i don't want to die in the hospital

Well, it happened to me again.

I spent last weekend in a hospital after, once again, experiencing what has been identified as a "vasovagal syncope." Since I missed that course in art school, I had to read up on and familiarize myself with vasovagal syncope. It means that I have a tendency to pass out unexpectedly and at the most inopportune times (as though there is the perfect time for losing consciousness). Saturday evening marked my fourth episode in twenty years – all occurring under vastly different circumstances and all ending with me in the hospital.... actually four different hospitals.

This time, I was enjoying dinner with my wife and her brother's family in the Waterfront Buffet at Harrah's Hotel and Casino in Atlantic City. Mrs. Pincus and I had frequented this particular buffet quite often when my wife was on the good side of Harrah's marketing department. Lately, however, they must have switched how player algorithms are interpreted and she was unceremoniously cut off from all benefits the casino previously offered. There was a brief flurry of promotion offered in the summer of 2017, but it was fleeting and, by Labor Day, the short-lived party was over. But as 2018 wound to a conclusion, a booklet from Harrah's arrived in the mail and a month's worth of (minimal) "free slot play" and four weekly gifts were offered to Mrs. P for the month of January. Plus one free buffet.  

We redeemed the buffet voucher on Saturday, never expecting to end our meal with me being escorted out of the place on a gurney, surrounded by EMTs and a half dozen electronic leads taped to my chest.

Comedian Rich Hall once observed that he never saw more broken glass anywhere else in the world than in Atlantic City. In the spaces between the glitzy casinos, Atlantic City is a sad little town. It's like an old hooker – once glamorous and appealing, but now doleful and broken after years of use, its beauty now faded. (I have used the same analogy for Fremont Street in Las Vegas.) So, you can only imagine what a hospital in the heart of the Atlantic City casino district is like. That's where I was taken. I didn't have to imagine.

After being prodded and poked for a few hours in the emergency room of Atlantic Care Hospital (on the world famous Boardwalk, next to Caesars Casino), my second gurney of the evening was wheeled up to the fourth floor of the Heritage wing at 2:30 in the morning. The room was dark and I wasn't wearing my glasses, but I could make out that there was someone in the first bed in the room. The nurse drew the curtain between the beds and divided the room in half. Feeling much better, I lifted myself into the bed. The nurse adjusted a pillow behind my head – and then jabbed a needle into my left arm to attach me to an IV drip. She left and returned with my wife, who had been told to stay at a nearby waiting area until I got "settled." (I think that means "until I had another needle jabbed into me.") With our car back in Harrah's parking garage, Mrs. Pincus would be staying the night with me. The nurse asked the man in the first bed if it was okay and he grunted his approval through his slumber. Mrs. Pincus sat in a recliner that was already in the room and tried (unsuccessfully) to get comfortable. I, too tried to get comfortable, but was awakened several times to have my blood pressure checked and to dispense a vial or two of blood for the lab.

When the Sunday morning sun shone through the window, the real fun began. My "roommate" was visited by a parade of medical staff. With every new technician, doctor, nurse, therapist, food service worker and nurse practitioner, he became more agitated, annoyed and, eventually, combative. He dismissed every single suggestion, recommendation and diagnosis that was offered. He argued with every one and demanded to be discharged. Between visits from medical staff, he engaged in venomous conversations on his cell phone. I tried not to listen, but he was just a foot or two away, behind a thin cloth curtain, so I heard nearly every word. He spat phases like "They don't know what the hell they're talking about!" and "I'm getting the hell out of here!" The volume on his cellphone was turned up high and he had some sort of "speech-to-action"  function turned on, so, every so often, we heard an electronic female voice intone "HOME SCREEN" and "CALLING DAUGHTER." And it also phonetically recited each letter as he punched out a text message. After a while, my "roommate" got dressed, argued with the attending nurse, who repeated to the patient that he would be leaving "AMA" (against medical advice). My soon-to-be-ex "roommate" waved the nurse's pleas off and stormed out of the room. The nurse sighed and came over to my side of the room to take my blood pressure. As he wrapped the cuff around my upper arm, he informed my wife and me that the guy is a regular visitor and he would return within this week.

The bed was empty for a few hours until another man was brought in. This man also argued with treatment, dismissed diagnosis and complained about those who were there to help. There was also a lengthy discussion about the color of his urine, which I could have done without.

I suppose hospital visits are a by-product of getting older. I went for almost fifty years between stays, but recently, they are coming closer together. One doctor – a cardiologist who told me I could save money by purchasing henna hair dye in a Indian grocery store – offered some words of encouragement, though. He said if, Heaven forbid, I do pass out again, a call to 911 is not really necessary. Especially if the episode only lasts under thirty seconds and I rebound very quickly.

Hopefully, I have had my last trip to a hospital. 

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

gettin' down here with the people

It was a typical Saturday night, but it turned out to be anything but typical.

I picked my son up around 5 o'clock, just after he finished his on-air shift at the radio station where he works. We had plans to go to a concert in Delaware, just over the Pennsylvania border. We had plenty of time, so we hopped on the subway and headed to a new restaurant we had heard about to grab dinner. Pretty typical so far.

