Yes. It was the end of the halcyon day, the salad day, the day of wine and roses.
An ambulance crew wheeled in Screaming Mimi. Not so much as a how-do-you-do to poor ol' Val, captive in her window bed, tethered to a pulse-ox machine on her left, and a wall-mounted oxygen spout by her nose. The crew unceremoniously yanked the dividing curtain, cutting off my view of the door and hallway and life beyond my adjustable bed. My world shrank to a window soon-to-be-shaded, a flat-screen TV mounted on the wall, and a flimsy blue-patterned piece of fabric. Oh, and Hick, who was ensconced in a visitor chair in the corner under the TV.
Hick watched with his shifty eye. I hate it when he does that. He cuts his eyes toward the object of his snooping, without turning his head. As Screaming Mimi was downloaded onto her bed, Hick pantomimed the action. He held his hands about six inches apart. She's tiny. He held up his thumb and finger in the OK sign, with a hole about the size of a drinking straw, and tapped on his forearm. She's frail. He rubbed both palms on his forearms, then shucked the right palm over the left repeatedly, like a hillbilly whittlin' a pointed stick. Her skin is dry. Yeah. The most disturbing part is that I understood him. The next-to-most-disturbing part is that Hick did not realize that if he could see HER, she could see HIM.
It's a good thing Hick has superb pantomime skills, because I could not have heard him if he'd blasted words at me through a bullhorn. Screaming Mimi was in full voice. "STOP! OW! YOU'RE KILLING ME! OWWWWW! GET YOUR HANDS OFF ME!" Sometimes she forwent the words, and simply shrieked. The ambulance crew was quite apologetic. So, too, the hospital staff who were observing, ready to descend upon Screaming Mimi like a Daytona 500 pit crew. My teeth were on edge. I felt sorry for the old bird.
Sometimes, first impressions are incorrect.
I thought the poor dear was in the throes of dementia. That she was disoriented. That she was addled by pain. Until I spent 47.5 hours trapped in a room with her. What I gathered from listening through the curtain was that Mimi was 84 years old, that she was in for observation because she fell, that she had some gnarly bedsores, that she thought she was upper echelon and slumming in the hospital, and that she had a very short temper. The RN and Patient Care Technician made sure Screaming Mimi was settled in her bed. They put it down as low to the floor as it would go. Screaming Mimi had some sort of a LoJack contraption upon her person. Any time she would sit up, a voice would speak out of the blue: "Do not get up. Lay back down. A nurse will be here to assist you."
Far be it from Val to poke fun at a frail woman with dementia. Screaming Mimi's behavior seemed to be more of a manipulating nature. She could remember things just fine when it suited her. Like when she told the RN, "Thank God I'm not at Barnes. That place is a shithole."
Alas, the poor RN was trying to get Screaming Mimi settled, and provide her with an upcoming supper tray. To make her comfortable, and go on about her business of tending to a floor full of patients. This was the most straight-laced of all the RNs I had during my stay. Kind of like a Marcia Brady. Reserved. Like she just wanted things to run smoothly, for nobody to die, and to get off shift so she could heave a sigh of relief.
"Are you in pain? The doctor has left orders for you to have pain medication. Do you need it now?"
"I want morphine and heroin."
"Oh. We can't give you heroin."
"Why not? They let me have it in London."
"Well, we're not regulated that way. No heroin. I'll see what your doctor has prescribed." Marcia Brady made her exit, and sent in Bryce, the patient care technician, to get the supper order.
Screaming Mimi would not choose anything from the menu. She finally asked for chicken salad. Of course she would not specify whether she wanted a salad garnished with chicken, or chicken salad in a sandwich. When asked what to drink, though, she knew exactly what she wanted.
"Would you like something to drink?"
"Yes. Wine."
"Oh, we don't have any wine."
"All right. Chardonnay."
"I'm sorry. You'll have to have something else. We don't serve alcohol."
"Diet Coke. Not because I'm trying to lose weight. I can't stand the taste of that sweet stuff. I used to be a dancer, you know. You never see a fat dancer."
"We'll get you Diet Coke."
