703: Stuck!

Ira Glass

When they started to prepare for COVID-19 patients at Rogue Regional Medical Center in Southern Oregon, Dr. Somnath Ghosh was part of the team. He's the medical director for the intensive care unit, a pulmonary specialist, and very dedicated to his job. Works long hours, the kind of doctor who gives out his cell phone number to staff, and patients, and families. He tells them to use it anytime. And his wife, Renu, is also a doctor, says he really threw himself into this task.

Ira Glass

So far, they've been lucky. The pandemic has mostly spared the half million people his hospital serves in Southern Oregon. But I spoke with her husband, Dr. Ghosh, one afternoon last week. He said in total, they've only had three COVID patients that needed intensive care. Dr. Ghosh prepared for a war that he's not having to fight. But all the time, he gets invitations to go join the fight in New York, Louisiana, and other hotspots, begging him to fly out and help.

Ira Glass

But he's not going to go to New York, and not because of her. Not because of their kids, who are still little. Not because he's worried he'll get COVID. He's young and healthy and has a doctor's overconfidence, assuming he's going to be fine. He's not going to save lives like he wants, because he can't go. And he can't go because of his immigration status. He's in the United States on something called an H1B visa.

Ira Glass

So he has to stay in Oregon. He can't go to work for a hospital in Brooklyn or New Orleans. He can't even volunteer.

We're in a health emergency in the United States. And over a fourth of the physicians here are foreign born. Over 8,000 of those have the kind of visa that Somnath has, an H1B visa, which is given to people who have special education or skills and want to work in the United States.

In Somnath's case, he was born in India, came here for his medical residency, got his H1B visa when he got his first job out of training at the hospital where he still works nine years later. If he had a green card, it would fix the problem. And he's waiting for one, but the backlog on green cards is massive. That'll take decades.

He believes the government should grant exceptions to the rules right now and let health workers with H1B visas fly to the hotspots and help out during this crisis. And dozens of senators and Congress people, mostly Democrats, but a few Republicans sprinkled in, have tried to get the US Citizenship and Immigration Service to do just that, though that hasn't gotten much traction.

So Dr. Ghosh is stuck in Southern Oregon during this crisis, far from the action.

Ira Glass

Dr. Ghosh says before this, he felt happy in Southern Oregon. He's one of the leaders in his hospital. He felt like he belonged. But since COVID, for the first time he's started to think he might leave the United States.

Ira Glass

When I asked his wife, Renu, about that plan, she was like, well, we'll decide about that together. For now anyway, Somnath is stuck, getting texts like this one that he got recently from a friend, a guy who he went to medical school with, who's now in New Jersey, deluged with COVID cases.

Ira Glass

Later in our program, Stuck. There's so many of us stuck at home, or stuck without a job, or stuck on hold for everything next that was going to happen in our lives, waiting for a future to arrive that now seems unreadable and impenetrable.

We have stories of people stuck in some unusual and extreme situations with-- I swear, we are human beings here at our show, we need this, too-- with some happy endings in some stories. From WBEZ Chicago, this is This American Life. I'm Ira Glass. Stay with us.

Ira Glass

Act One, You Can Check Out Anytime You Like, But You Can Never Leave. So our show today is about people who are stuck. And years ago, one of our co-workers, Elna Baker, found herself trapped in a hotel room with her siblings, held there by a stranger.

What happened was, their family was all staying at this Marriott. But they're such a big family, four of the kids were in one room, with the oldest kid and the parents next door. Elna was 14 years old at the time, in the room with 10-year-old Julia, 8-year-old Britain, and 5-year-old Jill, who Elna was sharing a bed with. Elna, the 14-year-old, the eighth grader, was more or less in charge.

And then one night they're all asleep, it's the middle of the night.

Ira Glass

That part of the story, the investigation, who the woman was, Elna only found that out a couple years ago, when she asked her dad about it. At the time, back when she was 14, her parents kept all that from her and her brother and sisters. They didn't want them to dwell on it or make them afraid of the world. They didn't want that evening to become a bigger deal than it already was. And Elna says today, that worked.

Ira Glass

On the other hand, she says if they had made clear how much danger she was in, the family's memory of it and her memory of it wouldn't be of this weird event with no category, this random thing that happened one night. Instead, it would fit squarely into the category called victory, solid win for 14-year-old girl in a big religious family when she got that stranger out of their hotel room without anybody getting hurt.

