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Lauren

I remember when I was a teenager, secluded in the outer reaches of the outer boroughs, I begged my mom to allow me to ride the subway to “the city.” When I wasn’t allowed I simply found a way to sneak a trip when least expected. Risking getting caught was worth it, because I was desperately thirsty for a taste of life outside the almost-suburbs. Graduation night my friends and I rode the A-train to West 4th Street. Since we didn’t have the fake identification required for entry into night-life establishments, we walked the streets of the Village until 6am, meeting Quentin Tarantino at a pizza shop, chatting with the neighborhood bums, almost getting written up by the cops…it was a blast! The world opened up to me when I took the subway.

It is now 2011. I’m riding the subway multiple times a day and am having similar experiences to the ones I had in my youth — I come across celebrities and homeless people because, as I quickly found out once I was there every day, the city has copious numbers of both categories, so seeing a member of one or the other groups isn’t a far-out-crazy-once-in-a-lifetime experience.

Manhattan is a small island and the tunnels in the subway feel even smaller. My soul is turning a dirty black from the hatred in my heart from the claustrophobic, grimy, rat-infested pis-pot/ shit-hole (I mean this literally) that is the New York City subway system.

I’m a strong believer in changing the things that I don’t like or leaving them, but in this circumstance I feel kinda stuck. Here are some ideas I have considered:

My neighbor, a life-long New Yorker, told me that he walks one-hour-and-fifteen minutes over the Manhattan bridge to get to work. Between auditions, the gym, and everything else I have too much junk to carry for walking to be feasible.

Some people suggest taking more cabs. I followed through with that, then sat in traffic while flushing money down the toilet.

A friend of mind suggested that I buy a car and drive into the city. I’m not responsible enough to handle alternate-side parking. My place is already to small….moving in to Manhattan would not help that issue.

For a few months I rode my bike into Manhattan, which caused me to develop tendonitis in my hips.

Maybe I should quit the city altogether and move somewhere off Metro North — or crazier yet, the PATH train? Could I deal with the endless taunting and embarrassment if that was the case?

I’m on the list for Westbeth artist housing. Hey, maybe I should break into their office and change my paperwork so that is reads: “Your place in the queue is 137 for a one-bedroom apartment.”

As my soul continues to fester with animosity for having to ride the subway I hope that the answer comes to me. From my experience, in times of building frustration comes momentous change. Since I feel frozen in my current situation the answer has to come from the outside, because when I look within all I see is anger that is not really getting me anywhere.

I would like to be nostalgic here and remind everyone that at one time in human history people of substance existed in New York fashion. Before amateur diarists turned into celebrities, people communicated in 140 characters or less, even before modern indoor plumbing, there was Rita Lydig. She was the epitome of fashion in the early twentieth century. You can find her at the Metropolitan Museum of Art as well; as a muse and artist benefactor her portrait was painted by many of the most outstanding artists of her generation.

Rita spoke through her fashion sense. One evening she threw a piece of fabric on the floor, made a few stitches, pulled it over her head, and left for dinner with high society. She caused a stir one evening at the opera when she wore a then scandalous backless dress. As the second act began she turned her back to the audience. Opera glasses turned and people went wild. She understood her context, had guts to subvert the norm, and the wit to present her tactics as respectable. Rita inspired people just by walking into a room; her presence was enough.

I’ve not met anyone of the caliber of fierceness at any Fashion Week event. Perhaps I’m being overly judgmental. I hope so. Prove me wrong! Please!

Pamela LoGiudice:
“I do not live in the Rockaways, but when I need medical attention, I gladly pay the toll to go to PHC. Throughout the years, I’ve been a patient in their emergency room and their various clinics. It would be easier for me to go to Jamaica, but I go to PHC because I know that not only will I receive the medical care I need but also that I will be treated with kindness and respect. PHC offers critical services (like hospice, tbi, amb chemo etc) that should allow it to stand out above the rest. I have seen first hand how the services this hospital offers effects so many people. And I have seen how so many staff members go above and beyond to make their patients feel like their experiences there do not feel like just another business transaction.. that the drs.and nurses and techs, etc. truly care about the people they serve and are invested both professionally and personally in the care and well being of every person that walks through those doors. My mother has worked there now for 19 years. She has spent countless nights not only anxious about what she will do if this place closes, but also worried and scared for all of her patients. She has not only been a care provider for them but also a friend to them, a shoulder to cry on. She knows all of their stories, she feels their pain, she celebrates their triumphs, she hurts when they hurt and is plagued with sadness when she loses any of them to their illnesses. I know there are hundreds of other staff members who feel the same way. And that is the reason I feel so strongly about all of this. This is not just about jobs. They can all find jobs somewhere else if they need to. Its about actually caring for the people you provide care for. Its about giving the people of Rockaways a fighting chance when they get sick. Drownings, strokes, heart attacks, car accidents, assaults, shock.. when you’re racing against the clock, going an additional 40 blocks to St. Johns, over a drawbridge to Coney Island, down the Van Wyck to Jamaica.. it’s a race between LIFE and DEATH. Time is of the essence. Closing this hospital is a crapshoot and I for one do not want anyone gambling with MY life.”

