I had joked when I turned 50 that, since I hadn’t discovered a wonderland in a wardrobe or gotten a Hogwarts letter in my lifetime, I wanted Gandalf to take me on an adventure. I didn’t mean my first ambulance ride.
I was thinking how well things were going, that’s what I remember right before it happened. The temporary job was going well and I’d had an interview for a real job a couple of days before. I was very relieved that the budget I’d presented at my guild board meeting a couple of hours previously was approved without a long discussion. I considered stopping to shop for clothes but decided I wanted to get home to my hubby and my son.
One second everything was right with the world and the next second there was DIZZINESS like I’d never felt before. I remember thinking it would go away quickly, like when you stand up too fast but it fades. Another couple of seconds went by. OK, I remember thinking, I should get over, what if I can’t control the car, must control the car, and then…
There was a young police officer kneeling on the street inside my open car door asking “Can you tell me what happened ma’am?” I remember thinking, without any great concern, that I had run off the road after all. It was OK though, because the nice young policeman was there. I told him “I just got dizzy” and then I saw the airbags, the cracked windshield, the utility pole, heard the engine running and the wheels spinning and oh, by the way, I WAS IN INCREDIBLE PAIN! The officer said “You just got dizzy?” and all I could do was nod and keep telling him how much I hurt.
Lots of things hurt. My knee throbbed and my chin was numb and there were severe pains shooting through my chest. First I thought I was having a heart attack. Then when I couldn’t feel my chin I thought I was having a stroke. I told God I just wanted to see the guys one more time, tell them I loved them and it would be OK, I’d be ready to go.
In the next few minutes, a lot of things happened. The officer on the other side of the car realized the engine was running and told the other officer to turn it off. When I said I was going to be sick, the young officer explained to me that it was probably the chemical smell from the airbags but to please warn him so he could get out of the way. I did get sick and thankfully, he did get out of the way. The older police officer asked my name, my age, and for permission to get my license out of my purse. I pointed to the cell phone in the armrest and asked him to call my husband. A firetruck came and an ambulance came. The man from the ambulance said he needed to check my blood sugar. I remember being surprised that he didn’t ask if I’d been drinking because who runs into a pole on a perfectly fine day? But maybe that’s what the blood test was for. My arm was stretched out and there was a sticking of my finger, which I didn’t like, but considering the other pain, I didn’t have time to worry about that.
As I was helped out of the car, I noticed a sheet was on the street so at least I didn’t have to step in my own mess. Then I was put on a backboard while the young man from the ambulance (everybody seemed so young, did these people know what they were doing?) asked me a lot of questions. Yes, I have a doctor but haven’t seen her in years. No, I don’t have heart problems. Yes, I had eaten just a couple of hours before. No, I was not on any medications. What hospital do I go to? Well, I don’t. He told me he could be at a certain hospital in five minutes so I said OK. I told him several times during the questioning that I felt sick. He said he’d give me something for that. The something was in an IV so that wasn’t pleasant. The something in the IV apparently didn’t get in me fast enough because I threw up twice more. It’s bad enough to be sick but when you are flat on your back and can’t move your head to one side, it’s a pretty horrible feeling. The EMT had to grab the holes in the side of the board and flip me over to keep me from choking to death. I still didn’t feel that great while looking up at the ceiling as everything moved and swayed but at least I didn’t get sick again.
Soon my first ambulance ride was over and I was in the emergency room. The same questions were asked and I gave the same answers, also telling anyone who would listen that I felt sick. Apparently I had already been given a lot of whatever was in the IV so I would have to ride it out. Another port was put in and the woman commented about how EMTs do the IVs. I thought the guy did a pretty good job under the circumstances. I heard the EMT right outside my little cubicle saying he was going to hose out the ambulance.
A couple of women very quickly got my clothes off. It was like that magic trick with the tablecloth. I had chosen a good outfit to wear for an accident– clogs that slid right off, a loose-fitting blouse, and wide legged stretchy pull on slacks. Despite what your mom may have told you, I don’t think anybody noticed the state of my underwear.