And Elna says she would have liked that win. When you're trapped inside of a room with an unpredictable person, really, all you've got is your wits, and your ability to read the situation, and your judgment at guessing what will work. Nice to show everybody that even a kid can make the right call sometimes, if they pay attention closely enough.

Ira Glass

Act Two, You Can't Go Your Own Way.

There's this piece of writing that for months we've been trying to figure out how to get onto the radio, trying to figure out a theme where we could conceivably run it. And it's about somebody stuck in a bad relationship, in this case, an abusive relationship. And it tries to capture what that feels like, in particular all the mental energy that somebody in that situation can put into trying to figure out exactly what they should do to avoid setting off their partner.

In her memoir, In The Dream House, Carmen Maria Machado invented this totally ingenious way to get that feeling across. There's this chapter that's a "choose your own adventure" where she imagines different choices that she could have made. A heads up that this excerpt includes a scene with sexual content. It's read first by actor Zoë Winters.

Narrator

Page 1, you wake up, and the air is milky and bright. The room glows with a kind of effervescent contentment, despite the boxes, and clothes, and dishes. You think to yourself, this is the kind of morning you could get used to.

When you turn over, she is staring at you. The luminous innocence of the light curdles in your stomach. You don't remember ever going from awake to afraid so quickly.

"You were moving all night," she says. "Your arms and elbows touched me. You kept me awake." If you apologize profusely, go to page 2. If you tell her to wake you up next time your elbows touch her in your sleep, go to page 3. If you tell her to calm down, go to page 5.

I choose page 2. Page 2. "I'm so sorry," you tell her. "I really didn't mean to. I just move my arms around a lot in my sleep." You try to be light about it. "Did you know my dad does the same thing? The sleeping damsel swoon? So weird. I must have--" "Are you really sorry?" she says. "I don't think you are." "I am," you say.

You want the first impression of the morning to return to you, its freshness, its light. "I really am." "Prove it." "How?" "Stop doing it." "I told you. I can't." "Fuck you," she says, and gets out of bed. You follow her all the way to the kitchen. Go to page 7.

Page 7, breakfast. You scramble some eggs, make some toast. She eats mechanically and leaves the plate on the table. "Clean that up," she says as she goes to the bedroom to get dressed.

If you stare mutely at the dirty plate and all you can think about is Clara Barton, the feminist icon of your youth who had to teach herself how to be a nurse and endured abuse from men telling her what to do at every turn, and you remember being so angry and running to your parents and asking them if women still got told what was right or proper, and your mom said, yes, and your dad said, no, and you, for the first time had an inkling of how complicated and terrible the world was, go to page 10. If you do as you are told, go to page 8. If you tell her to do it herself, go to page 5.

Page 5-- are you kidding? You'd never do this. Don't try to convince any of these people that you'd stand up for yourself for one second. Get out of here. Go to the next chapter. You're out.

Wait. No. Let's try that again. I go to page 8. Page 8. As you're washing the dishes, you think to yourself, maybe I should put a tack on my forehand. Maybe I should be a better person. Go to page 1.

Page 1. You wake up, and the air is milky and bright. The room glows with a kind of effervescent contentment, despite the boxes, and clothes, and dishes. You think to yourself this is the kind of morning you could get used to. When you turn over, she is staring at you. The luminous innocence of the light curdles in your stomach. You don't remember ever going from awake to afraid so quickly.

"You were moving all night", she says. "Your arms and elbows touched me. You kept me awake." If you apologize profusely, go to page 2. If you tell her to calm down, go to page 5. If you tell her to wake you up next time your elbows touch her in your sleep, go to page 3.

I go to page 3. Page 3. "Baby, if this ever happens in the future, you can always wake me up, and I'll go to the couch. I promise. I really don't mean to do it. I don't have any memory of it. I can't control how I move in my sleep."

"You are such a fucking cunt," she says. "You never take responsibility for anything." "Well, all you have to do is wake me up," you say, a kind of incoherent desperation zipping through your skull. "That's it. Wake me up and tell me to move or sleep on the couch, and I will do it. I swear to you." "Fuck you," she says, and gets out of bed. You follow her to the kitchen. Go to page 7.

