Bourgeois Dilemma #17: i think it's appendicitis

The other day when my friend C was late for a 9AM court due to her young son's sore throat (done only under duress, as the 9 AM court is only an hour and it's hard to get much doubles in an hour), I was reminded of a standard issue faced by women all over the world: the sick husband. Now, her son is only a child but she was effective enough at describing the syndrome of the level of moaning and complaining and sensitive treatment required when even a moderate illness takes down a Y chromosome to remind me of this age old dilemma. Aptly described in the vignette "man cold" which was hard to miss a few years ago as it made it's rounds on email and facebook (if you are not represented in one of the 4.5 million views on youtube here you go: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rXLHWmjA5IE) I have suffered the collateral damage of the sick spouse many times. In the early days, probably before we were wed, i was sensitive and sweet - given that we live at times in one of those twin studies, I had the validation of being called the "nice wife" when it would freakishly occur that both my sweet husband and his identical twin brother came down the the "flu" at the same time . . . my florence nightengale approach in the early days involved trays with chilled OJ and hot tea, buttered cinnamon toast and fluffed pillows to make him comfortable. My sister-in-law, with a few more years of marital bliss and a baby under her belt, had a more pragmatic approach: seal off the germ infested moaning male member of the household, roll a frozen can of OJ under the door and tell him to come out when he's better. Children force us to become more survival oriented on many levels, but a full time working mother just doesn't have time to be sick or to stay home with sick children, so when the man/dad in her life goes down he must be quarantined. a true friend, my sister-in-law is also a teacher and I have adopted her approach as time has gone on - recently, when the vile stomach flu that started off with an email memo from dutiful school nurse H that had me trotting in to the children's room at 3 am with the special bedside puke bowl made it's way to my spouse, I simply provided a bottle of clorox and a new sponge, then sealed off the room with Saran wrap and tell him to disinfect when he's better and ready to re-join the family.

On occasion men do get truly ill as do we all. Four or so years ago, when my tiniest child was still a baby, we were due to go the the dominican republic for spring break. work was frenzied, so i had asked for the indulgence of staying "until it's done" a day or two before we were due to leave. at about 7:30 PM, just as I was getting into a groove and about to have a conference call with someone in asia, I received a call from home:

Honey, it's me

Who? the grunting hoarse voice on the line is hardly recognizable

Me. I think I might have appendicitis.

What? You were fine this morning, are you sure?

Well, I looked on web MD and it seems like it. I really don't feel well. I am so sorry but I think you need to come home.

Now, a normal person might be happy to get a get out of jail card in order to come home early from the office on a late night, but my sweet husband knows the brute force of "get things done mode" and that getting in the way of that is like trying to swim out of a rip tide, smart man that he is. But, he really didn't sound himself so I capitulated.

OK, I will get in a cab and come right home.

But not without sending the following email to the colleague in asia:

So sorry, but I am not going to be able to have our call at 8:30PM EST, my husband thinks he has appendicitis. Men.

I arrive at home and he's lying on the floor in the front hall attempting to give the 6 month old a bottle while the 5 1/2 year old is working to apply a cold compress to his stomach.

Have you called the Dr?

No, I just looked on line.

Call me an enabler if you like but I dialed the Dr. and handed him the phone. His end of the conversation was a series of "no" and "yes" answers completed with Uh. OK, yes, I guess so. Thanks.

Honey, I've got to go to the hospital right now.

Thank god, his sister lived nearby and was able to accompany him as the ER at 100th and madison isn't really a great outing for the whole family at 9PM. I waited at home and got periodic updates as to how many people in white coats had come in to examine him:

Does it hurt when I do this? Sharp jab to the abdomen.

oooiiiiiaaahhhhhhhhouch.

In the aftermath it was determined by the sister's boyfriend that the janitorial staff of the hospital were passing the white coat around with the promise of a good laugh when you go give the guy in cubicle 7 a sharp jab to the guts.

Now the guy did have an appendix that was about to rupture and since this event to place in the aftermath of a certain NY governor having major issues in the wake of a botched appendectomy, it was decided that it was a good investment to send him to the concierge floor of the hospital to recover so as to reduce the chance of infection.