A doctor told me all about the test that was going to be done. I said OK (what else would I say?) and I was off down the long hallway, then slid into a machine. I was pulled back out, some dye was injected in the IV tube and I was slid in again. All the while, everyone explained what they were doing and I said OK.
Back in the ER cubicle, my husband sat waiting with my insurance card and driver’s license. I realized my Ipad, purse, cellphone, and the satchel with the guild checkbook and records were all still in the car. I asked my husband to text our preacher and said that he should probably tell the temporary agency I wasn’t going to make it to work the next day.
I told yet another nurse I still felt sick. She put some morphine in my IV, sat me up a little, and took the neck brace off. Instantly I felt better. She even tried to clean me up a little. My face, neck, and long hair were a real mess.
I told my husband what happened. A few minutes later I was surprised to see our friend, the preacher. I told him I didn’t expect to see him. He asked what happened. I said “You should see the other guy!”
At some point the doctor came back in and said several times that I had NOT had a heart attack. There were markers in my blood they had checked for right away. He said I would be admitted as soon as they found a bed for me and then the cardiologist on call would speak to me. He asked me the same questions about what happened. I gave him the same answers (which basically amounted to “I have no idea what happened; one second I was fine, then dizzy, then I saw the police officer”).
It was after one in the morning when I got into a room. A nice nurse took my medical history. Again I said “no” to a number of things (after saying “yes” she could speak in front of hubby) and she acted surprised that I had no problems and was on no medication. I was given a weird tasting drink because my potassium was a tiny bit low (but not enough to have caused the passing out). Eventually, my husband left with instructions from me to not forget to call the temporary agency and to see if he could figure out where my car was but to NOT call my mother yet. I was sure I’d have some kind of answers the next day and could tell everyone what had happened.
It took a long time for the cardiologist to come in and he was nice (and looked too young to be a cardiologist of course). He apologized for asking me to recount everything again. He assured me that I had NOT had a heart attack. I do have left branch bundle block. It’s a fancy way of saying my ventricles don’t beat at the same time but they go LEFT-Right. He said it didn’t sound like I’d had a seizure or stroke. He described a bunch of tests on my head and heart that I would be undergoing over the next day or so and I said OK. He said I was very fortunate that I had not swerved into oncoming traffic or gotten rear-ended. He observed that if I had struck and killed someone, it would have been an accident, but I would have been at fault. I didn’t know what to say to that except “I know.” I had been thinking about all those things as I was lying there.
A nurse came in and put something on my legs that would expand and contract to prevent blood clots. It worked fine for about five minutes and then stopped working and started beeping. This happened a couple of times before she gave up and got a different piece of equipment. By this time it was after 3 a.m. The accident had happened about 7:30 or 8:00.
A couple of hours later, a woman from the lab woke me up, introduced herself, and took some blood. Minutes after that, another woman came to do an EKG. She stuck several sensors on my chest, only to rip them off seconds later. It was unpleasant, to say the least. My chest hurt so badly that the next person who came in gave me another dose of morphine.
Over that day and the next morning and early afternoon, I got checked out pretty thoroughly. I had an MRI, an EEG, another morning blood test, and another lovely “slap and rip” EKG from the same woman as before. I had a chemical stress test and an ultrasound on my heart. I wore a monitor around my neck for exactly 24 hours. Most of the tests weren’t bad but there were some not-so-pleasant moments.
On the last morning, I had a chemical stress test. It is not an experience I ever want to repeat. The man who ran the test could have used a little sensitivity training (along with the EKG woman). When I was gasping and doubling over because the chemicals were burning my veins, he simply said he didn’t understand why it would burn. The woman who did my ultrasound was busy and running behind and she sighed a lot. Since my physique was making a reading difficult, she had to inject dye into the IV port. I wasn’t thrilled that she had to push really hard on my purple and black bruised chest while I held my breath.