Page 7. Breakfast. You scramble some eggs, make some toast. She eats mechanically and leaves the plate on the table. "Clean that up," she says, as she goes to the bedroom to get dressed.

If you do as you are told, go to page 8. If you tell her to do it herself, go to page 5. If you stare mutely at the dirty plate, and all you can think about is Clara Barton, the feminist icon of your youth who had to teach herself how to be a nurse and endured abuse from men, telling her what to do at every turn, and you remember being so angry and running to your parents and asking them if women still got told what was right or proper, and your mom said yes, and your dad said no, and you, for the first time, had an inkling of how complicated and terrible the world was, go to page 10.

Page 10. That night, she fucks you as you lie there mutely, praying for it to be over, praying she won't notice you're gone. You have voided your body so many times by now that it is force of habit, reflexive as a sigh. It reminds you of your first boyfriend, who fucked you while watching porn, how he rutted and rutted, and then every so often lifted the remote to rewind something you couldn't see.

Once you turned your head over the lip of the bed and saw a tangle of upside down limbs, and your brain couldn't make sense of them. You never looked again. You would just lie there silently, watching his face move over you. It was like being unfolded beneath the yawn of the planetarium as a kid-- the sped up rotation of the Earth, the movement of the stars, the constellations melting into and out of being.

You shudder and moan with precision. She turns off the lights. You watch the darkness until the darkness leaves you, or you leave it.

To sleep, go to page 14. To dream about the present, go to page 13. To dream about the future, go to page 12. To dream about the past, go to page 11. I want to dream about the past. I choose page 11.

Page 11. The first time it happened, the first time she yelled at you so much you were crying within 30 seconds from waking, a record. She said, "The first 10 minutes of the day, I'm not responsible for anything I say." This struck you as poetic. You even wrote it down, sure you would find a place for it in a book, maybe. Go to page 14.

Page 9. You shouldn't be on this page. There's no way to get here from the choices given to you. Do you think that by flipping through this chapter linearly you'd find some kind of relief? Don't you get it? All of this shit already happened. And you can't make it not happen, no matter what you do.

Do you want a picture of a fawn? Will that help? OK, here's a fawn. She is small and dappled and loose legged. She hears a sound, freezes, and then bolts. She knows what to do. She knows there's somewhere safer she can be.

Go to page 10. I don't want to go to page 10.

Page 6. You shouldn't be on this page. There's no way to get here from the choices given to you. You flipped here because you got sick of the cycle. You wanted to get out. You're smarter than me. Go to page 10. Fine. I go to page 10.

Page 10. That night she fucks you as you lie there mutely, praying for it to be over, praying she won't notice you're gone. You have voided your body so many times by now that it is force of habit, reflexive as a sigh. It reminds you of-- [FADE OUT]

[FADE IN] --sped up rotation of the Earth, the movement of the stars, the constellations melting into and out of being. You shudder and moan with precision. She turns off the lights. You watch the darkness until the darkness leaves you, or you leave it. To sleep, go to page 14. To dream about the past, go to page 11. To dream about the present, go to page 13.

Page 13. You shouldn't be here, but it's OK. It's a dream. She can't find you here.

In a minute, you're going to wake up, and everything is going to seem like it's the same, but it's not. There's a way out. Are you listening to me? You can't forget when you wake up. You can't go to page 14. I want to dream about the future. I go to page 12.

Page 12. It's going to be all right. One day, your wife will gently adjust your arm if it touches her face at night, soothingly straightening it while kissing you. Sometimes, you will wake up just enough to notice. Other times, she'll only tell you in the morning. It's the kind of morning you could get used to. Go to page 14.

Page 14. You wake up, and the air is milky and bright. The room glows with a kind of effervescent contentment, despite the boxes, and clothes, and dishes. You think to yourself, this is the kind of morning you could get used to. When you turn over, she is staring at you. The luminous innocence of the light curdles in your stomach. You don't remember ever going from awake to afraid so quickly.

"You were moving all night," she says. "Your arms and elbows touched me. You kept me awake." If you apologize profusely, go to page 2. If you tell her to wake you up next time your elbows touch her in your sleep, go to page 3.