Oddly enough, the notion of the concierge floor has not permeated the maternity ward so in spite of the numerous times I had endured the "beauty of childbirth" in this hospital, I had never seen 11 WEST. I arrived early the next morning to make sure that my sweet husband was going to survive and amid the hubbub of the early morning rabble looking for directions to their dr/clinic/er/sick old auntie the moment I asked for "11 WEST" a hush falls over the crowd and I am whisked over to an express elevator to the 11th floor. Walking across an internal catwalk connecting the grubby old hospital building that houses the ER and maternity ward to the glass atrium containing 11 WEST, I see the back of a familiar blond head in one of the windows. Except it can't be, as this person is clad in a white terry cloth bathrobe reading a newspaper while sitting in a chippendale chair.

I enter the automatic doors and am caressed by cool air and the scent of white lilies. A unformed concierge behind a marble desk greets me and directs me to the room where my sweet husband is recovering. Other than a few emergency pull cords, I might as well be at the four seasons.

Entering the inner sanctum I help myself to a diet coke from the stocked mini bar and rounding the bend see my husband. He is sitting with the sports page and ESPN, a leather room service menu on his table and a bottle of vicodin before him.

the doctor thinks it would be a good idea to stay another night, you know, just to avoid any post surgical complications he murmurs.

I'll bet. Funny, just six months before when I had given birth, there was no stocked mini fridge, no menu, no lilies. Just a first time mother yacking away with the story of how she went in to labor and every detail that came after all the way until that very blissful moment with her little bundle of joy in her arms in my room while I was trying to sleep for a few last interrupted moments while the very capable nurses took care of my tiny infant in the nursery. I bet they don't even allow newborn babies in 11 WEST, they certainly wouldn't want to disturb all those men resting up from their surgeries and watching tv while buzzed on painkillers.

Now in a moment of sensitivity I will say that I am glad the whole thing unfolded as it did as the heli pad at casa de campo looked a little overgrown with weeds and the notion of getting to decent medicine from the domnican republic does send a little shudder down the spine.

but let me say, the next time I come down with a cold i know where to go for a little r&r.

Bourgeois Dilemma #4: if it's August, I must be Allie

most of the time, I am a fairly type-a working person. for a long time, I worked in the salt mines of the advertising agency world in various roles and of late, i have taken a different tack and have a closely held business as an executive recruiter for advertising and marketing (some would say that headhunter demeans the job, but I kind of like that word).

but kind of like clark kent who morphs into superman when the need arises, i am also "Aliey" (a spelling of one of the nicknames for my given name that I made up myself along the way - reading specialist, anyone?). In most of the world, it's ali as in ali mcgraw. but not in my world.

For most of my life, people have called me Alison. My family, however, has called me Aliey. This has been a nice thing, like going home from college to do laundry. Hearing that name meant safety, coziness and the familiarity of make your own sandwich night. but in school, in life and certainly in business, I've been Alison. Since I got married and changed by last name from S. to L., some have taken to calling me "AL" (at which point I need to ask myself who is better, Paul Simon or Elvis Costello). But "Aliey?" not so much. doesn't really evince the kind of take no prisoners attitude required to get the job done.

until one year, when arriving at my adoptive summer vacation spot, a certain island off the coast of Massachusetts with no stop lights and only four public restrooms and a "fog happens" laissez faire attitude that only slightly covers up the fact that there's a line up of gulfstream G200's at the airport like taxis at grand central station, my mother-in-law happened to introduce me to someone as Aliey. this moment goes back about 17 years and little by little, as I've aged and decided that it makes a lot more sense to spend as much time as possible away from the real world especially in summer, Aliey has kind of taken over the month of august.

in many ways, aliey and I are similar - we are perfectionists sometimes to a fault. we have two kids. we like to play tennis. we have a job. we have a handsome husband.

