October 24, 2009 NYC

I like driving my car more than public transportation. My red jeep is getting on in years, and periodically presents particular ailments requiring diagnostic and repair skills, and occasionally, alternative travel methods.

This time it was carburetor trouble. The fuel-injector wasn't squirting gas as I turned the key and cranked the engine. I discovered the problem en-route to a birthday celebration at St Nick's Jazz Club with a close friend the other night. My free-parking space near Central Park and East 72nd Street would expire zero-hour, 9am, the following morning, leaving me 12 hours to restore its mobility or seek a tow. Alternate-side-of-the-street parkers know meter-maids are punctual, unforgiving, and merciless.

I hid the birthday gift in the car, then searched the city for starter fluid.

It was a rather un-nerving, unsuccessful all-night sojourn through side-streets of Manhattan. I now know where every gas station, Duane-Reade, CVS, Seven-Eleven and tow service is located on the east side. No one carried the ether-eal remedy. Not even Home Depot.

I ended up in front of the Newport building at Tito Puente Way and Third Avenue, Spanish Harlem, just before the dawn. The auto parts store opened at 8am. My car, now about 30 blocks away, had to be moved in less than one hour. With luck on my side, I caught a rush-hour subway on the Number 6, back to my car.

I sprayed the magic fluid into my carburetor, then turned the key. There was enough juice in the battery for a few more cranks. Et Voila! It started! That sound opened my eyes like a cup of french-pressed kona coffee, as inspiring as Supertramp's "Goodbye Stranger" or Marc Broussard's "Home." Or Bach's "V Rondeau." Steeley Dan's "Bodhisattva." In other words, it was definitely a magic moment!

I checked the time on my cell-phone: 8:59 am.

The meter-maid suddenly appeared next to me. I smiled at her as I shifted into gear and drove away. I was tired, weary, and disheveled. The "eleventh-hour" ordeal was another example of God's sense of humor.

I drove to Long Island and arrived at the repair shop one hour later. My mechanic Gus said it would be ready the following day. "Where were you?," he said. I told him I was heading out for a date. "You were taking a woman out in this car??? Where's your mercedes?" Gus was right. The most appealing esthetic feature of my jeep are its four matching Pirelli tires.

Window installers were coming to my house at noon, so I called my friend York for a ride home. I ordered special windows from Germany with the best insulation rating known to mankind (except, maybe, windows on the space shuttle). They are triple-paned, filled with krypton instead of argon, and have fancy latches one would expect from german engineering. I arrived a few minutes before the installer, and assisted until about 7 pm.

Then I headed for the Long Island Rail Road in carpenter's clothes and back pack. Coffee could never have cured my level of exhaustion. I found a comfortable seat on an empty train, and called patients who left messages during the day. I was so tired, only a handicapped old woman could have convinced me to give up my seat.

An announcement was made: "Attention all passengers: If any medical personnel are on this train, please report immediately to car number seven to assist in an emergency." My half-open eyes lit up. I moved quickly toward the commotion where a young man sat on the edge of his seat, head in hands, trembling. He was surrounded by several train personnel.

The man had a near-fainting spell and tingling across his right scalp. It resolved before my arrival. I checked his pulse and looked for focal neurological deficits. He was stable and in no immediate danger. I sat next to him and asked about his medical history, and listened for abnormal speech. The train conductor said the ambulence would arrive in a few minutes.

Suddenly a well-dressed woman entered the car, dramatically exclaiming "I am a nurse! Where is the patient?" Her attractive outfit did not reveal her profession any more than the unimpressive one I was wearing. Two White House Rose Garden lab coats might have come in handy for both of us, had an unbiased news group shown up for a photo-op...

I presume the nurse was heading for a NYC night club. Esthetically, nothing about her hinted her profession. She wore glimmering leather slacks, black-vested top, high-heel pradas and earth-tone lipstick. The only thing missing was a fedora. I don't think she realized I was a doctor, despite the cross on my cap. She expertly performed a similar evaluation to mine. Her facade didn't lessen my appreciation that another experienced individual was there to help save a life, especially if the situation soured. Lab coats do not make the healer. It's no different than monkeys in silk.

As I wondered what type of medical supplies were at our disposal, a police officer appeared with a large orange duffle bag filled with emergency medical equipment.

An ambulance arrived, and the patient was wisked away.

During the train ride to Penn Station I recalled a similar situation during a flight from San Juan to New York. I was returning home after graduating medical school the day before. I was very proud of my transformation from "Mr." to "Dr.," filled with naive and gradiose illusions of my medical abilities.

I was quickly humbled when a flight attendant frantically announced if a doctor was aboard, to please report immediately to the front cabin. My mind began to race: What could it be? A heart attack? Appendicitis? A woman having a baby? My level of panic increased as I followed the stewardess down the aisle toward the emergency. Luckily, it was only a scratch on a histrionic steward's forehead after to a cabinet door swung open during turbulence. No swelling or bleeding, and no neurological symptoms. I told him to clean it with alcohol and cover it with a band-aid, then calmly returned to my seat.

I was totally impressed with the medical response on the LIRR. The policeman arrived with medical equipment in minutes. The patient instantly had a medical emergency "dream-team."

Next time you see a cop in a donut shop, be thankful he has time for a coffee break...

I arrived to Penn Station, caught the E train uptown, and stepped out of the subway system into a cold and windy rain. I held on to my green hat as mother nature unrelentingly tried to add it to the casualty list.

So when is a doctor not?

A few days later I went to Ikea.

A woman came up to me and started asking questions about kitchen cabinets, then said "you're handsome."  I don't recall anyone saying that to me for such a long time.  I pulled out my pad and started writing down the number of a good optometrist.

Then I thought for a moment...  Ooops!  I scribbled out his number and wrote mine.  I handed it to her and said "thank you pretty woman !!!," then followed the arrows to the exit.

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"Do what you can, with what you have, where you are." - Theodore Roosevelt

"Aunque la mona se vista la seda, mona se queda." - Spanish colonial expression