If you toss back the blankets from your body and hit the floor with both feet and tear through the house like it's Pamplona, and when you get to the driveway, your car keys are already in your hand, and you drive away with a theatrical squeal of the tires never to return again, go to page 15. Page 15. That's not how it happened, but OK. We can pretend. I'll give it to you, just this once. Turn to page 16.

Page 16, an end. In the pit of it, you fantasize about dying, tripping on a sidewalk and stumbling into the path of an oncoming car, a gas leak silently offing you in your sleep, a machete-wielding madman on public transit, falling down the stairs, but drunk, so you flop limb over limb like a marionette and feel no pain-- anything to make it stop. You have forgotten that leaving is an option.

Ira Glass

Zoë Winters, reading a chapter from Carmen Maria Machado's memoir In The Dream House.

Coming up, a family in quarantine thinks it's figured everything out, doing everything perfectly, until evidence of one tiny, tiny mistake. That's in a minute from Chicago Public Radio, when our program continues.

It's This American Life. I'm Ira Glass. Today's show, Stuck. For these long lockdown days, and weeks, and months, stories of people trapped in one situation or another for long stretches, stuck. I say this, recording these words in a closet at home. Here, I'm going to tap. That's the sound of me tapping hangers and a shirt.

So this writer named Damon Linker wrote this column for the magazine and website The Week about how, right now, with schools and jobs shut down, we've all become unmoored from the future. We're stuck in the present. And it's unclear when we're going to move forward to graduation, or a new job, or whatever else we're building for ourselves and our lives in a normal time we would be looking forward to.

And he tries to make the case that this is a big, big deal. "Human beings live their lives in time", he writes. "Our sense of ourselves is partly who we're trying to become." Quote, "A life without forward momentum is to a considerable extent a life without purpose, or at least the kind of purpose that lifts our spirits and enlivens our steps. Without the momentum and purpose, we flounder. A present without a future is a life that feels less worth living, because it's a life haunted by a shadow of futility." End quote.

I have to say, I've thought about that so much these last few weeks, because so many people that I'm close to I just see how they are stressed out by how weirdly formless their days have become. The normal routine is all gone. And all of us have only the cloudiest sense of what the future is going to be. Act Three of our program today is about a family that is in that limbo, hunkered down, trying to get by. When you're stuck indoors for long stretches of time, weird things can happen.

Ira Glass

So let's get to this. This is Act Three, Cold Case.

So you know those locked room detective stories where there's a crime in some room, and it's unclear how the culprit even got into the room? This next story is kind of about that sort of situation. One of our producers, Nadia Reiman, explains.

Nadia Reiman

This thing happened recently that made no sense to me at all. My family's been isolating in suburban Rochester, New York, where my parents live, and I mean hardcore isolating. We see no one, we go nowhere. We haven't been inside a store or been around other humans in two months.

For food, we do curbside pickup or delivery, which privilege, I know. Then we do this insane disinfection process where we wipe everything down with a 90% rubbing alcohol, 10% water solution we made ourselves.

When we're done, the room smells like a sterilized doctor's office. When we go for walks, if we see anyone, we cross the street a block ahead. We pick up all mail with disposable gloves, leave it in the garage for 24 hours. We used to spray with Lysol first. We agreed that was overkill. But to be honest, I still do it behind my family's back.

So in my mind, there is no way any germ could break through our impenetrable disinfectant fortress. But somehow, after doing this day after day for seven straight weeks--

Nadia Reiman

That's my husband, Jeremy.

Nadia Reiman

In a couple of days, he was fine. But I was like, how the hell did that even happen? How could he possibly have gotten a cold?

We've been super careful, because he has an immune deficiency, one that affects his respiratory system. It keeps me up at night, sometimes. Because if the cold virus made it into our house, then the coronavirus could too. It meant there was a crack in our armor. I needed to know where we had failed, so Jeremy and I consulted an expert at a very safe social distance.

Nadia Reiman

This is Ron Eccles, who really knows about colds. Studied them for 50 years. He ran a place called the Common Cold Center at Cardiff University. Almost immediately, I told him all the precautions we were taking.

I can personally guarantee that doorknob is safe.

Nadia Reiman

I mean, sure, but pretty damn unlikely. Eccles moves onto a different line of questioning.

Nadia Reiman

And he's been tested twice. No allergies. Which leaves one last possibility, one I didn't even imagine, like not in my wildest dreams. The thing that made him sick, it was inside him all along.

