And Now, the Beginning of the Rest of the Story

You might recall that Val had been uncomfortable with her (non)broken back for a few days. An injury which prevented her from taking a deep breath. The back unbroke itself after about three days, but the inability to breathe remained. I thought I must have picked up a bug at work. After all, I had felt like I was coming down with something a week ago Friday, and started to feel unwell in the Walmart line. The next day I took The Pony for shoeing, what with his upcoming summer adventure at Smart Camp on the horizon. I was a bit huffy and puffy that Saturday, but still thought I had a touch of the grippe. Sunday I (non)broke my back. Then I muddled through the week. I actually thought I was feeling better Thursday morning. But by Thursday night, I had decided to go into work Friday, ask for a substitute, and call my doctor. Then I decided I would just go to urgent care, to avoid the long walk into the building, up the elevator, and down the hall to my doctor's office. My mom offered to drive me.

Friday morning, May 23, I was extremely huffy. I could hardly finish my shower. I told Hick, "We're going to drop The Pony off at school, and then you're taking me to the ER." Only I said it about three words at a time, because I was gasping for breath. I sounded like Stevie Kenarban on Malcolm in the Middle. Hick wanted to meet my mom and have her take The Pony to school so we could go straight to the ER, but I said I needed to put my awards list in a teacher's mailbox. Next time, I will listen to Hick. I walked down that hall slower than a Galapagos turtle with narcolepsy. I hoisted myself into T-Hoe, and Hick took off for the hospital. We were there by 7:45 a.m.

Being Hick, he did not drop me at the ER door, but parked so we could walk in. I did not think I was going to make it. A man in scrubs stood at the admit counter, and three women workers were behind. "What are you here for?"

I leaned over the counter, trying to get my breath. "Shortness...of...breath." I think that qualifies as irony.

I gave my name, and the scrub guy said, "You can sit down now, Ma'am." I thought he meant in the waiting area. Then he said, "I have a wheelchair right behind you." Good thing. He whisked me down the hall, around some corners, and into an exam room. I climbed up on the bed, and a swarm of workers started working on me. One manned the computer, firing off questions. Another got an IV line going. Young Dr. Bailey, the attending, I suppose, asked me to lean forward while he listened to all lobes of my lungs. In the midst of the controlled chaos, one of the workers said, "Wow. You really ARE out of breath." Like I needed to hear that. I guess I was just really impressive in the presentation of my symptoms.

I got a portable chest X-ray. I got a shot of morphine, a shot of anti-nausea something-or-other, and a shot of Lasix. That's the stuff that makes you pee like a racehorse. The name comes from "lasts six hours." And it did. I asked about the morphine, because I thought it slows the heart rate, and I could hardly get any air in. But one of the ambulance guys later told me it's a vasodilator, so it actually relaxes the blood vessels and makes the movement of oxygen easier.

THEN I was told that I needed a CAT scan of my lungs. The radiology tech came in to explain it in detail. I like that. I like to be prepared. What I don't like is closed-in spaces and feeling trapped. So when she told me that I would have to be STILL and not move and take the exact same breath three times while a machine took pictures after dye was shot into me, or else the test would be ruined and it couldn't be done again for 48 hours...I became a bit apprehensive. I knew I had to have the test. But I felt like I couldn't have the test. I would freak out. Even though she said it would take 10 minutes tops. I was in tears. I heard them in the hall, nurse versus radiology tech. "She thinks she's going it the tube. The MRI. If she sees it's not the tube, it's the donut, she'll probably feel better."

Young Dr. Bailey came in. "I understand you're nervous about the CAT scan. I can give you something."

WELL WHY DIDN'T YOU SAY SO? I was definitely on board for that. So I got a shot of Ativan. As I told Hick later, "I think that's the stuff they shoot into wild and crazy people on PCP, and it stops them in their tracks." Anyway, that did the trick. I had my CAT scan. Once in the room, I saw the donut, I laid down flat, closed my eyes, the dye shot into me, the donut apparently sucked me in then spit me out, and it was over. Whew! Good thing I didn't ruin that test, because that's where they found the multiple bilateral pulmonary embolisms. Then I got a shot in the stomach, like a common rabies candidate. It was Lovenox, and it had nothing to do with love.

Young Dr. Bailey came in and gave me the talk. "You have multiple bilateral pulmonary embolisms. This is serious. We don't have the doctors here at this hospital to treat such a serious conditions. We recommend that something this serious be treated at a hospital in the city. They have teams of doctors who can treat serious conditions like pulmonary embolisms. This is serious, and we will get you a bed at a city hospital. For something this serious, we will send you there by ambulance. We have a telemetry doctor who can discuss this serious illness with you on a computer screen. He will explain how serious these symptoms are, and what they will do for you there."

Hick asked which hospitals we had a choice of, and picked MoBap. I hate that name when they use it on commercials, but after spending three days there, they can call it whatever they want. Hick was a bit concerned when Young Dr. Bailey left the room. "I think this is serious. He must have used that word eight times."

So...the next order of business was to hurry up and wait for an ambulance to drive me to the city, about an hour and twenty minute trip. First, though, my team had to treat a heart attack man who came in just after I was stabilized, and got a quick ride in the helicopter. Then there was the lady who failed her stress test, and was also waiting for an ambulance ride to the city. Did you know that no more than two ambulances can be out of our county at one time? It's true. That's why somebody in my serious condition waited from 10:45 until 3:30 to be transported. Funny how they can't treat me there, but they can let me lay around and wait for a ride. As Hick said around about 2:30, "I could have driven you there and back by now."

A regular person might have grown anxious, might have seen her life flash before her eyes in such a situation. But not Val. Val was embroiled in the drama, right down to the flapping, palpitating, oxygen-starved chambers of her heart. All Val could think about, to while away the hours, was...

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More of the saga tomorrow. You have been warned.