I barely made my way out into the Phoenix evening heat, leaving work at 5:30 after a new "imposed from on high" four day work week consisting of 600 minutes. The extra hours, when actually in them, are not too bad and pass briskly, but over the course of the day, the clock on the computer ticks slower, then stops for a break, refusing to budge.
I am two and a half weeks now out of the hospital. First there was a strong dose of gout that shocked my knee, keeping me off my feet from May 8th to May 12. There was a brief interlude, on Friday the 13th, of visiting the cardiologist. My PCP had urged me a year ago to get my ECG (or EKG if you are feeling Germanic) checked due to the rather gapping spaces in the squiggly line that indicated a left bundle branch block. "Hmmm," I thought at the time, looking deeply concerned, before going on to spend 2010 losing my job and insurance and neglecting any follow-ups with the PCP or specialist.
So after a week of beggary for meds to knock out my gout, by the 13th I could hobble well enough to the cardiologist, where he promptly reproduced the results of the year before. Unfortunately (for me), he was more concerned with my racing pulse. "You need to go to emergency," he said. I argued the point, doubting his expertise, figuring that an overweight guy off his feet for a week and hobbling with a cane across a ginormous office is unlikely to have a normal pulse. I agreed to go, and he called to give them a heads up.
Upon leaving, I decided my own judgment was superior. I picked up a pulse meter at Walgreens, went home, and chilled. The next morning I planned to see Thor with the girlfriend. I arose early, headed to the rest room, and passed out on the loo. I was awakened by my dear mother, who found me curled up with my head resting on the garbage can like a pillow, and snoring. I was actually dreaming a quite vivid dream, and upon waking, reached around to find my underwear firmly around my buttox. Somewhere between falling off the toilet and hitting the ground and drifting into pleasant sleep, one of my more responsible hands had the good sense to reach around and pull up the Fruit of the Looms.
I kind of crawled into my room to get dressed. I was sitting on my floor pantless, head drifting. I had moved in the previous year as a means of saving money so that I could make some major life changes. I had saved zero funds so far, so mostly I was getting all the aggravation of living with a parent, with no accumulating collateral benefits (well... aside from free rent and plenty of unasked for scriptural instruction).
As I pulled on the first leg of pants, I awoke to find myself tipped over and still unpantsed. I called out to my mom suggesting it might be a good idea to call 911 after all. It seemed a bad idea to be hauled out of the house by firemen naked, so I quickly pulled on some clothes and walked bent and carrying sneakers to a chair in the living room. "I'll just put my sneakers on my feet and that way I can walk out instead of being carried," I said to myself, before tipping over as I bent down to put the first shoe on. I awoke to see about four fireman plugging my arm with a needle, with questions of "Do you know where you are?" and "Do you know who you are?" and "Do you know where you are going to, and do you like the things that life is showing you?" It at first seemed like blurry deities were getting me acclimated to the afterlife, before I realized, "Oh yea, the fire guys are taking me to the hospital." I vaguely wondered if their expertise was greater in fire or emergency medicine.
They took me to my PCP's hospital, conveniently five minutes away. I chatted a bit on the ambulance, though I really think the guy was not listening, all focused on vital statistics and not accidentally killing me. We arrived, and I was wheeled into Emergency. March 14th. Uhm, beware the Ides of March, in May.
After a bit of routine experimentation in Emergency--blood tests, IV attachment, assorted pills, blood pressure and a certain amount of "I hear you but I am not really hearing you" on my part- they moved me upstairs. But not before I passed out on return from the bathroom. (I awoke greatly relieved that some bodily functions were out of the way and I could proceed with hearing any dreadful news without worries of assisted bathroom usage).
The immediate concern seemed to be my heart and dehydration. They kept asking do I feel any pain, or was I having breathing problems, and I assured them I was fine, except for when I moved, in which I case I wasn't fine. They gave me some solution that was plumping my innards with liquid. They thought that might do the trick. Various nurses and doctors revolved through, and each time I told the story of my passing out, and that I felt fine, and about Thor, and about the wrongheaded cardiologist. I stressed to them that being off your feet for five days with gout probably had an effect on something.
Eventually one doctor came to the conclusion that perhaps, just maybe, the gout in my leg created a blood clot, and that the clot might have traveled.
"I will give you this one test and it will tell us with 99% accuracy if you have a clot."
"Sounds good. And then?"
"And if you have a clot, then we will run an MRI and see what the deal is."
I was expecting a blow by blow. Some sort of update with someone telling me, "Indeed, the test shows a clot and this is a grave concern for us all, even... the world". I mean after all, the nurses had a hard enough time--all seven of them--finding a vein to draw blood and an update on the success of that effort would have been nice. Instead they suddenly reappeared to move me down to the section of the hospital where they ran most of their machine tests.
I was wheeled in, and they were about to combine powers (Wonder Twins...form of "six of us", shape of "wish he was not as heavy as he is") to kind of flip roll me over, but I assured them I could do it on my own. "May I just hit the restroom first?" I asked and they said sure. I shuffled in, had another moment of urination, reminding myself that it was necessary to take moments in the bathroom on my own while I had strength, lest I end up in some messy bed pan moment during visiting hours when all fifty of my future roommates relatives were on hand to lend moral support to his hole in the heart. (I had started off in my own room, but apparently my importance was downgraded).
I walked out of the bathroom and could feel things starting to lose focus. I tried to prop myself on the MRI table, and then.... fade, then awake, then struggle. Three people were on each side of me trying to hold me as I flailed. I was gasping for air and they propped me up, but I was using considerable energy of my own to stay in that position.
"Let me lay down. I can't breath. I need to lay back. I'm...using... energy...holding myself up". I had to repeat that before they felt comfortable letting me down. They slapped an oxygen mask on me, gathered on each side and tried to push and shove my body into the correct position. The franticity was overwhelming.
