So we’re watching “The Tina Turner Musical” on Broadway with good friends Rob and Cathy Jarratt, the last event on our annual three-day NYC trip. I hadn’t been feeling well that day. During the long loud encore, I began feeling even worse, like I was going to faint or be sick. I told my wife Tina that I’d see her in the lobby. I barely made it. The Jarratt’s friend Pamela LaJeunesse, a nurse practitioner who had come along on the trip, took one look at me and said, “Call an ambulance!”

The EMT’s took my vital signs and, after some discussion, said that they saw no need to go to the hospital. While laying on the gurney, I thought, “I’m glad I just sent my life reflections to my two sons.” I continued to feel bad on the bus back to Portland — weak, no appetite, no desire to read, a real sign of trouble. We went directly from the house to the ER at Mid Coast Hospital, expecting to be back in a few hours. No such luck.

After some preliminary tests, they gave me the good news that I didn’t have the flu. The bad news? I had pneumonia, a serious form. I’d be staying overnight in the hospital. The essential cause was a hard-to-treat infection called “pseudomonas aeruginosa.” I had been wrestling with this beast for a long time under the skillful guidance of Dr. Paul LaPrad, a Brunswick pulmonologist.

That night was the first time I’d slept in a hospital since 1945 (I was three years old), when I’d had to have my tonsils out. In fact, hearing my mother say “you were a very good boy so you can have some ice cream” is my first memory.

My treatment basically consisted of a strong antibiotic administered by IV; a lesser antibiotic taken in pill form, a medication taken through a tube for 15 minutes designed to expand the airways; and some breathing exercises designed to loosen up the liquid in my lungs.

My roommate stayed throughout my time in the hospital, leaving just before I did on Monday afternoon. Although we were on opposite sides of the political divide, Art and I developed a good relationship. He’d had many health problems over the years — heart, back, knee, etc. — caused in part, perhaps, by his incredible work ethic. He no longer runs a construction company, but he does run a fish farm and a tree farm, and he makes several kinds of wine. Not exactly a slacker.

We are both intensely driven people, and we both wanted to get out of there as soon as possible. He had a loyal loving wife and many visitors as did I. And we both liked the room at a cooler temperature than most patients — or our wives — do. Turns out he used to be a Democrat and is now a Republican. I made the opposite switch.

The first night we both played a part in a three-person symphony. I was coughing man; he was moaning man (heart concerns), and wailing woman played her part from the next room, yelling and moaning and crying all night. She did the same thing the second night, although Art and I had both toned down by then. On the third morning, the ward seemed quiet. Turns out that Priscilla, a tragic woman around 90 who lived alone without family support, must have known the end was near as she often wailed, “I’m going to die!” Or “I don’t want to die!”

My amazing stepson Ed came up from Boston to lend support to his mom and me. His presence was invaluable, especially when he helped deal with the squirrel which had found a warm home in our basement. He made a huge difference, and we will be forever grateful to him. Incidentally, my roomie Art gave good advice on the squirrel-catching front; he’s the kind of guy who just knows those things.

As anyone who’s spent time in a hospital knows, it can be a trying and boring experience, what with all the “What’s your date of birth?” questions and constant vital sign taking. Sometimes, not often, a good story brightens your day. My respiratory therapist, a 50-year-old Scot named Paddy, delivered the goods. He told me about a 90-year-old patient of his who always had the room turned on at full volume to Fox News. One day, he walked in and President Trump was on the screen. “I hate that (expletive deleted)!” she yelled. Paddy asked her why she was watching Fox News and she said she didn’t know how to switch the channel to CNN. He helped her out of that jam by changing the channel.

And with that, I’ll end this column. They say you should always leave ‘em laughing.

In next week’s column (“One Tina Too Many – Part 2”), I will finish this saga and address overall reflections on the experience.
David Treadwell, a Brunswick writer, welcomes commentary and suggestions for future “Just a Little Old” columns. dtreadw575@aol.com.