After dinner, we jumped back on the westbound subway to get my car and make our way down to the show. I punched the address of the venue into the GPS on my phone and we were off. After crossing the state boundary, I carefully followed the mechanical-voiced instructions though uncharted rural Delaware thoroughfares until we arrived at our destination, which, in this case, was the Arden Gild Hall. Again, pretty typical.

It was our first time at Arden Gild, a rustic looking compound comprised of several utility buildings and a large main structure that, once inside, my son observed that it looked like a "hunting lodge for rich weirdos." The room was slowly filling up and the weather had just turned to a more seasonal clime for our area. Actually, the temperature was inching towards the higher numbers on the scale. We spotted a few members of both the warm-up act (Scantron) and the headliner (Low Cut Connie), both of whom we've seen numerous times before. As a matter of fact, the bands actually share a few members. My son and I chatted with James and Larry, the Connie boys' guitarist and drummer respectively, and then moved closer to the stage as the lights dimmed and the first band played the opening notes of their first song. Still, nothing out of the ordinary.

After a brief intermission, my son and I moved even closer to the stage. Scantron burst onto the stage with the same high-energy, high-octane bravura they displayed a week ago on the tiny stage at Kung Fu Necktie. Performing this time as a trio (with a supplemental keyboardist), the band ripped through a raucous playlist that included garage rockers and odes to James' Delaware roots. Scantron concluded their set and crew began setting up for Low Cut Connie's show-closing set. I talked with my son and a photographer friend of his. Soon our conversation was joined by a lovely couple we have met at many a Connie show, who just happen to be the parents of Low Cut Connie's charismatic frontman Adam Weiner. So far, so typical.

Suddenly, a strange feeling fuzzed up my head and my vision. Things started to get atypical.

As the stage crew adjusted mic stands, arranged guitar stands and placed the venerable "Shondra" (Adam's trusty, road-worn piano) in her usual spot at the front of the stage, my peripheral vision began to close in creating the effect of standing in a darkened tunnel. My head began to swim. I removed my denim jacket and tied it around my waist. I leaned toward my son and asked him if he could get me a bottle of water. He took several steps towards the bar at the back of the venue, but stopped to grab a folding chair for me. He could tell I was a little "off." He didn't have time to unfold the chair as I fell unconscious into his arms. Adam's father jumped from his chair and rushed to my aid, helping my son to lower me to the floor. I don't remember any of this. I only remember opening my eyes to see a dozen or so faces peering down on me from my prone position. My shirt was drenched in my own perspiration. Two women, crouched on either side of me, identified themselves as nurses. One grasped my wrist as she searched for a pulse, while the other started in with a barrage of questions — "What's your name?," "How old are you?" (My son later informed me that I got that one wrong.) The one that momentarily jolted me back to my senses was "Who's the president?" I remember scowling and cautioning my interrogator not to get me started.

My son and Adam's dad hoisted me into a folding chair. Someone placed a wet towel on my neck. I felt better, but only for a few minutes because I passed out a second time. Meanwhile, the venue's announcer was backstage, informing the band that "some guy with bright orange hair passed out in front of the stage." Adam interrupted his pre-show rituals to exclaim, "I know that guy." When I came around the second time, Adam was kneeling on the floor in front of me, grasping my sweaty palms in his hands. The rest of the band was at the edge of the stage, gazing down on me, along with nearly everyone else in place. I looked up to see my son on his cellphone.

"Who are you calling?," I asked.

"911.," he replied. He was calm and in control.

Soon, the crowd parted for two EMTs who helped me on to a gurney and wheeled me out to a waiting ambulance. As they shoved me backwards into the vehicle, my head reeled. My son announced, "I guess this is a good time to call Mom." He punched in my home phone number and slowly, coolly and calmly explained the situation to my wife, who was an hour away in Philadelphia. As I was whisked off to the hospital, with my son in the ambulance's passenger seat and my wife frantically dressing then speeding south on I-95, I could imagine the chatter among the people at the concert venue.

"I wonder what that guy was on?"

"Wow! I think that guy died!"

"I never saw anyone with that color hair before!"

Within minutes, I was in a small room in the emergency department of Christiana Care Hospital in Wilmington. An attentive team of technicians, nurses and doctors dutifully poked and prodded me. They asked me the same questions several times over. They took my blood pressure a million times and extracted many vials of blood from my left arm. A bag of some magic rejuvenating fluid was attached to my right arm via a tube and I began to feel much better. A short time later, my wife arrived at the emergency room, blotting tears from her eyes. She made me promise that I wouldn't die.

I would find out later that Adam and his pals dedicated the evening's performance to me. (Appreciated, but how embarrassing!) The next day, my Twitter feed lit up with well wishes and concern from a sampling of people I met at the show. (Appreciated, but how embarrassing!) My son stated that, while we can never show our faces at Arden Gild again, I better not pull that shit in September, when Low Cut Connie makes a return trip to Union Transfer in Philadelphia. "I go to Union Transfer a lot," he explained, "I want to be able to go there again." (How very embarrassing!)

I'm just happy that this didn't turn out to be Low Cut Connie's "Gimme Shelter."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com