"Wait... wait. Just wait a second. Let me relax just a second. Let me breath. I'm okay. Just a minute to relax," I begged; their bellies near my head on each side of me were making me claustrophobic. They relented, I relaxed and then they loaded me in. My concern was not about this big magnet, or the warm flushed feeling in my body, but rather, that during the struggle I could have sworn I was losing my bowels, and that the moment I feared most, an embarrassing bathroom moment, had occurred. Indeed 90% of my stress centered around whether I would ultimately need assistance going to the bathroom. Mercifully, the gods intervened and one nurse later informed me that, "Oh no, you just let out a lot of bad gas." Thank you nurse; sometimes honesty is unwarranted even if I did bring up the subject of my rectal fears.
They moved me to an intensive care unit for people with heart issues.A battalion of nurses gathered to hook me up and get me situated as the new guy. Then from Mt. Olympus it was ordered that the lung specialist likes all his people up on the 11th floor. All the heart nurses promptly disappeared. "False alarm, he's not one of us," I could hear their disappearance saying.
It was here at midnight that I reached my moment of darkness. It was around 12:30 pm. I was watching "Magnificent Seven," the original with Yul Brynner. The nurses were all male. One of them expressed a love for old westerns and I urged him to see
Once Upon A Time in the West, featuring a deliciously evil Henry Fonda. He hadn't seen it, but said he would. I wondered how many patients offered tips and suggestions while laying there interrupting his train of medical thought on each shift.
This first nurse was replaced by tall, beefy guy, who had a young son. He started talking about how seeing his boy starting to run around and be active made him more concerned than ever about his own health. He said, "You would think as a nurse I would know better, but we struggle just like everyone else." He wanted to drop about 70 pounds or so and be more fit.
I had stopped focusing on the movie, with thoughts of the bathroom looming ever stronger. But since I couldn't actually move without passing out, I was now fearful. You cannot pass out six or so times without it eventually starting to impose "expectation fear." The passing out was fine, if worrying; the waking was the scary part, as it eventually got to the point where I would be waking without air.
I rang the nurse bell, the nurse came, and I said, "I am thinking I am going to have to use a bed pan and this won't be pleasant and I am sorry. I wish I could walk, but I don't want to pass out either." He assured me it was no problem, routine. He grabbed a wholly inappropriately constructed bed pan and some other materials.
(Note to society: We need less Groupons, less LinkedIn's, more hospital beds designed with built in waste management systems. Maybe a slot that slides open to reveal a butt sized hole.)
It was probably one of the most degrading experiences of my life, but I was relieved ever after, in every way. I was now free to focus on more pressing issues, like would my vacation time and sick days cover my stay, how far behind would I get on my work, might these clots travel into my head and kill me, and several collateral issues related to elevated protein and my peculiar kidneys. I occasionally thought about death.
My condition settled and they felt comfortable moving me back downstairs.
Laid back young male doctor returned to inform me that his hunch was right, and that my lungs were very clotted. In addition to hydrating me, they started me on injections of blood thinner and blood pressure medicine and other medicinals. My girlfriend and mom were visiting each day. I took meds and ate tuna melts with potatoes and gravy. It was a meal that went down smooth. I made my girlfriend the honorary bathroom assistant, and she stood in front of me holding my robe up to form a privacy wall. "No peeking," I reminded her, wanting to keep the moment's somber integrity. The first time I promptly passed out once back at the bed and my girlfriend had to hold me down as nurses rushed in to up my oxygen. They slapped a yellow "fall risk" armband on my arm and reminded me that I must be assisted in the bathroom. "Okay".
The rest of the time was a mix of doctors and injections, of "How are you feeling?" and blood draws, and with the cardiologist popping in periodically to tell me that the heart stuff, more or less, was fine. Each time he kind of implied that I could just pack up, rise up, and walk. This more or less created a constant dichotomy given the advice and treatment plans of every other specialist who was tagging in to offer their wisdom. I assume that to a cardiologist, the world revolves around your heart. I made an effort to apologize to him for doubting his wisdom, which he accepted in the same hurried "I am really too busy for a conversation longer than three sentences" grace that he showed when popping in to tell me to go home already.
The last three or so days were easy going, and with a great group of nurses. In fact the whole haphazard experience made me thank my stars (that being God) that I was born in a western nation. But it also reminded me of the luck I had in having a job with virtually free insurance (if you are single, but 1/4 of my take home if I opted to ever marry and have things like family covered). Had this happened during my employment lull in the summer of 2010, I would have been in deep trouble, and sitting with a bill in the thousands. ($59,000 thus far, to be exact) That health care is not an automatic "must have" part of the government safety net is why I voted for Obama in the first place after years of voting for Republicans. You hit a certain age, and start to realize you are not Superman, or Thor, and that the wrong confluence of controllable or uncontrollable events could upset your life and set you back forever.
I am still not feeling normal. There are still questions about my heart (a scarred part) and my kidneys. My PCP was a bit annoyed with her colleagues at the hospital for not calling her, or taking a look at her own tests, some of which they duplicated. In her casual way she informed me of the fatty liver I never knew I had. Elevated triglycerides or something, and the Niacin she prescribed I've yet to take out of a certain fear of side effects (like passing out).
All in all I feel worn, but am lucky. Lucky to have a job and people who love me: at least two of them. There have been moments when I thought, "I don't want to live like this," and my higher self reminds me that such attitudes are an insult to God, and to those who actually have greater problems, and who struggle on despite the difficulties. Being sick and in the hospital has a way of making you think the world revolves around you and the drama can be intoxicating in some odd way. You have to fight to retain perspective.