Adding a Little Levity Page 7
The days turned into weeks. The formula for my captivity—keep me too weak to leave the hospital—was simple. Take daily blood samples, withdrawing all the recuperative hemoglobin my body was generating, and feed me liquids only. It was working well until one day my hemoglobin shot up by 1g, from 8.4g to 9.4g, a remarkable increase in a single day. Doc was clearly not happy about this stunning improvement and wasted no time putting Nurse Ratched to work. Next morning’s blood sample took a lot longer than usual, reminiscent of the eighteenth century’s state-of-the-art medical practice of bloodletting. It worked (for Doc) as my hemoglobin returned to the 8.4 g level.
Say what you want about Doc, but he was a delightful conversationalist with a warm bedside manner. After several days of IV fluids only, fearful that the muscles enabling me to chew and swallow were becoming vestigial like the wings on the flightless ostrich, I asked the doctor if my wife could bring me a nutritious drink. “Not unless you want Nurse Ratched to take two samples per day,” came the warm response.
Because he made his hospital rounds in the evening, my wife snuck in some apple juice one morning, my first ingestion of a liquid in what seemed an eternity. I savored it, kept it on a table near me, and drank it slowly so that it would last me as much of the day as possible. Without warning, the doctor appeared, conducting his rounds in the afternoon this one and only day. Was tonight the Needle and Syringe Association’s dinner? Oh no—the open apple juice!
My pulse quickened, my saliva vanished, my sweat poured, my eyelids twitched. I was surely in for another round of bloodletting if the doctor spotted the forbidden juice. I lurched forward from my seat, intending to use my body to obstruct the doctor’s view of the apple juice, but stumbled over my IV caddy, nearly ripping the IV needle from my arm, giving me another view of those pretty constellations. Good fortune arrived in the form of the nurse, two hypodermic needles in her holster, looking for any unbroken skin on my buttocks to penetrate. The doctor temporarily excused himself, allowing me to quaff the remaining juice and dispose of the evidence. I never enjoyed a deep intramuscular injection as much as I did just then.
To this day, I am not quite sure how I ever got out of the hospital, although on the day I departed, my wife dressed me in a fedora and raincoat and told me to sprint to the elevators. I am now living comfortably, somewhere, with a new name under the Witness Protection Program.
I miss Ivy.
• • •
NATIONAL SERVICE FOR ALL
Many U.S. presidents have supported the idea of mandatory national service. President John F. Kennedy did so most eloquently, saying, “Ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country.” He considered such work ennobling, giving Americans a chance to “share a common civic experience rooted in the ideals of commitment and sacrifice.” For these reasons and many more, I also think every American should work, for a period of time, for the government. So much can be learned, making for better-informed citizens and voters.
During my two years of work at the Defense Department, my boss, Mr. McKenna, taught me the importance of getting sufficient sleep. Mr. McKenna wasn’t one of those pretentious fellows who merely “talked the talk.” My boss would “walk the walk” for all to see. After a quick lunch eaten at his desk at 11:30 a. m., Mac would take out a pillow and blanket from the bottom draw and sleep contentedly in his cubicle through much of the afternoon. Noises didn’t seem to bother him, but then again, there wasn’t much noise on the floor because there was hardly any work taking place. Not once, did I ever see Mr. McKenna tired at a meeting—underscoring his message about getting sufficient slumber—although I never did see any meetings either.
Every year, the Defense Department hired two college graduates. In 1974, it was a fellow named Brian and me—to keep the pipeline going. It hadn’t occurred to the guys in charge that the pipeline had been leaking for quite some time because the ages of everyone else in the department were between sixty and one hundred. The primary responsibility of our office (which employed about two hundred employees with no more than twelve needed and not many more than that showing up) was to administer contracts between the Defense Department and the local aerospace industry. Whenever a contractor missed a milestone, the Defense Department amended the contract in exchange for consideration, a process that consumed about fifteen minutes. On a typical day, there were approximately ten such amendments to be spread among two hundred employees. Work at our office proceeded at a glacial pace, an affront to the dynamism of glaciers, crushing the spirit and ambition of any twenty-something-year-old naive enough to have wandered into its employ.
