Panama Canal cruise with sis-in-law Julie ended when we docked in New Orleans. By this time, I was sicker than a dog. We had a reservation at a Hamption Inn in the French Quarter. We had arranged some activities, including a tour of the new WWII museum which was quite interesting. There was a display of artifacts from the Enola Gay bombing expedition, including Paul Tibbets' wristwatch. Actually it was only one of the wristwatches that Tibbets owned (Bulova), and I doubt it was the one he wore during the bombing run.
We walked around the French Quarter, and I limped along as best I could, not wishing to burden Julie. At night, back at the hotel, I asked Julie to pick up some soup for me. The next morning, I sent Julie on her way to the airport, and I set out to find an urgent care center. There, they set me up with an albuterol inhaler to ease my breathing and did some tests, and the news came back: I had pneumonia. They gave me some prescriptions which I obtained from a Walgreens. I then checked into a hotel at the far end of the French quarter. It was a little cabin I had all to myself. I laid down and proceeded to watch MASH on the TV.
My symptoms grew worse. Finally, at about 1:30 a.m., I called 9-1-1. I told the dispatcher I needed to go to the hospital. I told her I would be waiting outside the hotel and asked her to please tell the ambulance not to run the siren, that I would flag the ambulance when it arrived. I hastily packed a bag with a few essentials and waited for the ambulance that arrived in about 10 minutes.
They set me up with an IV, loaded me into the ambulance and asked which hospital I wanted to go to. I had no idea, so asked them to take me where they thought best. They took me to Tulane Hospital, which was affiliated with Tulane University, the way UW Hospital is affiliated with the University of Wisconsin back at home.
The hospital set me up a room that was at the end of a long corridor, far away from the nurse's station, so any call on my intercom took a long time to receive service. Blood draws, and a couple of Dr. visits, confirmed what I already knew: I had pneumonia. The food was awful, so I phoned an order to a Subway across the street I could see from my window. I don't much care for Subway, but it was better than the swill they were serving me.
I still had my suitcase back at the hotel, so I called the owner and asked him to cab it over to the hospital, which he did (at his own expense) but the lady at the front desk would not send it up to my room. Don't they have volunteers that do such things? Apparently not. Finally, one of the nurses took pity on me and went down and got it for me.
The following day, I was released, given a couple more meds, and told to contact my regular doctor when I got back to Janesville. I called an Uber to take me to the airport. This was a couple of days before Christmas. I went to the Delta Airlines terminal and asked them to please get me a flight to Chicago, that I would be happy to be strapped to the wing if that's what it took. I got a seat, and the ticket agent even gave me a break on the price as a "medical emergency." I arrived at O'Hare at about 11 p.m. and caught the last ALCO bus to Janesville, arriving at about 2:30 a.m. Sister Dawn picked me up and drove me to the apartment we shared, whereupon I fell into bed and slept for about 12 hours.
The whole experience has soured me from ever returning to New Orleans. Other than the French Quarter, there really isn't much to see. It's a poor city, with lots of run-down houses with poverty almost everywhere. Beggers in the French Quarter pestering you for change so they buy a bottle of cheap wine. Pawn shops on Canal Street selling Rolex look-alikes. No thanks. Too many other places to go.