Nadia Reiman

That's his best guess. Basically, the call was coming from inside the house.

Nadia Reiman

It felt good. It meant there was no hole in the armor. All the wiping, the spraying, it was working. Everything was fine. Jeremy also felt good, kind of.

Nadia Reiman

I have a small confession to make. When Jeremy first told me he felt sick, honestly, I didn't really believe him. I love him, but I thought he was just tired. Turns out, he was right. He was sick. It was real. So here you go. Jeremy, you were right. Sorry, love.

Ira Glass

Nadia Reiman is one of the producers of our show.

Ira Glass

Act Four, Unhappy Accident. So we end our show today with a story from our archive of somebody stuck in a momentary difficult situation. It comes from Etkar Keret. The story is all true. It happens in Israel, where Etkar lives, and was read for us in English translation by actor, Michael Chernus.

Narrator

"30 years I'm a cabbie", the small guy sitting behind the wheel tells me. "30 years and not one accident." It's been almost an hour since I got into his taxi in Beersheba, and he hasn't stopped talking for a second.

Under different circumstances, I would tell him to shut up, but I don't have the energy for that today. Under different circumstances, I wouldn't shell out 350 shekels to take a taxi to Tel Aviv. I would take the train. But today I feel that I have to get home as early as I can.

I spent last night at Ichilov Hospital with my wife. She had a miscarriage and was bleeding heavily. We thought it would be OK, till she passed out. It wasn't until we got to the emergency room that they told us that her life was in danger and gave her a blood transfusion.

Three days before that, my dad's doctors told me and my parents that the cancer at the base of his tongue, which had been in remission for four years, was back. And the tumor was at such an advanced stage that the only way to fight it was to remove his tongue and larynx.

The oncologist said she didn't recommend having the surgery, but my dad said that he was for it. The oncologist told him that the operation would leave him seriously handicapped, unable to speak or eat. "At my age," my dad said, "all I need are my heart and my eyes, so I can enjoy watching my grandchildren grow." When we left the room, the doctor whispered to me, "Try to talk to him." She clearly doesn't know my dad.

The taxi driver repeats for the hundredth time that, in 30 years, he hasn't had a single accident. And that all of a sudden five days ago, his car kissed the bumper of the car in front of him, traveling at 20 kilometers per hour. When they stopped and checked, he saw that, except for a scratch on the left side of the bumper, the other car hadn't really been damaged at all. He offered the other driver 200 shekels on the spot, but the driver insisted that they exchange insurance information.

The next day, the driver, a Russian, asked him to come to a garage. And he and the owner, probably a friend of his, showed him a huge dent all the way on the other side of the car and said the damage was 2,000 shekels. The cab driver refused to pay. And now the other guy's insurance company was suing him.

"Don't worry, it'll be OK", I tell him, in the hope that my words will make him stop talking for a minute. "How will it be OK?" he complains. "They're going to screw me. Those bastards are going to squeeze the money out of me. You see how unfair it is? Five days I haven't slept. Do you get what I'm saying?"

"Stop thinking about it", I suggest. Try thinking about other things in your life, happy things." "I can't", the cab driver groans and grimaces. "I just can't." "Then stop talking to me about it", I say. "Keep on thinking and suffering, but just don't tell me about it anymore, OK?"

"It's not the money", the taxi driver continues, "believe me. Yesterday, I went with my son to the graves of the Tzaddikim. We bought blessings for 1,800 shekels, and I didn't mind paying. It's the injustice that gets me." "Shut up", I say, finally losing it. "Just shut up for a minute!"

"What are you yelling for?" the cab driver asked, insulted. "I'm an old man. It's not nice." "I'm yelling because my father is going to die if they don't cut his tongue out of his mouth", I continued to yell. "I'm yelling because my wife is in the hospital after a miscarriage."

The driver is silent for the first time since I got into his taxi. And now I'm suddenly the one who can't stop the stream of words. "Let's make a deal", I say. "Get me to an ATM, and I'll take out 2,000 shekels and give it to you. In exchange, it'll be your father who has to have his tongue removed and your wife who's lying in a hospital bed getting a blood transfusion after a miscarriage."