I figured this out in five days, while Brian, a particularly quick study, knew in four. Also much faster than anyone else, Brian grasped the import of Mr. McKenna’s exhortations about frequent visits to the Sandman. It was in this regard that national service taught me a second significant lesson: the value of loyalty and teamwork.
For Brian, every night was a Friday or Saturday. He arrived at work each morning with glazed eyes, the victims of either too much alcohol, too little sleep, or both, sporting a variety of bloodshot reds matched only by Revlon’s Fire And Ice lipstick. Brian carried with him a sleep debt that had to be repaid. Clever man that he was, Brian noticed that the toilet paper dispenser in the stalls in the men’s room was a simple device, affixed to the wall at a level slightly higher than the seat, without any covering, fluffy toilet paper exposed, measuring a precise torso length from the toilet—almost as if he designed it himself. At first, Brian would spend only an hour or so in the stall, sleeping with his head comfortably nestled on the strategically located toilet paper, the best pillow in the office, save McKenna’s. Being a reliable colleague, I promised to go get him if any of the managers questioned where he was. No one ever wondered, though, so Brian slept longer, so long, that the only thing anybody wondered about was whether Brian still worked there.
Well, a day came when the bosses were looking for Brian, and by then, even I was unsure whether he worked there any longer. While some of the executives started milling about impatiently, I sprinted to the men’s room and banged on every stall door, doing my best imitation of Paul Revere to alert Brian to the gathering storm. Not wishing for the bosses to see me walking into the office with Brian, I took a different route back inside and stood behind them as Brian emerged, the toilet paper perforations freshly imprinted on his forehead. Worse, a fragment of toilet paper dangled from his cheek. As Brian entered the room to confront the phalanx of bigwigs, he should have seen behind them, a head (mine) periodically bobbing above theirs, using facial signals, unsuccessfully, to warn him of his unique appearance. After administering a stern warning, the overlords went back to doing nothing in the days that followed, and Brian resumed his lengthy bathroom visits. For my part, I discovered that Brian was still an employee, and therefore needed my help as loyal watchdog.
Which brings me to the third important lesson learned from my time in government service: punctuality. Our workday began at 8:30 a.m. and ended at 4:30 p.m.—not 4:31 p.m. or 4:32 p.m.—but 4:30 p.m. Although the day ended at 4:30 p.m., “work” ceased at 4:00 p.m., because all of the employees—even Brian left the stalls no later than 4:00 p.m.—gathered their belongings, put on their hats and coats if it were winter, and sat motionless, like the calcified Politburo of the former Soviet Union, craning their necks to focus on the minute hand of the wall clock. Banter was not permitted because we were, of course, still within “working” hours. When that magical moment arrived, even Pamplona’s bulls would have marveled at the stampede that ensued. Women jostled as aggressively as the men, chivalry suspended, as two hundred people fought to leave the building before the minute hand could finish a turn around the clock. Never before or since, have I seen such a coordinated display of punctuality from so large a group. And if you think it was a fluke, it wasn’t. It was orchestrated with the same degree of precision, every day.
By 8:45 a.m. each day, I, like most everyone in the offic
e, had completed my assigned work, leaving a rather large chunk of time to fill. Being young and ambitious, I hunted for reading material to enhance my knowledge and skills. I began perusing Defense Department Procurement Manuals, a natural soporific made even more powerful by the sound of McKenna snoring. My eyes closed. After my head involuntarily bounced off my metal desk for the second time, I realized that it was inadvisable to continue. So, I did nothing, watching the clock in anticipation of lunch hour, but that too caused my head to take a beating from the metal desk. Not everyone had the same problem. Many of my colleagues were busy—just not on government work. Most of the dedicated public servants in the office were double-dippers who openly conducted their personal real estate, attorney, appraisal businesses at their desks, but only after their Defense Department work was completed, which pretty much left the whole day. At the time, I was attending MBA graduate school at night. Feeling emboldened, I furtively read a few pages of my course textbook at my desk; a then, a chapter; and then, two. Before long, all my MBA materials covered my desk as I prepared homework, studied for exams, and wrote my thesis. Who was going to notice? McKenna? I did surprisingly well in grad school, thanks in large part to my employment at the Defense Department.