One thing for certain. Screaming Mimi LOVED Bryce. Throughout my stay, I never once heard her say a cross word or criticize him. The rest, though, would likely have had their heads mounted on pikes if Screaming Mimi had been more mobile.
Her saga continues tomorrow.
Friday, May 30, 2014
Thursday, May 29, 2014
You Don't Know What You've Got 'Til It's Gone
In the continuing saga of Val's death-defying weekend...
I had arrived at MoBap around 5:30 on Friday night. Hick showed up shortly, having gone by our house on the way to pick up items that I had not asked for and did not need. If only I had known he was going, I would have made several requests. As it was, I spent the night lolling about in a hospital gown and black dress pants.
These were the halcyon days. The salad days. The days of wine and roses. REEEEEEEP! That's the scratch of the phonograph needle on a vinyl LP. Let me correct that. It was the halcyon DAY. The salad DAY. The DAY of wine and roses. The day I had a room to myself. The day before Screaming Mimi arrived. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
Loyal Hick left me around 8:00 p.m. I turned on my very own wall-mounted flat screen and began to channel surf. Nothing much was on, but TV kept me company. Every hour, a staff member would walk in and look at me. Sometimes take vitals. My RN Christy left at 7:00 p.m., and was replaced by my RN Chrissy. She only had to wipe one letter off the white board and change it. I didn't notice much difference in them. Both had red hair, though Christy was more put together, and Chrissy was kind of an earth-shoe-wearing free spirit with braids that stopped just short of Pippi Longstocking territory. Chrissy shot a dose of blood-thinner into my belly around 10:00 (research after-the-fact shows that this drug should be injected into a fatty area, of which I have no shortage). Then I was pretty much left to my own devices to snooze or TV watch or gaze into space. My breathing was a little easier. I was given a bedside potty because I was not supposed to move around.
Near 4:00 a.m., I had a bout of hand-tingling and shortness of breath. I pushed the call button and was quickly attended by the patient care technician. She used the little black phone dealybobber pinned to her collar to call Chrissy the RN. Chrissy used the pulse-ox thingy on the wall, and said my oxygen was at 97%, so she was not concerned about me getting air. Then she used her collar phone to call the attending, who said to hook me up to a continuous pulse-ox machine. That meant the sensor thingy got taped to the badfinger on my left hand, tethering me to a machine. Oh, and when my oxygen went below 88 percent, an alarm went off, which served to wake me from a delicious sleep two times.
Saturday morning, still basking in my halcyon/salad/wine rose day, I was greeted at 5:00 a.m. by the phlebotomist. She might have been my favorite staffer of all. In she came in her dark blue scrubs, peeping to see if I was awake. "I just need to take some blood." She was a sprite of a thing, hair pulled back in a ponytail like a college softball player, and a voice like Suzanne Pleshette after a month-long bout of chain-smoking. She glanced at my left arm, then made a beeline for the right.
"I have a really good vein there. But I already have this thing in my left arm." BloodSucker looked at it. Swung her ponytail. And commenced to binding a length of rubber tubing around my upper arm. "Oh. Maybe you can't use that. I guess maybe it's for putting things IN, not taking things OUT."
"Right. Do you mind if I lay this stuff here?" Nope. Val's lap is one big blood-tube-holding bin. I must say, BloodSucker did not cause a bit of pain, even when she said, "Big stick." I felt nary a twinge. It was over before I knew it.
My thyroid pill came at 6:00, then breakfast at 8:30. I had two pancakes, a link of turkey sausage, a bowl of oatmeal with brown sugar, a tiny tub of grape juice, and some red grapes. It was what I had ordered the night before, but I did not feel much like eating. I downed one pancake, the sausage, the grape juice, and half of the oatmeal. I admit that I took the grape container and set them aside for later. Not knowing at the time that Hick would eat them out from under my nose.
At 10:00, cardiology came with a wheelchair to take me for a something-or-other test that was like an ultrasound of my heart. It involved a lot of deep breaths. Which I was not very good at. The technician was perhaps from Malaysia or Mexico. They're the same place, right? Not like that island, England. She had an accent, but I could tell when she said, "Breath in, then." Her term for exhale I do not remember, nor did I recognize, but after breathing out the first time she said it, I caught on. When she wheeled me back to my room, she made me carry her fat red notebook like she had on the way there. As she foisted it upon my lap, a paper fell out. She went in front to get it, and that's when I saw it...