but aliey is different. she is more socially graceful and makes friends easily on the tennis court. she rides around town in the morning, in her tennis whites, on a bike with a 12 year old baby seat on the back that sometimes holds a tennis racquet, sometimes a child, and sometimes a case of wine. people wave to her when she rides and say "good morning aliey".

full on Aliey took time to emerge. in the early years, aliey and alison were much closer. the first year that Aliey spent two weeks instead of one, she got into a rhythm of ladies doubles with a group of pals she met in the tennis clinic. alison hadn't really figured out how to get out of the way at this time, so was carrying her blackberry court side in anticipation of a call from THE BOSS back in NYC. A little frazzled and possibly even a little late, she jogged up to the court and explained her absence with a shrug and "work" with a gesture toward the blackberry on the bench. One of her opponents, a tall drink of water with the kind of brown tan that doesn't come from just a week at the shore with a last day of SPF 15 thrown in for good measure looked up and said

what is this work that keeps getting in the way of our tennis?

umm, I work in advertising

ADVERTISING???!!? at this point her lovely face is drawn long by her hands as in The Scream god that's a terrible business, my husband used to own an advertising agency.

Of course he did.

Aliey didn't miss a step of course and got right down to spinning her racquet to see who would serve.

Years have gone by and little by little Aliey has taken over more and more of the month of august. alison is there, of course, in the background attending to the work that she needs to, but Aliey lives large. Hosts cocktail parties, gets invited to cocktail parties and brings her signature hostess gift of a reused jar with a bunch of flowers from her cutting garden tied with a ribbon, plays in the parent-child, ladies doubles and mixed doubles tournament. Aliey has so many sets of tennis whites that she doesn't need to wash them but she does just for kicks. last year, upon returning to NY alison was s0 overwhelmed with getting the kids ready for school and finding a new job that she didn't really attend to some basic housekeeping details like unpacking, moving aliey's bike to the basement and so forth. some crossover friends who have taken to spending a week in aliey's back yard came by to pick up a dog blanket they had left behind. Alison didn't realize that they were coming IN to her apartment as she and Aliey would never let anyone see the place in a such a state!

B walked in and nearly screamed "aliey doesn't live here".

Oh no she doesn't, Alison does.

There are a few other key differences between Alison and Aliey. Aliey lives in houses with names like Aurora Villa, Shanunga, Top of the Hill and friends will come to find her and then later say I stopped by Aurora Villa but you weren't home. Alison lives in a back of the building apartment with the usual alphanumeric designation. Aliey rides her bike with no helmet. Alison takes public transportation. When Aliey gives a party she gives a basket of hand written invitations to her children to hand deliver around town. Alison uses evite. Aliey has a brazilian cleaning lady named isadora who never loses things and can be called on to clean up the kitchen after dinner in a pinch. Alison has carmen need we say more.

Occasionally, Aliey and Alison collide. several years ago, after some friends had come and took some tennis clinics and purchased some merchandise on Aliey's account at the tennis club, back in NYC Alison send them an email with an accounting so that they could send her a check.

RE: Casino Bill

It was so much fun playing with you all up at the Casino- sorry we didn't win more - next year! As you asked, the bill came and you owe us $462. No hurry, I've already settled up.

xxxAliey

Moments after pressing send, a note comes back from a controller in a sister company who's last name is the same as Aliey's friend (damn those tricky email systems):

RE: Casino Bill

I don't think this was meant for me

Great now some finance geek in Detroit worn down by Sarbanes Oxley compliance thinks Alison is a gambler

RE: Casino Bill

Thanks - oh, and not that it matters, but just so you know, that's a tennis club, not a gambling outfit.

Reply

RE: Casino Bill

Sure.

Oh dear, Alison's reputation besmirched by Aliey.

No matter. It's August 3 and Aliey has already logged a few hours on the courts and is while Alison is annoyed by the fact that this post didn't go up on August 1 as intended, but Aliey knows that it was much more important to accomplish things like getting the little ribbons tied to the back of her new beach chairs so that everyone would know who's is who's. In four short weeks, it will be all over and alison will go home and see if the krugmans have moved in yet.

But in the meantime, aliey sure will have some fun.