All in all, my government service was an excellent learning experience, an experience I think everyone should have, and would, if national service were mandatory.
• • •
THANKS FOR THE MEMORIES
With increasing frequency, my wife’s memory was losing its sharpness. Although more bothersome than serious, her forgetfulness was not something that either of us was willing to overlook. We searched high and low for potential remedies and cures but without much success. She tried mental exercises, Sudoku puzzles, diets rich in “brain food.” Almost by chance, we stumbled onto an exciting alternative medicine we felt, after reading the label, was precisely what we needed.
Triple-Strength Memory Enhancer
Recommended Dosage: Take one a day, always with food since it can be harsh on the stomach. Take an additional two tablets if any of the following situations occur:
1. You forget where you left your keys.
2. You remember that your husband’s name begins with R, but are unsure of the rest.
3. You forget where you left your cellphone.
4. On the way out of the house to drive your daughter to school, your husband kisses you goodbye and hands you your cellphone. After getting into the car, you “remember” that you don’t have your cell phone and return to the house to get it.
5. You forget where you left your sneakers.
6. You leave the house on a trip to Aguadilla and return home to retrieve your cellphone. You leave a second time and return again to retrieve your purse. You leave a third time, but by now, it is so late in the day that no one is at home to record the number of additional times you returned to the house.
7. You wake up in the middle of the night and have no clue who is sleeping next to you.
8. You wake up in the middle of the night, have no clue who is sleeping next to you, and grab a pair of scissors for defensive purposes.
9. You wake up in the middle of the night, have no clue who is sleeping next to you, and grab a pair of scissors for offensive purposes. Should this happen, swallow all the remaining pills in the bottle at once. No need to eat food with them. Your stomach will be just fine; in fact, you may chew the pills if you cannot find water to wash them down. If this dosage hasn’t worked, leave the house at once, and do not forget to take the scissors, particularly if blood-stained, with you for proper disposal. Change your identity.
• • •
MISOPHONIACS UNITE!
The impact of this little-known, debilitating illness (misophonia, or selective sound sensitivity syndrome) on thousands of long-suffering victims goes unnoticed and unappreciated every day. Literature, clinics, and support groups are nonexistent. If we’re lucky, we suffer in silence. More than likely, we are ridiculed. In fact, the only sympathy I ever receive after an attack of misophonia is from my wife, who is concerned enough to ask me, “What the hell is the matter with you?” although she never waits around for me to answer.
Put me in an agreeable social situation—lots of friendly people, good food, lively music, interesting conversation—and I will hear, and then fixate on the dog barking in the distance. Can I help it if I have the auricular sensitivity of, well, a dog?
I might be trying to close an important business deal over lunch in a restaurant when my attention is stolen by the person at a nearby table, sniffling and snorting, never having been taught (or perhaps having forgotten), how effective a tissue or handkerchief can be in such situations. In an attempt to alert the sniffler to his churlish behavior, I sniffle and snort, only louder. This invariably leads my lunch guest to ask the same question my wife does.
When I occasionally fly first class, I eagerly look forward to a quiet meal. Instead, I am assaulted by the cacophony of knives and forks striking china as diners sloppily cut and spear their food. Just how difficult is it to target one’s food noiselessly? All at once, my taste buds, hunger, and equanimity shut down. With each clanging fork and knife, my rage deepens.
