Monthly Archives: July 2007

Street Signs, Confusion and Speed Means Go Slow

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When I lived in New York City street signs made sense. They informed directly, clearly, left little if anything to the imagination of any driver, much less a shiftless driver up to no good. New York City signs said Stop, No U-Turn, Slow, Caution, No Parking, 35 MPH, 40 MPH, and so forth. Some signs were blisteringly clear in their intentions. For example, I saw signs on Sutton Place, a street for the well-heeled on the Upper East Side, that read, Don’t Even Think About Parking Here. Try getting out of a ticket for parking there. “You thought it fella,” the judge would say. “Now pay up.”

It was not until I moved from New York City nearly 20 years ago that I realized I’d been spoiled when it came to street signs. I foolishly thought all street signs were, by default, clear and succinct. I was wrong.

When I left the city I moved to Ellenville in Sullivan County. A beautiful area. The Center of Ellenville sits exactly 10 miles off a State Route 17 exit which blends you right into Route 209 which then leads you through several villages before bringing you to the heart of Ellenville.

Now, in the spirit of full disclosure, it is, for the purposes of this essay, relevant to note that in 1987, the year I moved to Ellenville, I was not yet sober. I was a heavy pot smoker. Now, when you are a driver and a pot smoker (not a wise or safe combination under any circumstances, by the way), you tend to drive with what you think is impeccable caution. You focus on street signs with what you think is a high level of diligence. You need, desperately, street signs that are clear, to the point. Anything else leads to trouble, confusion, dismay!

Let me say here and now that whoever did the wording for street signs in upstate New York was (or is) a pot smoker. I’ll show you what I mean.

I exit 17 and get onto 209. Initially I see signs that seem fine. Speed limit, 55 MPH. Good, I understand that. I drive 57 miles hour because my pot smoker paranoia tells me driving the speed limit exactly will be too suspicious. A mile or two over the speed limit will signal to any lurking patrol car that I am a, well, normal every day driver. Then I see a sign I’ve never seen before. It reads: Speed Zone Ahead. I think, Cool!, and punch the gas. After all, what the hell else could Speed Zone Ahead mean? Suddenly I’m in a world of confusion. No sooner have I hit the gas and, to my dismay, find myself barreling through the heart of the village, where there are the most people, thank you very much, than I see a sign that says 30 MPH. I quickly slow the hell down, wondering what the hell happened to the speed zone.

Now I see a sign that says School Drug Safety Zone. Now I know I’m not in Kansas anymore. It’s safe to have illegal drugs up here around the schools?! Are these people are crazy? I am beginning to second guess my decision to move from New York City.

Then, I see a sign that almost makes me bring the car to a complete stop. It says, End 30 MPH. But there’s no follow up sign! What’s the next speed limit? Do I just drive any damn speed I want? What the hell are these people doing up here, putting up one sign that tells you one speed limit has come to an end and not telling you what comes next?

All I can tell you is this. When you see a street sign, be careful. It might not mean what it says.

EMBARASSMENT CAN KILL

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The ER doctor tells me if I leave the emergency room without getting a transfusion I am at risk for a heart attack or stroke at any second. In fact, he says, they would like to admit me to the hospital and give me a transfusion. The red cell count for a man my age, 53, should be from 40 to 49; mine is 21.5. The iron saturation level for one my age should be from 20 to 50; mine is 3. Not good. Not safe. Just to top things off, an EKG reveals my heart has a blocked left bundle branch. I have a strange notion that if this kills me, I will have died from something in nature, a branch! They tell me the heart’s two bundle branches, left and right, are essentially your heart’s pacemaker. When one is blocked, it may be something you just live with and monitor if you are asymptomatic. It may also be a sign of underlying heart disease.

I am terrified. I want to go home and wrap my mind around what I am hearing. I think maybe the EKG was mistaken and someone will run in and say, Sorry there, Mr. Kahrmann, my bad, wrong EKG, you have the heart of a warrior. But this, of course, doesn’t happen. So, despite all the information about my rather precarious medical condition and the suggested admission, I say no, I can’t be admitted to the hospital.

“Why not?” they ask.

“I have two dogs,” I say, realizing the absurdity of my words the second the escape my mouth. But I swear couldn’t stop there release. I am helpless.

They say, “Don’t you have anyone to take care of the dogs?”

I say, “No, I live in the country. But I can come back tomorrow for the transfusion.”

They say, “If you leave, you’ll have to sign out AMA (against medical advice).”

I say, “Okay, I’ll do that.”

Then, a wonderful ER doctor sits down and says, “Mr. Kahrmann, you are in really rough shape. You’re in real danger if you leave here without at least letting us give you some blood.”

The words you are really in rough shape get past the fog of fear that has me nearly frozen inside and reach me.

“Okay,” I say. I extend my hand to his. We shake hands.

I am blessed to have an extraordinary nurse named Charles Jordon. He is direct, incredibly knowledgeable, compassionate, kind and, in a way, best of all, an extraordinary communicator.

Standing facing each other after the ER doctor has left, I say, “You’d think after my life, getting shot in the head and all, there’d be no it can’t happen to me syndrome left in me. I should fucking know better.”

Charles looks at me, smiles gently and says, “You’ve never been through this though.”

I nod. He has, in one sentence, given me a kind of permission to go ahead and be frightened. He says, smiling, “Well, what do you think? You want to launch into panic right away or hold off for five minutes?”

We laugh. I say, “Fuck it, I’ll hold off.”

I stay until nearly 11 p.m. that night and get two units of blood. I even summon up the courage to tell them the reason I’m in such shape is I had bleeding hemorrhoids and was too embarrassed to tell anyone and tried to take care of them myself with over the counter meds and the misguided belief that they have to stop bleeding some day. Like when you run out of blood, I now realize.

In the ER, fresh blood running into me, I remember the last time in 1984 when I was shot and how unearthly it all seemed. I think this makes sense because in a way death is about as unearthly as it gets.

I arrive home late that night. Glad to be alive, joyous at the sight of my two dogs, McKenzie, my lovely and loyal German Shepherd and Milo, my wonderful mutt, though I never call him a mutt to his face. He has too much character and too much class for that. I am home and think of my father long gone and know that were my end to come I would be with him and in that moment all possibilities are acceptable.

The next day I schedule follow-up appointments with doctors and the day after I give a presentation at the 25th Annual Conference of the Brain Injury Association of NY. During the presentation I tell them my ER story.

After all, embarrassment can kill. It almost killed me.