Peninsula Hospital in Queens looks like it is going to shut its doors within the month, maybe even sooner. This is a disaster for public health for the citizens of south Queens and Brooklyn. The fourth hospital to close in Queens since 2008, the closure of Peninsula Hospital would further deteriorate the state of health care in New York City.

My mother is a proud Registered Nurse at Peninsula. This is her story.

Janet DePaolo:
I have worked at Peninsula Hospital for the last 19 years but have been a nurse for 36 years. I’m an Oncology Nurse in the Ambulatory Chemotherapy Dept.

I found out about potential closure several weeks ago at meeting led by our Local 1199 and Bob Levine (CEO). Since then it’s not been the same since. Everyday is full of anxiety followed by hopeful news only to have those hopes dashed yet again. I feel like its been an never-ending cycle.

The staff and the community leaders have held rallies and meetings to hopefully get our politicians to do what we voted them in to do — to help the residents of Rockaway. We have reached out to the Department of Health and asked that they hold off on closure until viable plans could be worked on and implemented.

Rockaway is a community of over 100,000 people. It is a geographically different part of New York City; it is a peninsula that is connected to the mainland by two bridges. If we close an emergency from Breezy Point would have to travel 250 blocks to St Johns or possibly have to travel over either bridge to either Coney Island Hospital, Brookdale or Jamaica Hospital.
Timing is everything and I feel that many will not survive in an emergency — it just takes too long to get care.

The patients in my unit seem bewildered and scared. Many are unsure what to do. Many are receiving chemo and have not finished their regimens.

Fortunately, the doctor I work with will make plans for their care, but the solution is not ideal. They have been through so much already. A cancer diagnosis and knowing chemo is part of your life is much for them to handle — and now this!!

We are a family in our unit. They share so much among themselves and with us. We take care of them from diagnosis through treatment and for years to come. We are their shoulder to cry on, the ones who answer all their questions no matter what they ask. This has been as hard on them as it has been on us.

Today in our unit one of my patients has but three days to finish her chemo and then be retested before her surgery. She felt she was seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. But today we were told that no chemo was being given on Thursday and Friday this week, her last two days. To see her tears and her fear was something I will never forget. Of course she will receive her last two days in another place, but it wont be among the comfort of friends and with those she has shared much in the last six months. She deserved better, but wont get it. I told her that whatever I do from now on will be for her. I saw those tears and shed my own.

And for more episodes subscribe to her YouTube channel: www.youtube.com/ciaograndma!

Every birthday stands a reminder that I am not where I want to be, and as one year closer to becoming too old to act. Betty White excluded, the older you get the more difficult it becomes to get work as an actress. This is a fact. As Tina Fey said in Bossypants“I have a suspicion that the definition of ‘crazy’ in show business is a woman who keeps talking even after no one wants to fuck her anymore.” And crazy people aren’t hired.

Something I look forward to experiencing. Soon enough, I will be the crazy tall actress with the impronouncible last name walking down the street holding an umbrella when it is sunny, going to auditions which I will never book.

My rational mind often brings to my attention a consequence of the age-factor in show business: I’m spending my peak earning years working towards a goal in which I have little control. I read all the self-help-manifest-visualize-create-your-reality books out there, but when I tally the numbers, I’m basically volunteering countless hours of my day for the hope that it will pay off with a miraculous pay check. I never aspired to be a starving artist, and at the back of my mind I wonder if I’m settting myself up to be homeless in retirement.

Add to the umbrella countless shopping bags. And buff arms.

I can always delay unemployment with Botox or a good ol’ face lift, but that maneuver only makes it more obvious that you are too old and no one wants you.

When I’m striding down the street with tattered clothes, dirt-colored complexion and a mind full of haunting memories, at least I won’t look like the Joker. Don’t be afraid to say hi!

I am finding out that when a movie you are in goes to theaters you get invited to a lot of fancy events. During the first hour of these aforementioned gatherings the guests of honor are asked to do a series of poses on a 50-foot-long carpet of red. The photographic results of my experience on cardinal-colored tapestry have ended up on Facebook and IMDB. This is the cause of all sorts of interesting questions from friends and acquaintances.

One question or pondering expression that often comes surging from an offender’s mouth is: Are you rich now? I look behind me. Have you mistaken me for someone else? I have also gotten the query: Are you going to forget about me now? I find that an ironic question, because every time I hear my name announced and I do the obligatory suck-the-stomach-in spin onto the red carpet I ask myself: How much longer will I be asked to do this? and Do I really deserve to be here?

My inner critic is very vigilant and if any doubts pass through my mind she comes surging forth to remind my ego, in order of increasingly horrifying embarrassment, all of my shortcomings.

In the approximate 2 minutes and 47 seconds it takes to pose on the first inch of carpet to the last inch, my inner critic races to action. My, is she vicious. The fancier the event that I attend, the more malice she gathers into her being before she hisses in my ear: You’ve got to be kidding me!