Let me back up. As this lady was talking to me, I kept hearing a funny sound. A smashing, crunching, crispy sound. She made small talk about how much fluid accumulation I had. Probably not her business, but you know, maybe different cultures discuss these things as a matter of course. She had been unhappy with the main locking door not letting us in and out of that section of the hospital. The door would not stay propped for her to push me through. So she told me to reach out and hold it. I'm surprised she didn't just tell me to get up and walk through, or have me whip out a bobby pin to pick the lock when it wouldn't let us back out. Again, she seemed to have worked in a place with a lot less gewgaws and doodads than this hospital had. She did not take herself so seriously. In fact, she was not happy with her collar phone thingy not calling the people she asked for, because it could not understand her accent. But getting back to that crispy sound...as she bent over to pick up that paper, I saw that she held in her hand several squares of chopped-up apple. SHE WAS EATING THEM AS SHE PUSHED ME DOWN THE HALL. Seriously. She must have had some major one-arm strength to do that. I'm sure snacking on raw food while wheeling patients all willy-nilly is probably against hospital rules. Anyway, she got me back to my room and hooked up to the oxygen and the pulse-ox monitor again.
By now it was time for lunch, which was pork loin, diced potato, green beans, and a strawberry shortcake. With grape juice. I did a little better this time, as I was breathing a little easier. Hick arrived to watch me eat. Genius came in shortly after. We talked a while. Genius had eaten, and would not accompany Hick to the cafeteria. Only Hick would come to the hospital at lunch time without having eaten first. So he had my grapes. Genius made his exit. I had time to wash up. Then the halcyon/salad/wine rose day was shattered by the arrival of Screaming Mimi at 3:30 p.m.
A screamier screamer I have never heard that Screaming Mimi. A mere slip of a woman, 84 years old, seemingly in the throws of dementia. OR WAS SHE?
More on Screaming Mimi tomorrow.
I had arrived at MoBap around 5:30 on Friday night. Hick showed up shortly, having gone by our house on the way to pick up items that I had not asked for and did not need. If only I had known he was going, I would have made several requests. As it was, I spent the night lolling about in a hospital gown and black dress pants.
These were the halcyon days. The salad days. The days of wine and roses. REEEEEEEP! That's the scratch of the phonograph needle on a vinyl LP. Let me correct that. It was the halcyon DAY. The salad DAY. The DAY of wine and roses. The day I had a room to myself. The day before Screaming Mimi arrived. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
Loyal Hick left me around 8:00 p.m. I turned on my very own wall-mounted flat screen and began to channel surf. Nothing much was on, but TV kept me company. Every hour, a staff member would walk in and look at me. Sometimes take vitals. My RN Christy left at 7:00 p.m., and was replaced by my RN Chrissy. She only had to wipe one letter off the white board and change it. I didn't notice much difference in them. Both had red hair, though Christy was more put together, and Chrissy was kind of an earth-shoe-wearing free spirit with braids that stopped just short of Pippi Longstocking territory. Chrissy shot a dose of blood-thinner into my belly around 10:00 (research after-the-fact shows that this drug should be injected into a fatty area, of which I have no shortage). Then I was pretty much left to my own devices to snooze or TV watch or gaze into space. My breathing was a little easier. I was given a bedside potty because I was not supposed to move around.
Near 4:00 a.m., I had a bout of hand-tingling and shortness of breath. I pushed the call button and was quickly attended by the patient care technician. She used the little black phone dealybobber pinned to her collar to call Chrissy the RN. Chrissy used the pulse-ox thingy on the wall, and said my oxygen was at 97%, so she was not concerned about me getting air. Then she used her collar phone to call the attending, who said to hook me up to a continuous pulse-ox machine. That meant the sensor thingy got taped to the badfinger on my left hand, tethering me to a machine. Oh, and when my oxygen went below 88 percent, an alarm went off, which served to wake me from a delicious sleep two times.