Even at home in Puerto Rico, the endemic coqui, a small frog less than one-inch long, emits a delightful mating call, part of the music of the tropics. For months, I enjoyed the soothing sounds until a mutant coqui with the lungs of Enrico Caruso settled into one of the plants in our outdoor terrace. Clearly, this was one sex-deprived coqui, its mutation having frightened off a number of eligible female coquis. Its mating calls were louder, more frequent, and more desperate than any I had heard before. Eating dinner, watching TV, conversing with the family became impossible. As soon as I entered the terrace, the coqui would clam up, so I couldn’t identify in which plant he was perched. I hosed down the entire terrace, poured scalding hot water into each of the plants, and then tried citric acid. Nothing worked. Napalm or Agent Orange seemed to be the logical next steps, but I had trouble convincing my wife.
I first became aware of my affliction as a youngster, when after dinner, our family would settle into the living room and my dad’s tongue would go in search of food particles that had decided to nestle in the spaces between his teeth rather than follow the intended path to his stomach.
The art of coaxing food out of its dental hiding place required that a suction be created between tongue and tooth, followed by the tongue’s rapid release. This sometimes drew out the food but always produced a clicking sound. To the rest of the family, the click went unnoticed; to me, it sounded like a firecracker exploding in my face.
Our family of five lived in a tiny apartment of four rooms separated by walls through which light and sound traveled freely. Trying to escape the click, I would take my books and homework first into the dining room, and then to the bedroom I shared with my brother (who made his own noises).
Invariably I ended up in the bathroom, which was a couple of extra feet away from the living room. No matter how hard I tried to concentrate on my schoolwork, I would, instead, be anticipating the next explosive click. My dad’s tongue would methodically visit each tooth. My sanity precariously rested on his having had four wisdom teeth removed during his adolescence. The prospect that he could have been doing this thirty-two times a night instead of twenty-eight was unnerving. Eventually, the noise stopped, marking the completion of my dad’s virtual flossing, a signal that I could leave the bathroom and rejoin the family. They never said anything to me, but they did look at me like I was nuts.
It never got any easier as the years passed. Commonplace sounds—sniffling, slurping, snoring, dogs barking, cutlery banging—would taunt and torment … every day. Because sympathy from loved ones was not forthcoming, I turned to man’s best friend, but had to drop that idea when his barking set off an acute attack of misophonia.
When I moved my family to Puerto Rico, we chose what appeared to be a peaceful neighborhood, and it was—until Rocky moved in a few houses
away. Rocky, a confused dog, thinking he was a rooster, not only announced the appearance of the new day’s sun, but seemed intent on announcing its setting as well.
Being a dog and not a rooster, unequipped with any natural sense of when dusk would arrive, he would simply bark until it did. At first, all of the misophoniac’s rage was directed at the rooster dog, but after much violent twitching and frothing, the sound-challenged victim recognized that the dog owner’s lack of consideration, or his deafness, was to blame.
So, I had to confront Rocky’s owner (Gilbert) but wisely decided to do so via text, rather than in person, because I wasn’t at all sure I would be able to release my hands from his throat in a timely manner. So that others may learn more about, and come to appreciate, the misophoniac’s plight, I have transcribed our text exchange, annotated with some explanatory comments.
August 15, 7:04 a.m.
Gilbert: I am Anita’s husband. She received a note from you today regarding Rocky. I am in the States now and will be back Wednesday. She has been out of town and the kids, well, they are kids. [Irresponsible of you to leave your kids alone like this.] No one had charged his electric dog collar since I left almost a month ago. [Why didn’t Anita charge it? I presume Anita is not a kid since that would be a different kind of problem.] Hopefully she will charge the collar tonight and get it back on Rocky tomorrow. The collar seems to work pretty well when it is charged! I apologize for the barking. It makes me crazy also. [Also? So you think I am crazy? Just another example of the lack of understanding and ridicule heaped upon misophoniacs.] Feel free to text or call me anytime.
August 15, 7:24 a.m.
Me: Thank you so much for your understanding. I spoke to Anita several months ago and was grateful for whatever she did. I didn’t know there was such a thing as a barking collar [I immediately purchased huge quantities at retail and offered them on eBay at a steep discount to encourage their use.] because I haven’t heard the dog barking until recently. I’ll pay for the batteries and/or electricity to keep the collar charged. [I also offer to teach your kids how to obey their parents and follow instructions.]