The driver is still silent. And now so am I. I feel a little uncomfortable for having shouted at him, but not uncomfortable enough to apologize. To avoid his eyes, I look out the window. We missed the exit to Tel Aviv. I tell him that, politely. Or I shouted, angrily. I don't recall anymore.

He tells me not to worry. He doesn't really know the way, but in a minute he'll find out. A few seconds later, he parks in the right lane of the highway after managing to convince another driver to stop. He starts to get out of the taxi to ask for directions to Tel Aviv. "You'll kill us both", I tell him. "You can't stop here." "30 years I'm a cabbie", he tosses back at me as he gets out of the taxi. "30 years and not one accident."

Alone in the cab, I can feel the tears rising. I don't want to cry. I don't want to feel sorry for myself. I want to be positive, like my dad. My wife is fine now, and we already have a wonderful son.

My dad survived the Holocaust. That's not just the half full glass, it's an overflowing one. I don't want to cry, not in this taxi, not next to this driver that I yelled at. The tears are welling up and will soon begin to flow.

Suddenly, I hear a crashing boom and the sound of windows breaking. The world around me shatters. A silver car veers across the next lane, completely smashed. The taxi moves too, but not on the ground. It floats above it, towards the concrete wall on the side of the road. After it hits, there's another bang. Another car must have hit the taxi.

A second before the ambulance drives away, they load the taxi driver into it. Deep in my heart, I was hoping they'd send us in separate ambulances, but it just wasn't my day. The driver, looking revitalized and happy, lights a cigarette. The paramedic wears a yarmulke and tells me I was very lucky. An accident like that with no deaths is a miracle.

"The minute you're discharged from the hospital", he says, "you should run to the nearest synagogue and give thanks for still being alive." My cell phone rings. It's my dad. He's only calling ask how my day at the university was and whether the little one is asleep yet.

I tell him that the little one is sleeping, and my day at the university was great. And Shira, my wife, is fine, too. She just stepped into the shower. "What's that noise?" he asks. "An ambulance siren", I tell him and try to sound casual. "One just passed by in the street."

Once, five years ago when I was in Sicily with my wife and son, I called my dad to ask how he was. He said everything was fine. In the background, a voice on a loudspeaker was calling a Dr. Schulman to the operating room. "Where are you?" I asked. "In the supermarket", my dad said without a moment's hesitation. "They're announcing on the loudspeaker that someone lost her purse." He sounded so convincing when he said that, so confident and happy.

"Why are you crying?" my dad asks now from the other side of the line. I force myself to smile, hoping he can sense it, too. "It's nothing", I say, as the ambulance stops next to the emergency ward and the paramedic slams the ambulance doors open. "Really, it's nothing."

Ira Glass

Michael Chernus, reading a story by Etkar Keret. Etkar's most recent collection of stories is called Fly Already. And just this week, the new TV series that he wrote and directed with his wife Shira Geffen, Middleman, premiered on television in France and Germany. I have seen this show. It is amazing. I hope it gets to the United States soon.

Our program was produced today by one of our managing editors, Sarah Abdurrahman and Aviva DeKornfeld. The people who put our show together today includes Bim Adewunmi, Elna Baker, Emanuele Berry, Susan Burton, Dana Chivvis, Sean Cole, Noor Gill, Damien Graef, Lina Misitzis, Stowe Nelson, Katherine Rae Mondo, Nadia Reiman, Robyn Semien, Alissa Shipp, Lilly Sullivan, Chris Swetala, Matt Tierney, and Julie Whitaker.

Our other managing editor is Diane Wu. Our executive editor is David Kestenbaum. Special thanks today to Harrison Nesbitt, Alexi Horowitz-Ghazi, and Eileen Berry.

I first read about Damon Linker's column in The Week, by reading Andrew Sullivan's column in New York Magazine. Our website thisamericanlife.org where you can stream our archive of over 700 episodes for absolutely free during your lockdown or your commute to your essential job.

This American Life is delivered to public radio stations by PRX, the Public Radio Exchange. Thanks, as always, to our program's co-founder, Mr. Torey Malatia. You know, before he began his distinguished career in public broadcasting, Torey worked in an ice cream truck. But, I don't know, man, there were certain basics of the job I think he never got used to. Every single stop, he would greet the customers crowding around the window exactly the same way.

Ira Glass

I'm Ira Glass, back next week with more stories of This American Life.