Most of the people who cared for me were wonderful though. There was a nice woman who held my hand and told me to open my eyes during my stress test meltdown. She said “it’s just like men…,” then asked if I’d had a baby. Immediately I remembered my labor breathing and things got better. Then I thought “If she was starting to say it’s just like menopause, I’m in real trouble.” The person who parked me in the hallway on a stretcher because there was a crowd waiting for ultrasounds checked on me, offered me crackers and a soft drink, and apologized several times for the wait. All the cubicles were occupied by very old people on oxygen. I assured him I was fine. The guy who did the EEG said I could relax and even nap if I liked. I was so tired by then I was grateful for the peace and quiet. The woman who drew blood the second morning apologized when I winced. It seemed to make her so happy when I said it was OK and that time had hurt less than any of the others.
Though there were many nurses and aides introducing themselves and helping me with everything (very humbling to have to ask someone to help you get to the bathroom), my favorite was a woman from the Philippines. I had asked several people to help me with my hair if they got a chance. It wasn’t urgent and I knew they were busy but having dried vomit in your long hair for a whole night and day isn’t pleasant. This woman brought me a shower cap with some kind of special cleanser that had been warmed up in the microwave. I said she didn’t have to brush my hair but she did. She tried to get every knot and tangle out and I felt so much better. She talked to me about the accident and said “God’s not finished with YOU yet lady.” When I returned from my testing adventures later in the afternoon, she got a sad look on her face and said “Oh, you had EEG didn’t you?!” After all her hard work, my hair was full of the greasy stuff they used on my scalp for the sensors.
My husband, in the meantime, had gone to the impound lot and rescued all the contents of my car (including the rolled up yucky sheet, I discovered later). He had talked to the insurance company, contacted the temporary agency, texted my siblings and some other people, and brought me my cellphone and the clothes he had washed after the accident.
My best friend and her family came to see me and she had offered to get me whatever I needed (including clean underwear). She even handed over a paperback book she had just started, “The Hundred Foot Journey.” It really came in handy while I was in that hallway on that stretcher.
I kept thinking they’d find out what had happened. I was told it was not a stroke, not a seizure, not a heart attack, not epilepsy. But in all those “nots,” there was never an answer. The cardiologist who released me gave me instructions to call his office to get a monitor and told me not to drive for at least a month.
The adventures continued after I returned home. I answered questions from the insurance agent on the phone. I signed paperwork. I dealt with two different companies. The auto insurance company paid for the car and part of the hospital bill. The nice lady explained that there were costs associated with “the incident (passing out)” and “the accident (hitting the pole).” I threw away a letter from a lawyer (he was concerned about my accident and wanted to help me. Who was I going to sue, myself?). I eventually quit looking at the bills and let my husband handle all that (at last count they were over $75,000. Thankfully we have great insurance). I laughed at the letter I got from a utility company charging me $100.19 for “damage to our equipment.” I guess they had to pay someone to inspect the pole though my husband had taken a photo showing no damage. The insurance agent took care of that. I reassured my mom that I was OK and I agreed there were a lot of “what ifs.” I sorted through the contents of my car and shopped for another one online. I called people and asked for rides everywhere for myself and my son and made them cookies in return. I displayed a lot of get well cards and wrote a lot of thank you notes.
My hospital adventure had not ended, however. When I called about my monitor, I asked if it would be delivered. Nope, it had to be “implanted.” Oh, great. So I got up one morning at the crack of dawn and my husband drove me to the hospital. It was an outpatient surgery with no anesthesia. I had an IV port inserted (just in case, I was told) and was wheeled into a tiny room. It didn’t look like any operating room I had ever seen on TV. A surgeon came in, explained what he was going to do, gave me some shots to numb my chest (ouch) and inserted a little match stick sized device in my chest. A nurse showed me how to use a handheld monitor to record any “incidents” if I felt faint again. I had some bandages pushed onto the incision. When I returned home, I asked my son to guess what I had, intending to say “wifi” but he responded “blood on your shirt.” Uh-oh. Fortunately, with Boy Scouts and Ski Patrollers in the house, there was plenty of gauze. I think the surgery cost $50,000 and there was an additional $500 for the recovery room (though they did serve some pretty good toast in there). A larger monitor was delivered to the house. It sits by my bed and downloads information every night. Our insurance gets billed $75.75 a month for that. Of course, the first one didn’t work and had to be returned and the replacement arrived while we were out of town.
