Hallucination #1: Harry Connick Jr.

Memories of the first seven weeks of my lengthy hospitalization range from spotty to non-existent. However, a series of vivid hallucinations during this period — end of August to mid-October, 2016 — are crystal clear in my mind. It’s likely I was suffering from a condition known as “ICU psychosis,” though other factors are certainly possible.

I’m not sure if these hallucinations occurred while I slept, though sometimes I did interact with confused and/or worried people in my room. Nevertheless, these “fever dreams,” laced with my own neuroses, allowed me to escape the difficult setting and situation I was in, and for that I am grateful. I intend to share some of them from time to time, starting now.

I had a ticket to a Yankees game, and had to leave Hoboken University Medical Center to get there. (In reality, my friend Steve and I have had a mini ticket plan at Yankee Stadium for many years, and yes, I was missing games while being hospitalized.) No, I was told, you cannot leave the hospital. I argued that I was there voluntarily, and this was no different than a family member taking a patient out for the day. I would go to the game and come right back. This convinced the staffer I was speaking with, and I was permitted to go.

Easing my journey to the South Bronx was a newly constructed walking path between Hoboken and Manhattan. Sweet! I’d stroll over and catch an uptown subway. Ah, but as I got partway across, who did I spy heading the opposite direction but Mr. Harry Connick Jr. himself. (Now, why, you might ask, did the once-young musician and actor appear in my hallucination? Am guessing this was caused by a spate of commercials on the hospital TV promoting his new daytime talk show.) I overheard him saying he was going to New Jersey to see an old jazz legend. “I hope I can find him, and that he’s still alive. I haven’t seen him in years!” I knew music; I knew Jersey; I could help Harry Connick Jr. track down his friend. But I did have that Yankee game to attend. I glanced at my watch — there was plenty of time until the game. Connick, here I come!

Except now he was surrounded by publicists and the like, and I couldn’t get a word in edgewise. So I figured I’d just tag along — he was now headed in the wrong direction — until I could offer my assistance. At one point we were test-driving a Toyota they wanted him to promote. All I could think was we were getting farther and farther away from where we needed to be. No need to worry, there was still lots of time before first pitch. (Why did I head out so early? Another note: This fantasy may be the last confirmed sighting of my watch. It would make cameos in other hallucinations, with me asking, “Is that my watch?” And it wouldn’t be. Back in real life, I thought my watch might be on the floor of my bathroom, but it hasn’t turned up since I’ve been home. I love that watch.)

Suddenly I had my chance. We were at a crossroads in the walkway, where I would be veering off to head to the Stadium. But first Harry Connick Jr. was standing right there, and I was just behind him. “Excuse me, Mr. Connick,” I said. “Mr. Connick, please.” Yet I simply could not get his attention. (A later hallucination explained this: Because I had a tube down my throat, when I tried to talk to Harry Connick Jr., all that came out was completely garbled.)

No, I didn’t get to the game either. The plastic bag I’d left at the crossroads earlier, containing my ticket and a change of clothes, was nowhere to be found. (In real life, I rambled on about this to my mom, who understandably had no idea what I was talking about.) I tried to get Steve to forward me a PDF of the ticket, or maybe I’d go to the Stadium ticket window and try to explain, but then I also needed clothes, which I tried to obtain from the shops downstairs from the walkway… it never happened.

Even though he’d snubbed me, I still wanted to help Harry Connick Jr. Back at… home? the hospital? … I found a very useful, relevant page on the WFMU website, and I tweeted it to Mr. Connick. No like, no reply. What can I say, the guy’s an ingrate.