Two Eye Infections and a Chianti

Here in Maine, we either talk about the weather or our health. So, this story is about my recent visit to the ER at Pen Bay Hospital in Rockland.

March will be the start of our second year of being full-time residents in Maine; Covid-19 has kept us here for reasons good and bad. The good is that our house on the sea is beautiful; every morning we wake up to the Big Shining Water and tall spruces gently bowing in the wind. It’s quiet, and as you know from earlier blogs, we have a diverse community of porcupines, foxes, squirrels, coyotes, eagles, osprey and seals, all living with us beneath sapphire skies. The bad part is Maine, at times, is like living in a foreign country. Locals have a unique perspective on life, one which is best characterized as “hurry up and slow down,” and “I’ll do things my way.” But mostly they like to talk. And talk and talk. As I said, conversations begin with the weather and health, and then to deliberations about whatever task is at hand, like the merits of a certain type of screw, or drill, the best way to get somewhere (if you need directions), or how to make oyster stew. I’ve included our caretaker Wayne’s recipe below.

The truth is that we, the people “from away” are the foreigners. Mainers look at us strangely if we complain about the mail being slow, or how we are puzzled by the electrician who agrees to come but only because if he doesn’t, we’ll keep calling him. It is also difficult to get a doctor’s appointment but before I tell you about that, and the ER, a sidebar about my son Greg.

When Greg was four years old, he contracted a serious and potentially fatal condition called periorbital cellulitis. This is an infection in the orbital area of the eye which, if not treated, can lead to blindness, mental illness and/or death. We rushed him to the Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia ER. He was admitted and given intravenous antibiotics for a week. For many years we joked about how Greg almost died; not that it was funny, but it was easier to laugh about than succumb to the reality of losing a child. For all his growing-up years, Greg, bless his heart, carried around the distinction of almost dying like a badge of honor.

Now, where was I? Oh yes, medical treatment in Maine. When we moved to Maine, Bill and I, both cancer survivors, always assumed we’d retain our doctors in Philly and go back when necessary. Then Covid came and travel was not an option, so we had to look for doctors up here. A shortage of doctors and overabundance of seniors (21% of Maine’s population is 65 and over) make it difficult to find practices taking new patients. I had to sign up with a nurse practitioner instead of an MD. She is okay but not great. On my last visit she made me wait for 30 minutes (there was no one in the waiting room) and then spent another thirty minutes talking about her son, a lobsterman. So, when I get something nasty in my eye, I decide to see an ophthalmologist instead. Greg, my now-grown son, was due to arrive the next day, so I was especially anxious to be seen quickly and not waste time talking about lobsters.

Unfortunately, all of the ophthalmologists in the area are on Christmas vacation but I get a referral number for an optometrist in Rockland. I call and he sees me right away. He is super nice and recommends I go to the ER right away and get an MRI. In the meantime, he’ll call and tell them I’m coming.

At 4:00 pm I arrive at Pen Bay ER. I’m admitted right away but they don’t have any rooms. I sit on a gurney in the hallway and wait. I wasn’t too worried about Covid because those patients are taken to a separate building. A nurse takes blood and pretty soon I’m wheeled in for an MRI. I text Bill, who is waiting in the parking lot, and tell him things are moving fast.  We had just ordered take-out from our favorite sushi restaurant for dinner and I thought, good, I’ll be done in time for the 6:30 pick-up.  A few minutes later the doc comes, sits on the end of the gurney, and tells me I’m not going anywhere. I have periorbital cellulitis and they are admitting me right away. I may need to stay a day or two.

I’m in a state of shock. Unfortunately, she informs me, the staff is in the middle of shift change. I will have to wait for the next attending MD which won’t be for another two hours. Fortunately, they find a room for me. I call Bill with the bad news and I settle down for the long wait.

Bill, such a dear, goes to the restaurant, picks up our food at 6:30 and brings my order, along with some wine disguised in a small bottle with a tomato juice label. He drops it all off in a brown paper bag at the ER desk. They deliver it to me promptly, no questions.

I’m still in the ER but at least I have a room, a great dinner, and my wine. I mean, it’s not like I’m sick, really, I have no fever or other signs of an infection. I make myself all cozy and enjoy my dinner. Three hours later, now near 10:00pm, they take me to a hospital room. All the rooms at Pen Bay are singles and are very – they even have views of the ocean! The attending nurse, a nice guy named Mike, checks me in with the standard list of a million questions. He gets to the one where he asks when did I have my last alcoholic drink.

Me: Pause. “Uh, well, maybe two hours ago? I had, uh, Italian grape juice.” I wink.

Mike: Pause. “Here in the hospital?”

Me: “Yes, in a little bottle. It wasn’t much. My husband brought it to me, for dinner.”

Mike: “Do you still have it with you?”

Me:  “Yes.”

Mike: “May I have it, please?”

My response unleashes a series of mandatory questions to determine whether or not I’m an alcoholic, but it also reveals that Mike thinks my drinking wine in the ER, with my sushi dinner, is the funniest thing he’s ever heard of. He quickly confesses that he is a total wino. He LOVES wine. What kind am I drinking? Does chianti (what I’m drinking) go with sushi? What other kinds of wine do I like? And so on. Remember what I said about Mainers liking to talk?

Finally, I’m all checked in and wired-up with a 24-hour drip. The peace and quiet is actually wonderful because I haven’t had any alone time for months and months (and months). I don’t think I mentioned that my other son Will, his wife Jen and baby Hudson have been living with us since October 1 (but that’s another story).

The next morning, bright and early, the doc comes by. He is tall, with lots of dark hair pushed back with a thick headband, looking more like he should be on the slopes instead of the hospital. His bedside manner – lightly touching my foot every other word – is a bit weird but hey, it’s Maine. He says I need to stay until at least 2 pm and then I can probably go home. I enjoy the rest of my day with hospital cafeteria room service, a lovely view and a great book (Deacon King Kong by James McBride). It’s almost like I’m on vacation! Anyway, they take more blood and send me home with a week’s worth of antibiotics. I’m back home on Saturday in time to greet Greg when he arrives and it’s a wonderful, happy ending. Or so we think.

Two days later, on Monday, I get a call at 9:30 pm from the Pen Bay ER doctor. I have to come in right away. They found a deadly bacteria in my blood culture. I may need to be admitted. I stare at the phone, like they can see me. But I’m not sick, I cry, dismayed. No, I still have to come in. They want to see me.

I am crushed and shocked to have to leave. Bill, cursing up a storm about how this would never happen in Philly, drives me back in the December cold and dark. I’m put into a room and a nurse takes more blood and all my vitals. The doc (a new one this time) comes in, looks at my chart and examines me.

Doctor: “You’re not sick.”

Me: “Thank you.” (Intoned in the voice of my friend Sally Bellet).

They take another blood culture, just to be sure, and tell me I can go home. Poor Bill drives back to get me and when we get home, collapse into bed.

Happy ending number 2. The cultures come back negative and I finish my antibiotics. Greg is here, along with Will, Jen and baby Hudson and we have a wonderful family Christmas, the best gift of all.

One last side bar, please. A few months earlier, Greg read my blog about Mr. Benanti and shared a delightful surprise: we had something in common that I never knew. He too held his pen in a funny way and his teachers also tried to correct him as they did me, to no avail. Thanks to periorbital cellulitis, Greg has to share another badge of honor with me.   

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 Wayne’s (Ridiculously Easy) Oyster Stew

Shuck a couple dozen oysters. Put in pan with butter and pepper. Simmer slightly. Add half and half until heated through.