Robin’s Joke from Wednesday:  Knock knock. Who’s there? Thank You. Thank You Who? You’re Welcome.

I remember coming to consciousness on the floor of the kitchen. I have no memory of falling or being nauseous before I fell or of vomiting into the dog bowls.

Maria was trying to talk to me when I began to be conscious, and I was trying to move, and I couldn’t, and I was trying to answer her, and I couldn’t.

I remember thinking, as she did, that I was dying; I just wasn’t sure what was killing me, how I came to be on the floor, or why I couldn’t move my feet or arms. I thought the same thing she did: this was it.

We talked about it often, and here it was.

Then, I was surrounded by three serious and businesslike EMS rescuers, one full-time and two volunteers.

They all looked like they had done this many times before; they were not rattled, panicked, or excited, just businesslike and professional. They hardly spoke to me once we got going.

I tried to speak with them and ask some questions,  but my words were slurred until I was in the ambulance and well on my way.

They were hooking me up to machines and not interested in chatting. I only remember one of their faces; she was female.  

They noticed I was beginning to speak clearly and relayed that to the doctors they were connected to.

It was strange; I was living what I often covered as a journalist or saw on television or in movies.  I was my own story. I was detached from it, which was fortunate.

The EMS people – I never got their names –  seemed to focus on my heart, but it turned out that wasn’t the problem. And I wasn’t having a stroke.

For some unknown reason, I had just crashed the back of my head one a hard tile floor.

Maria followed us; I could see my car lights, which she was driving, out of the ambulance mirror.

She stayed close by, determined to get to the hospital when I did. She had just come home from belly dancing that evening, and we ate a meal I was proud of but which may not have liked me.

I was concerned about her; the class was tiring, she usually fell asleep when she got home, and I knew she would insist on staying with me all night.

We have someone who can take care of the dogs and the farm immediately. She called her.

I’ve learned this about hospital stays:  I’m pretty good at it. I do what I’m told. I like doctors and nurses; they are interesting to talk to, and most are competent, exciting, and caring.

It isn’t easy to be a doctor or a nurse in America these days; they all have fascinating stories.

The sociology of a hospital is riveting to me.

I remember one nurse who came to care for me, a Covid nurse in New York City in the early days of the pandemic. J spoke of countless people dying before her, making conversation one minute, dead the next.  

I was reminded of my own good fortune. No whining, no laments. She worked 14 hours seven days a week.

She spoke of grueling work, free rooms to sleep in, and scores of people waiting with food and food outside of the hospital when she got off work. She also talked of working in New York City after 9/11.  

She talked of burning out and utter exhaustion. Her stories riveted me, and we talked for nearly two hours late one of those nights. I was so impressed with her; she is also a writer, and I urged her to consider writing a book.

(Robin sent me a joke every night.)

My roommate was a doctor who had just been through brain surgery and had also had bleeding in the brain.

He refused to call a doctor for days after his trouble started and had a urinary infection. The nurses told me people with urinary infections often get aggressive and even violent. He had been both in the hospital.

We were both up all night as he fought with the nurses, and TPA (Third Party Administrator In Health Care) sat with him all night, trying to calm him and make sure he didn’t fall off the bed. He refused every request and was angry and hostile.

The nurses asked me if I wanted to be moved to another room. I said no, I’d instead help if I could, which surprised me.

His son, troubled but loving to his father, apologized for the endless arguing and hostility coming just a few feet from me. He said there was evidence his father might also have dementia.

I thought of moving but then decided to offer to help. I do a lot of work with the elderly and dementia patients. At one point, when my roommate went to the bathroom, I sat up and introduced myself.

I said I was happy to meet and share the room with him. I said that I worked with older people and just wanted to say that these were good people trying to help him, and his family and son worried about him.

The two men who spent the night watching him were strapping young male TPAs; their patience and kindness to him were epic. I listened to them all night.

They were constantly provoked, insulted, and defied by this poor man, who was much loved by those around him. It was sad to listen to.

I tried to sleep later that night and got tangled in my sheets.

Suddenly, the TPA appeared and quietly untangled them for me – my back was too painful to move. I never asked him; he just sensed my trouble.