Saturday morning, still basking in my halcyon/salad/wine rose day, I was greeted at 5:00 a.m. by the phlebotomist. She might have been my favorite staffer of all. In she came in her dark blue scrubs, peeping to see if I was awake. "I just need to take some blood." She was a sprite of a thing, hair pulled back in a ponytail like a college softball player, and a voice like Suzanne Pleshette after a month-long bout of chain-smoking. She glanced at my left arm, then made a beeline for the right.
"I have a really good vein there. But I already have this thing in my left arm." BloodSucker looked at it. Swung her ponytail. And commenced to binding a length of rubber tubing around my upper arm. "Oh. Maybe you can't use that. I guess maybe it's for putting things IN, not taking things OUT."
"Right. Do you mind if I lay this stuff here?" Nope. Val's lap is one big blood-tube-holding bin. I must say, BloodSucker did not cause a bit of pain, even when she said, "Big stick." I felt nary a twinge. It was over before I knew it.
My thyroid pill came at 6:00, then breakfast at 8:30. I had two pancakes, a link of turkey sausage, a bowl of oatmeal with brown sugar, a tiny tub of grape juice, and some red grapes. It was what I had ordered the night before, but I did not feel much like eating. I downed one pancake, the sausage, the grape juice, and half of the oatmeal. I admit that I took the grape container and set them aside for later. Not knowing at the time that Hick would eat them out from under my nose.
At 10:00, cardiology came with a wheelchair to take me for a something-or-other test that was like an ultrasound of my heart. It involved a lot of deep breaths. Which I was not very good at. The technician was perhaps from Malaysia or Mexico. They're the same place, right? Not like that island, England. She had an accent, but I could tell when she said, "Breath in, then." Her term for exhale I do not remember, nor did I recognize, but after breathing out the first time she said it, I caught on. When she wheeled me back to my room, she made me carry her fat red notebook like she had on the way there. As she foisted it upon my lap, a paper fell out. She went in front to get it, and that's when I saw it...
Let me back up. As this lady was talking to me, I kept hearing a funny sound. A smashing, crunching, crispy sound. She made small talk about how much fluid accumulation I had. Probably not her business, but you know, maybe different cultures discuss these things as a matter of course. She had been unhappy with the main locking door not letting us in and out of that section of the hospital. The door would not stay propped for her to push me through. So she told me to reach out and hold it. I'm surprised she didn't just tell me to get up and walk through, or have me whip out a bobby pin to pick the lock when it wouldn't let us back out. Again, she seemed to have worked in a place with a lot less gewgaws and doodads than this hospital had. She did not take herself so seriously. In fact, she was not happy with her collar phone thingy not calling the people she asked for, because it could not understand her accent. But getting back to that crispy sound...as she bent over to pick up that paper, I saw that she held in her hand several squares of chopped-up apple. SHE WAS EATING THEM AS SHE PUSHED ME DOWN THE HALL. Seriously. She must have had some major one-arm strength to do that. I'm sure snacking on raw food while wheeling patients all willy-nilly is probably against hospital rules. Anyway, she got me back to my room and hooked up to the oxygen and the pulse-ox monitor again.
By now it was time for lunch, which was pork loin, diced potato, green beans, and a strawberry shortcake. With grape juice. I did a little better this time, as I was breathing a little easier. Hick arrived to watch me eat. Genius came in shortly after. We talked a while. Genius had eaten, and would not accompany Hick to the cafeteria. Only Hick would come to the hospital at lunch time without having eaten first. So he had my grapes. Genius made his exit. I had time to wash up. Then the halcyon/salad/wine rose day was shattered by the arrival of Screaming Mimi at 3:30 p.m.
A screamier screamer I have never heard that Screaming Mimi. A mere slip of a woman, 84 years old, seemingly in the throws of dementia. OR WAS SHE?
More on Screaming Mimi tomorrow.
Wednesday, May 28, 2014
Val Thevictorian's Wild Ride
When we last gathered, you at the feet of Val Thevictorian, eagerly yearning for tales of her recent near-death experience, Val was awaiting transport to a city hospital from her Backroads ER facility.