I had to go to the cardiologist for a follow-up and then again every six months. The first time I went, I rode up on the elevator with several people much older than me. They were all talking about their pacemakers and oxygen tanks. One of the ladies said to me “We’re all going to the sixth floor. It stinks to get old. Enjoy your life now, young miss.” Boy were they surprised when I got off on the sixth floor too.
Eventually I was able to drive again and we found a car I wanted. It was on a lot an hour’s drive away. Well, we thought it was still there but the owner of the car lot had sent it to auction. He called and arranged for it to be brought back the next day. We had to schedule a return trip but eventually, “Lucy,” a maroon Toyota Avalon, came to live in our driveway. It took a lot of deep breathing and prayers for me to feel comfortable driving a car again without my thoughts straying to the accident. I still wave to the utility pole when I drive by sometimes (I have to pass it five times a week or more).
A year later, I have had no more “incidents.” Once I thought I would have to go to the ER because the site of my incision was occasionally burning and I felt sharp pains when I bent down. At the time I was cleaning my mom’s condo in preparation for a Memorial Day visit from my sister and her family. I shared my concerns with my husband about going to the ER on a holiday weekend and what the cause of the pain might be nearly 8 months after the surgery. Late in the afternoon, I looked down as my T-shirt fell open and realized that my bra underwire had worked all the way out and was poking the incision site. I’m really glad I didn’t go to the ER. “Here’s the problem ma’am; that will be $200. Weren’t you here a few months ago? Would you like a free mental evaluation?”
UPDATE
After the first two checkups, I was only required to go to the cardiologist once a year. Every year he would ask if I’d had any more dizziness or syncope incidents and I’d say no, then he’d say that maybe we should keep the device in for one more year, “just in case something happens again.” At the three year anniversary of the incident, we agreed that it was time to have my “pet chip” removed. I went back to the hospital and waited for my operation. I waited, and waited, and waited, until the doctor came in and asked how I was feeling (HUNGRY was my reply). Apparently, the surgery before mine was more complicated than expected. Once again, I was taken to an operating room (this one looked less like a closet than the previous one). I had a shot in my chest to numb the area (I was told it would feel just like a Botox shot, so there’s another thing I think I won’t do). After a lot of tugging, the device was removed. The surgeon then asked advice from the surgical assistants about closing the little incision. It was decided that “glue” would be used. It’s pretty disconcerting to lie there and listen to a discussion and think “Didn’t he have a plan for this? Am I the guinea pig for him using this glue?” Eventually I had gauze taped to my chest and went on my merry way.
I was supposed to keep the surgical tape on my chest for 24 hours. Unfortunately, I am allergic to the adhesive in bandaids and surgical tape. I never had a problem before but I have been told that as some folks get older, they can develop allergies. Wonderful. I walked around for a couple of weeks with my chest red and blistered. I felt like I looked like an extra in a horror movie about zombies or flesh eating aliens. Otherwise, there has been no drama. I was glad to free up the space on my headboard where the monitor sat and eventually adjusted to not having to carry the smaller monitor around with me everywhere I went.
This incident has taught me so much. I now consider it as something of a “second birthday,” the day I thought I was going to die but I didn’t. Having to totally rely on other people was a very humbling experience and brought me a new appreciation for hospital workers and people in similar professions. I know how important a kind word or gesture can be and I try to pay that forward every day. I realize how blessed I am to have a best friend who offers me the book out of her hands and a husband who picks up the pieces and holds down the fort. It’s a blessing to have a network of friends I can count on for rides and who can be bribed with cookies. I know my priorities are in the right place. So my advice to everyone is to not sweat the small stuff, remember what’s important, appreciate the good people in your life, and if you feel dizzy while driving, pull over right away.
angitheadventurer 