His gentleness and patience touched me, and I asked him a few questions about his work. I asked if he wanted to become a nurse, and he said he wanted to consider traveling.

As we paused for the screams of other patients in pain, he said he had grown up on the tougher streets of Albany, and I told him he was so good at this that perhaps he might consider this work. He said he couldn’t be a nurse; the classes cost too much money.

Too bad he has the gift. I offered suggestions about schools that offer nursing scholarships and told him about the refugee children who got some. I think he would qualify. I knew it would be done.  He didn’t really bite, and I didn’t push it. He hadn’t asked me for help.

“Oh,” he said, “this is nothing. Every night is like this.” We talked for a while, and he asked me about myself and was curious how I came to have a farm but wasn’t a farmer.  He wanted to learn how to write.

I enjoyed every conversation I had that long, and I was still unable to move by myself with pain so great that I cried.

I guess what I like about the hospital is that life is so authentic there, and people are honest and open about it. They have no choice; there are no distractions to hide behind.

He froze and looked at me for a long time. I sensed a reasonable person in there; I said, “You are a good person. Perhaps you might think of resting. ”

He smiled, said, “Good to know I have a friend in here,” and then went into the bathroom. I saw him next when I was leaving.

He was alone in his room, calmed by new medicines and his troubled wife, who was visiting him. “Good luck,” I whispered, “Thank you, Jon.” Somehow, he emerged that morning as himself.

Across the hall that evening, a woman in a room began shouting “John” in a pained and anguished voice; it felt like something out of Poe. She called my name in this very strung-out, mournful, and ghostlike way.

The nurse reassured me that she was not calling me and offered to move me again. Her cry for John went on all night. I admit it was haunting.

If I’ve learned nothing else about hospitals, it is that you never sleep and never eat food you want to eat. I was neither surprised nor disappointed.

Nor can you find two doctors who will tell you the same thing. At some point, you have to start fighting to get released.

It takes a lot of approvals and medical signatures, mostly from people who never talk to one another. I’m getting good at it; it took me six hours to get out. It was a brawl all the way. But I kept my temper and stayed calm.

Maria was with me all day for the two days I was hospitalized. We talked to the doctors, held each other, and laughed. For her to give up her art for a couple of days is a big deal.

This bubble will burst on Monday mid-day, and she’ll be in her studio; I better get myself together.

I want to say that at no point during this shocking and unprecedented night when I felt close to death did I ever lose hope or believe I would not get through it.

Several of my closest friends are religious people, and they all said that they prayed for me once they knew or sensed I was in trouble (a couple of them did sense that, eerie).

I felt Maria and these people pulling for me, and I was pulling for myself. I knew to be patient, calm, and hopeful. And I never lost those feelings, as frustrating and painful as it was. I believe it’s not my time; I have much to do before I do, and people around me love and care about me.

Maria has been excellent, as usual. We have been through a lot together, and I even let her come into the bathroom with me to make sure I didn’t faint or fall.

That was a big deal for me. I let my friends help me, and my daughter, who has been through a lot with me, sprang into action and briefed me on the symptoms of a concussion. She is a sports editor for the Atlantic/ New York Times Sports Coverage and knows everything about concussions.

When I got home, Zinnia, who had been uncharacteristically restless, licked my hands and face for a half hour. We were very happy to see each other. Her big tail was wagging all night.

Ultimately, it seems most likely that I had a severe reaction to one of the new medications I’ve been given for my diabetes and heart diseases. My heart checked out perfectly, no bones were broken, and the blood in my brain was absorbed all by itself. The neurosurgeon said there was no way I would need brain surgery.

My symptoms – dizziness, severe pain, lightheadedness, exhaustion, and fatigue- match up with concussions.

At Maria’s request, my daughter is messaging me daily to remember to take it slow and let the body heal. I sense she is enjoying this role.

I’m trying. I wanted to write these memories before I forget them because one of the symptoms of concussions is forgetfulness for days or weeks. I had no trouble taking photos today or writing. I can’t be too messed up.

I’ve decided not to be an NFL player.

And I was reminded once again that I married well; this one will stick.

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