My chariot arrived at 3:30 p.m. I was strapped onto a hydraulic metal contraption with a gossamer covering some might loosely refer to as a "mattress." The strapping looked like seatbelts or come-a-longs. I had an oxygen tank at my feet, to which my nasal cannula was attached. You all know what a nasal cannula is, don't you? It's that clear rubbery plastic thing with two prongs that sticks in your nose to spray oxygen. I was happy to have it.
I had a needle taped to my left inner elbow, though Hick insisted it was NOT a needle, but made of plastic. Like he would know, what with it taped down, showing only the green plastic cylinder end suitable for shooting drugs into. I had not the breath to bandy words with Dr. Hick concerning my arm plumbing. Hick chose to follow the ambulance (ambulance chaser!) so he would have a way home from the hospital.
My attendants warned me that the ride would not be smooth. I might best compare it to riding over cobblestones on steel wheels while laying on an iron platform. No shock absorbing going on. At all. My bed was locked into the floor of the ambulance. I had to brace myself with my good right arm against the side to keep from sloshing back and forth on turns and lane changes. I had a lovely view out the back door. A lovely view of tailgaters who had once again found Val Thevictorian, and like nothing better than to rattle her cage. The cage being this ambulance, which had an alarm every time a car got too close to one corner of the bumper or the other. My ride was a cacophony of corner-cutters. Though I wistfully looked for my Hick the entire ride, I did not see him. Little did I know he had run by the homestead to grab a couple of things he thought I might need. None of which I did. None of which included pajama pants or sweatpants.
After an hour and a half of lesser gasping, and intermittent vitals checks, I arrived at my destination. I would not recommend riding in an ambulance down I-270 during rush hour on a Friday evening. I had to resort to closing my eyes, as the morphine and Ativan seemed to have worn off. Thank goodness the Lasix had flowed out of my body by the time the ambulance arrived.
My attendants hauled me out of the back of the truck, into the bright sunlight, blinking like a bloated white critter exposed by an overturned rotting board. They whisked me into MoBap to an elevator bank, up to the sixth floor, around a roundabout, and into a cramped double room. How they unloaded me in those close quarters I still cannot quite fathom.
The RN checked me in, I was ensconced in the window bed, vitaled, and offered a supper tray. That was great news, because all I had at the Backroads ER all day was a quarter of a turkey sandwich and two sips of hot Diet Coke. And THAT was an afterthought, at 2:30 p.m., when a nurse checked on me and asked how I was doing, and I replied that I was getting a little hungry. Apparently, folks at the Backroads ER are expected to fast from 7:45 a.m. until they are pawned off on a different hospital.
We will leave me here tonight, in my MoBap bed, snug as a clotted bug in a tight rug, with visions of deep breaths dancing in my head.
Little did I know what lay in store...
My chariot arrived at 3:30 p.m. I was strapped onto a hydraulic metal contraption with a gossamer covering some might loosely refer to as a "mattress." The strapping looked like seatbelts or come-a-longs. I had an oxygen tank at my feet, to which my nasal cannula was attached. You all know what a nasal cannula is, don't you? It's that clear rubbery plastic thing with two prongs that sticks in your nose to spray oxygen. I was happy to have it.
I had a needle taped to my left inner elbow, though Hick insisted it was NOT a needle, but made of plastic. Like he would know, what with it taped down, showing only the green plastic cylinder end suitable for shooting drugs into. I had not the breath to bandy words with Dr. Hick concerning my arm plumbing. Hick chose to follow the ambulance (ambulance chaser!) so he would have a way home from the hospital.
My attendants warned me that the ride would not be smooth. I might best compare it to riding over cobblestones on steel wheels while laying on an iron platform. No shock absorbing going on. At all. My bed was locked into the floor of the ambulance. I had to brace myself with my good right arm against the side to keep from sloshing back and forth on turns and lane changes. I had a lovely view out the back door. A lovely view of tailgaters who had once again found Val Thevictorian, and like nothing better than to rattle her cage. The cage being this ambulance, which had an alarm every time a car got too close to one corner of the bumper or the other. My ride was a cacophony of corner-cutters. Though I wistfully looked for my Hick the entire ride, I did not see him. Little did I know he had run by the homestead to grab a couple of things he thought I might need. None of which I did. None of which included pajama pants or sweatpants.
