B-Ten

In 1877 a rich, childless real estate developer left a bequest to found a hospital. This hospital was mandated to serve all people regardless of creed, nationality or race. Construction was completed in 1880 and it became one of the oldest and largest in Chicago.  In its heyday it was a major research and teaching facility. And in 2012 they tore Michael Reese Hospital down.

But in between 1877 and 2012 invaluable scientific discoveries were made there.  Like the discovery of the relation of cholesterol to coronary artery disease.  And the electrocardiograph was perfected in its lab. Important discoveries were made about insulin and the polio virus.  And it was the first hospital to to have an infant incubator- the brainchild of the world-famous pediatrician, Dr. Julius Hess.  In 1915.

Oh, yeah.  One more historic event occurred there.  In the early 1980’s I was the Bingo Lady on MRPTV. (Michael Reese Patient Television.)  Yes, through the wonders of closed circuitry, the entire patient population could play Bingo and twice a month it was my volunteer job to guide them through it.

As one of the Bingo Ladies, I had an hour program every other week.  A forerunner, ironically, of my talk show in Aspen.  I can’t remember why they asked me.  I was on the Medical Research Institute Council board at the time and that must have been the connection.  And I had long-standing ties with the hospital in any case.

Although I wasn’t born at Michael Reese, my very illustrious pediatrician, Dr. Ralph H. Kunstadter, was a superstar on staff.  He even ended up with his name on a hospital wing.  My mother dearly loved a brand name and his was impeccable.  The “H.” in his middle stood for “Hess.”  He was the nephew of the man who had invented that incubator in 1915 and Mother trusted Dr. K.  His word was as God’s to her.

Unfortunately, when he decreed that my infant thymus was enlarged and needed to be shrunk, who was she to argue? And in those days they shrunk thymuses with the medical marvel of the age- nuclear radiation.  I was irradiated and some fifty-two years later, when all sorts of nasty things had happened because of that zapping, I had to have my thyroid removed.

(And it turns out the whole thing was completely unnecessary.  Medical wisdom now holds that many normal baby thymuses glands are enlarged.  Radio-activity is definitely frowned upon for all newborns.)

Sidebar: Before my surgery I happened to mention to my veterinarian that I was going under the knife. He was immediately interested.

“I do thyroidectomies all the time.  Could I look at yours?”  He felt around my throat. (No, I didn’t have to jump up on the examining table.)

“Your thyroid is exactly the same size as a cat’s!” he told me excitedly. “I’ve never seen the operation done on a human.”

I liked my vet and wanted to make him happy.

“Would you like to come to mine?” I invited.

“Oh, I’d love to,” he beamed.

It made me feel good to know that someone in that operating room would have my best interest at heart.  I didn’t know my surgeon any too well, and with three dogs, I was my vet’s cherished customer.  I knew he’d look out for me.

I also covered my bet.  Before my surgery I sent an S.O.S. to my pal back in Chicago- the equal parts brilliant and compassionate anesthesiology guru Dr. Feld.  He told me exactly what I needed to say to the Colorado doctors to make sure that I had an optimum op experience- and a singing voice- when it was all over.  (Thank you, Jimmy.  Then, now and always.  And congrats to you and Betsy on brand new grandson, Parker.  Thrilling!)

But I didn’t hold a grudge because they had mistakenly nuked me and when Michael Reese tapped me to be the new Bingo Lady, I said sure and reported for basic training.  The old Bingo Lady put me wise before she turned in her cards.

Soon I was driving from Winnetka to the hospital dressed in a coral-colored smock- the official uniform of Michael Reese volunteers- and not much else under it.  (The television lights were hot.)  And I wore enough cheek blush, eye liner, shadow and dark lipstick to scare a Goth.  TV Makeup Rule: If you look like Theda Bara, Courtney Love and Kukla from Kukla, Fran and Ollie in real life, you will appear perfectly natural on television.  Less is less in that medium, so slather it on ladies, whenever you are called upon to appear on camera.

Every other week I acted as numbers-caller, joke teller and pitchwoman to the entire patient population.  The show was wildly successful- even before I came on board.  True, there wasn’t much for hospital patients to do in those pre-Facebook and iPad unwired days, but I like to think that I brought a certain je ne sais quoi to the proceedings.

I do know that I was very popular with my television crew because I was nicer and funnier than the other Bingo Lady who alternated weeks with me. This is not a brag because TOBL was an imperious snob completely devoid of a sense of humor.  I won’t name names, but trust me, she was not fun.

Small World Department:  Seventy years ago, my father had worked for her father.  My dad was this guy’s personnel manager and in this capacity, had all potential new hires fill out job applications. My father SWEARS that on the line of the app designated “sex,” some poor schnook actually wrote “three times a week.”

Back to Bingo.  No matter who hosted, Michael Reese Patient TV Bingo was a roaring success.  Our ratings were huge and the reviews stellar.  The only thing I had to do was remind the viewers that the commercials I did were not, in fact, the actual prizes they would win if they’d Bingo.

I had to do several pitches for the Women’s Gift Shop each hour and I would hold up some peignoir or stationery set that a volunteer had run down to the studio.  I would then extol the virtues of the item and try to exhort the players to get their wheelchairs in gear and actually buy the stuff I was hawking.  (An early form of QVC for the temporarily-impaired.)

But invariably, the meds would addle my careful instructions and there was always some convalescent who thought I was previewing the prizes.  (The actual Bingo prizes were pencils or some other lame thing.)  And when these crummy tokens were delivered to the winner’s room, all hell would break loose.  The winners would demand the nightgown or stuffed animal they had just seen me show off on television.  They weren’t going to settle for no stinkin’ pencils!

This was the only pitfall of the program, but as long as I painstakingly explained that the commercials were not the prizes, I was golden.  Until the scandal.

A cheating cartel had been uncovered.  It was a scam that the patients in the Singer Pavillion had been running on the Bingo program.  They would all get together and pool cards- until some lucky bastard among them got a winner. (I use the term “lucky bastard” advisedly.  The Singer Pavillion was the in-residence mental ward and I don’t know if the patients stuck in there would categorize themselves as “lucky.”  Or “bastards,” for that matter.)  The game was immediately shut down and the inmates were no longer permitted to play.  Much to the chagrin of all who had participated in the ruse.

I was the Bingo Lady for years.  I think I stopped because I was drafted to take over the Michael Reese Run. (Have any of you ever been a race director? OMG.  Future post for sure.) But the experience was a rewarding one. It taught me about televison makeup, the joys of hands-on volunteerism, how to think on my feet in front of a camera and to never trust a committed manic-depressive, psychotic or paranoid schizophrenic with a Bingo card.

Those guys will do anything to win that peignoir.

Now our next number is N-Forty-three.  Does anyone have N-Forty-three?