The Peacock

Both my husband and I bear the scars of early burns.  Mine is under my chin and dates from a very minor,  almost funny childhood accident;  his scar is on his arm, dates from the hour of his birth, and tells a more somber tale.

As I child I loved summer camp and went on to be a camper waitress,  and then a drama counselor. (See Frenched!,  The Camper-Waitress Goes to the Fair, and Piano Man – Remembering Herb)

One memorable summer when I was a young camper we were sitting around a campfire toasting marshmallows on sticks as a counselor told a ghost story.  Intent on the scary story,  I took my stick out of the fire to eat my toasty marshmallow  but as I raised it to my mouth it hit me under the chin instead.  Now decades later I have the scar of what I affectionately call my “marshmallow burn”.

How my husband was burned is quite a different story.

On the cusp of WWII and the Nazi horror,  my husband’s parents fled Europe.   (See Family Photo and  Tracing Our Roots)

They were able to get visas for Bolivia where they lived for the duration of the war and where my husband was born – prematurely.   The hospital conditions were relatively primitive and there were no incubators for premies.  Instead the 5 pound baby was placed on a shelf under the table where his mother had labored, and where she was then being treated for a serious post-partum complication.   Meanwhile a hot water bottle was placed beside the infant and altho it kept him warm,  it badly burned and scarred his arm.  But thankfully mother and baby survived their ordeals and after the war the family sailed for the States.

Of course my husband doesn’t remember the kindly Bolivian doctor who delivered him and treated his mother,  and has only heard the hot water bottle story that explains his badly burnt arm.  But he does have wonderful memories of his early years in Cochabamba, a city of beautiful fountains, squares, and parks.

And as a three-year old he remembers playing in a Bolivian park where a peacock frightened him by suddenly spreading its beautiful feathers.

– Dana Susan Lehrman 

My Day in the ER

Recently I spend practically a whole day in the ER.

I had a Zoom book club meeting the day before and was eating a tuna fish sandwich as I sat at my computer talking with my book club friends.

I made the tuna salad myself and in fact my husband was eating it downstairs while I was upstairs Zooming,  and he later told me he thought it tasted fine.   But it tasted off to me,  and a few hours later I felt sick to my stomach and that night spent more hours in the bathroom than in bed.

The next morning I still felt awful and called my wonderful primary care physician Dr M.  His nurse told me it sounded like a case of food poisoning and rather than come to the office I should go to the ER as I’d need fluids after throwing up all night

And so I went to the local hospital in the Connecticut community where we spend half our time.   It’s a wonderful hospital,  and there’s usually no wait in the ER and there wasn’t that day.   I was immediately ushered into a private room,  quite unlike the narrow bays separated by curtains that I’ve seen in the crowded ERs in many New York hospitals.

Then a kindly staff treated me with state-of-the-art medical equipment.  But when I mentioned I had a slight pain in my abdomen,  a red flag went up that sent me for an MRI – not the usual  protocol for someone in the ER with food poisoning.

And the results were a bit alarming – it seems the MRI revealed a cyst on my pancreas as well as something suspicious on my breast.  The MRI results were shown to the surgical team who deliberated for awhile while I worried, and although they concluded that nothing was urgent, they strongly advised me to pursue those two incidental findings with my doctors.  And so of course I continued to worry.

After six hours in the ER I was discharged,  and the next day I called my New York gastroenterologist and my New York gynecologist with the Connecticut ER story.   Each asked that my medical records be sent from Connecticut to New York,  and I made appointments for further tests with the results to be sent back to Connecticut so my doctors in both places were kept – pardon the expression – abreast.

And so my inter-state medical saga continued as I worried for a few more weeks while awaiting those test results.  Then finally I got a clean bill of heath from both doctors.  The pain in my abdomen that had sent me for that MRI was now chalked up to gastritis caused by all my vomiting that fateful night.

Back in Connecticut I went to see Dr M.

“Isn’t it lucky that when I went to the ER for food poisoning they did that MRI and uncovered those incidental findings!”  I said.

One of the things I like about Dr M is that he’s not an alarmist.

“Actually my dear,  it might have been better had they not been so conscientious and not done the MRI,”  he said,  “It would’ve saved you all that unnecessary worry.”

You know,  he was right.

– Dana Susan Lehrman

My tried and true approach to all problems with technology: Turn it off and turn it back on. Nine times out of ten, the problem is mysteriously fixed.
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