After an hour and a half of lesser gasping, and intermittent vitals checks, I arrived at my destination. I would not recommend riding in an ambulance down I-270 during rush hour on a Friday evening. I had to resort to closing my eyes, as the morphine and Ativan seemed to have worn off. Thank goodness the Lasix had flowed out of my body by the time the ambulance arrived.
My attendants hauled me out of the back of the truck, into the bright sunlight, blinking like a bloated white critter exposed by an overturned rotting board. They whisked me into MoBap to an elevator bank, up to the sixth floor, around a roundabout, and into a cramped double room. How they unloaded me in those close quarters I still cannot quite fathom.
The RN checked me in, I was ensconced in the window bed, vitaled, and offered a supper tray. That was great news, because all I had at the Backroads ER all day was a quarter of a turkey sandwich and two sips of hot Diet Coke. And THAT was an afterthought, at 2:30 p.m., when a nurse checked on me and asked how I was doing, and I replied that I was getting a little hungry. Apparently, folks at the Backroads ER are expected to fast from 7:45 a.m. until they are pawned off on a different hospital.
We will leave me here tonight, in my MoBap bed, snug as a clotted bug in a tight rug, with visions of deep breaths dancing in my head.
Little did I know what lay in store...
Tuesday, May 27, 2014
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...
BLOG FODDER!
More of the saga tomorrow. You have been warned.
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...
BLOG FODDER!
More of the saga tomorrow. You have been warned.
Monday, May 26, 2014
Just When You Thought it Was Safe to Go Back On the Internet...
...Val is sprung from the hospital that held her captive for three days!
If you thought the saga of her (non)broken back was never-ending, wait until you get a load of this tale of death-defying pulmonary-embolism survival. You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll crawl on your belly like a serpent. Or you'll just click the "close" button.
I'm baaaaack! Thank you all for your words of encouragement. They gave a lift to my spirits when Genius logged on to my blog from his phone as I reclined in my hospital bed. So much to tell, so little breath to gasp while typing feverishly at my upstairs Shiba keyboard. I'll get the story out, whether you want to read it or not.
Here's the short version, in case you want to skip the next five or six days of cat unbagging. I have multiple blood clots in both lungs, and I'm on blood thinners and limited activity for a brief time. My dark basement lair will have to wait. This setup is not conducive to witty regaling, what with hearing Hick's too-loud TV in my left ear, and The Pony's surround-sound hubbub in my right. Plus, it's LIGHT in the living room.
More tomorrow. And the next day. And the next...
If you thought the saga of her (non)broken back was never-ending, wait until you get a load of this tale of death-defying pulmonary-embolism survival. You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll crawl on your belly like a serpent. Or you'll just click the "close" button.
I'm baaaaack! Thank you all for your words of encouragement. They gave a lift to my spirits when Genius logged on to my blog from his phone as I reclined in my hospital bed. So much to tell, so little breath to gasp while typing feverishly at my upstairs Shiba keyboard. I'll get the story out, whether you want to read it or not.
Here's the short version, in case you want to skip the next five or six days of cat unbagging. I have multiple blood clots in both lungs, and I'm on blood thinners and limited activity for a brief time. My dark basement lair will have to wait. This setup is not conducive to witty regaling, what with hearing Hick's too-loud TV in my left ear, and The Pony's surround-sound hubbub in my right. Plus, it's LIGHT in the living room.
More tomorrow. And the next day. And the next...
Friday, May 23, 2014
A Tale of Val's Misfortune and Genius's Solitude
This is Genius, mom is in the hospital for a couple days, and she will catch up when she returns with tales of her new long, white beard she grew while waiting for transport.
I, on the other hand, shall be living on my own and partying like t'were 1699.
I, on the other hand, shall be living on my own and partying like t'were 1699.
