disgusted with them, because she won’t swallow it because she hates Jello.  He then yells at all of the doctors in the room, calling them a bunch of idiots, among other things, and tells them to get out.  The most senior of these medical magicians tells John that they fear she can’t swallow, so John says “You need to give her something she likes.  Can she have a piece of orange?”  The doctor agrees, whereupon John produces a knife from his pocket, which he opens and hands to the doctor.  The doctor is probably so frightened that he goes directly to the oranges (in a basket on a table), and John yells at him about preparing food without washing his hands.  So John takes the knife back, cuts her a piece of orange, which Mom chews and swallows.

I think I know why they are letting him take her home.