Issue 42 - Columbia: A Journal of Literature and Art

assortment of needles, catheters, tubing, drugs, and something called a
''basic tray." (A basic tray was a metal tray, sterilized and covered in
blue paper, that contained the instruments necessary to open up a person
and either take out or put in basically anything you wanted.)
The room smelled of antiseptic and the tile floor had been dulled
and eroded by the constant lapping of bleach. No matter how
bloody or messy this room got, it would always return to its original
state. It had no memory of what had occurred, whether lives
were saved or lost. And it operated outside the usual laws of UH.
The only hierarchy in the slot was a hierarchy of ability. In that
room there was no doubt about who I was or why I was there. And
that was where I found myself - still in the process of digesting
dinner - face-to-face with the man who
No matter how
bloody this room
got it would
always return to
its original state. It
had no memory of
whether lives were
saved or lost.
would not take off his pants.
The pants man - a semi-distinguished,
semi-disheveled, 70ish-Iooking man - was
seated upright on a stretcher desperately
holding onto his waistband. I had seen men
like him before; my Saturdays growing up
had been filled with them - the men I
would sit next to in synagogue, who my
father would laugh with, who knew all the
prayers by heart and would smile when
they saw my face constrict after tricking me
into tasting rye whiskey. Men who had run
from persecution in Europe to live in a nondescript
lower-middle-class New York City
suburb with my father and other men
who'd run froin the Bronx for different reasons.
The sight of this familiar-looking man desperately trying to stop
nurses and other doctors from removing his pants was an odd
scene because, in the slot, there is a sudden absence of social nicety.
Patients are attacked on all sides. The routine was: unbutton, rip,
or cut off all clothing, whichever was fastest. Remove rings, necklaces,
earrings, watches. Attach various electrical leads and oxygen
masks. Penetrate as many of the largest veins as possible with
large-bore IVs, and as quickly as possible.
Despite the maelstrom around him, the man was obstinate. He
clung to his pants with the strength of a drowning man trying to grip
a piece of floating wood. But he was not drowning in water, he was
drowning in his own fluids. Literally; Fluid was leaking into his lungs
because his heart was failing. He was in the midst of a Inassive heart
attack and unless he let go of his pants, gave us his anns and legs and
direct access to his arteries, veins and bladder, we were not going to be
of much help.
His myocardial infarction he had was caused by a blockage of his
left anterior descending coronary artery - an artery affectionately
known as the "widow-maker" because of how much vital heart
muscle it supplies. As we all surrounded him, pleaded with him to
let us take his pants off, he did not look all that scared. His shirt
was off, his shoes were off, his socks were off, his watch was off - I
even think a yarmulke had been removed - but still he would not
let go of his pants. He had a hairy chest, broad shoulders, and arms
that looked like they had been strong and had now found renewed
strength in their determination not to let go of his belt.
All he said was, "Get my son."
Bringing in family meinbers was not something you did in the slot.
Husbands, wives, children, friends, interested bystanders are not there
when chests are cracked or tracheas intubated. The slot is not a place
for the uninitiated, for people who do not know the rules of the hospital,
for those who do not wear a hospital ID. But this time I went out
into the waiting area and found the man's son. I was excited to usher
him in. I was going to be the face of the place that was trying to save
his father. I would be the first thing the son would see, and like a duckling
he would imprint to me - imprint that I was the doctor.
I walked him in and after they exchanged glances, his father
reached into his pockets and pulled out two wads of tissue paper,
gave thein to his son and then unceremoniously took off his pants. It
all happened so quickly. The drama vanished so abruptly that it
seemed to call its own existence into question. According to the son,
there were roughly several hundred thousand dollars worth of diamonds
in those wads of tissues, but as I retell the story, inflation
brings the total to at least several million.
My sons love this story. Perhaps it is the discovery of unexpected
treasure; perhaps it is that funny things can happen even in the most
dire of circumstances; or perhaps it is that when all seemed lost, I
brought the son in and saved the father. As my sons slip into sleep
they know that the diamonds are safe and the father lives. As I close
my eyes I hope that they imagine me a hero.
But finding the diamonds is not the end.
The geins are rescued, but we are still in the slot and in the midst of
a losing battle. The man may have waited too long for help. We are
pUluping fluids into him, trying to maintain his blood pressure. We are