Thursday, May 22, 2014
Val is NOT Pretty Boy Floyd, Baby Face Nelson, Bonnie nor Clyde, John Dillinger, or Al Capone
The Pony now has a bank account. Not that he's moving out, or paying bills, or ordering things online. He needs a way to access cash while he's gone this summer to Missouri Scholars Academy. On their website, they recommend traveler's checks. Seriously. Can you see 300 sixteen-year-olds using traveler's checks when they want to buy something. I, myself, cannot? So he's got a debit card. It only works on his account. His account only has enough money to see him through the Academy. Not taking any chances here.
The thing about a sixteen-year-old getting a debit card is that a sixteen-year-old is a minor. As such, the sixteen-year-old needs an adult linked to his account. That means that the sixteen-year-old's account pops up whenever the adult goes to use her own card at an ATM.
The Pony is a student of the world. He is quite observant, with a steel-trap mind. Many a time he's watched me drive up to our bank's ATM and withdraw cash. It's so easy for him, what with sitting directly behind me like a chauffeured passenger. All he has to do is glance out his window and take it in. Because Val is sometimes a practitioner of overkill, I took it upon myself to show The Pony how to use his new debit card last Saturday. The best-laid plans of Val herself often go awry.
I had my mom in the real passenger seat, the shotgun seat, and The Pony in his chosen perch behind me. "Look. I'll show you what to do when you need to use your card at the ATM. See? It's touch screen. Put in your pin, say you don't want a receipt, choose your transaction type, push the amount...look, both our accounts come up on mine now. See here? Mine is the one ending in XXXX. And yours is here, the one ending in YYYY. WAIT! I didn't want to do that! I barely touched it! Now it's taking that money out of your account! I'll have to drive around front and go in and deposit it back in. But we don't have a deposit slip. We'll have to use a counter deposit slip. WAIT! We don't have your account number. Oh. It will be on that receipt here from when we just put in your science fair winner's check. But I don't have my glasses. You'll have to come in with me and fill out the counter deposit slip. That's okay. It'll be a good learning experience for you. Don't worry. When you use YOUR card at an ATM, the only account that pops up will be yours. You won't have to worry about picking which one the money comes out of. Now, lets go get this straightened out."
Today after school, I told The Pony I needed to go to the bank.
"Can you not take MY money this time?"
I swear. One little mistake, and I'm going to hear about it forever. That Pony has a memory like an elephant.
The thing about a sixteen-year-old getting a debit card is that a sixteen-year-old is a minor. As such, the sixteen-year-old needs an adult linked to his account. That means that the sixteen-year-old's account pops up whenever the adult goes to use her own card at an ATM.
The Pony is a student of the world. He is quite observant, with a steel-trap mind. Many a time he's watched me drive up to our bank's ATM and withdraw cash. It's so easy for him, what with sitting directly behind me like a chauffeured passenger. All he has to do is glance out his window and take it in. Because Val is sometimes a practitioner of overkill, I took it upon myself to show The Pony how to use his new debit card last Saturday. The best-laid plans of Val herself often go awry.
I had my mom in the real passenger seat, the shotgun seat, and The Pony in his chosen perch behind me. "Look. I'll show you what to do when you need to use your card at the ATM. See? It's touch screen. Put in your pin, say you don't want a receipt, choose your transaction type, push the amount...look, both our accounts come up on mine now. See here? Mine is the one ending in XXXX. And yours is here, the one ending in YYYY. WAIT! I didn't want to do that! I barely touched it! Now it's taking that money out of your account! I'll have to drive around front and go in and deposit it back in. But we don't have a deposit slip. We'll have to use a counter deposit slip. WAIT! We don't have your account number. Oh. It will be on that receipt here from when we just put in your science fair winner's check. But I don't have my glasses. You'll have to come in with me and fill out the counter deposit slip. That's okay. It'll be a good learning experience for you. Don't worry. When you use YOUR card at an ATM, the only account that pops up will be yours. You won't have to worry about picking which one the money comes out of. Now, lets go get this straightened out."
Today after school, I told The Pony I needed to go to the bank.
"Can you not take MY money this time?"
I swear. One little mistake, and I'm going to hear about it forever. That Pony has a memory like an elephant.
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