Most of all, my body wasn’t allowing me to breathe. Is this how it all ends? I thought. Will someone find my in a heap on the hardwood floor? What was it all for? Eventually I dialed 911. An operator answered.
“What’s your emergency? “I… can’t… breathe,” I said, barely audible. “What’s your history?” she asked. “I’m taking medication [gasp] for a [gasp] procedure I had [gasp] a couple of days ago.” “Okay, I’ll transfer you,” she said. Transfer me?! No! I thought. This can’t be happening.
Resigned, I said, “Okay.” What else could I do? Luckily, another operator picked up immediately and I gave her my address. “They’re on the way.” A small wave of relief passed over me. Another 30 seconds went by. Where are they? Why am I all alone? Meanwhile, my heart pounded at 200 miles an hour and my muscles trembled
Then I could hear the sound of sirens in the distance. They grew steadily louder and stopped. I could hear the sound of footsteps on my apartment building stairwell and a knock on my door. The emergency medical technicians opened it gently. I managed to walk three steps to my hallway so they could find me. “Are you having trouble breathing?” a fireman asked. I nodded in response. They placed an oxygen tube under my nostrils and over my ears, and for the first time, my heart rate began to slow. I’m going to live, I thought.
As I breathed deeply, taking in all the pure oxygen I could, I gave my medical history to a female EMT. I explained that I was taking a steroid, prednisone, due to the removal of a 1.6-centimeter salivary stone two days before.
It was an infection related to that salivary stone that landed me in the emergency room just a few days earlier. She asked if I had eaten before taking the prednisone, and suddenly I realized I hadn’t.
All I’d had that morning was four cups of coffee. I’d also had a very stressful personal in the morning, acidic air bubbles will rise in my esophagus. Water and a few extra-strength Tums normally take care of the problem, but not this time. My heart was practically vibrating.
I began pacing around in my apartment waiting for my pulse to slow. It didn’t happen. Then my muscles began to tremble and I felt too weak to stand. Noises emanating from just outside my window became amplified in my heightened state of awareness. People carrying on with their Saturday afternoon, not a care in the world, passed beneath my window.
“How can you be enjoying yourself while I’m dying here?” I thought. If I had tried to verbalize the words, no sound would have uncontrollably.
telephone call. I didn’t tell the EMT about the phone call. It was embarrassing. My friend Charlene arrived as I was fielding questions from the EMTs. I could hear her high heels moving quickly across my hardwood floors, and then there she was. It was an amazing comfort to see a friendly face. She gave me a big hug. I needed it. Then they loaded me onto a stretcher and placed me in the back of the ambulance.
“Water!
Water! Someone please get me some water!” a panicked voice shouted out
inside the Baptist Hospital ER. From my vantage point at station 6, I
had witnessed EMTs wheeling in a young African-American man who
apparently had suffered a severe burn on his chest. His pleas started
at a normal volume but increased rapidly in intensity. Before long, he
was crying uncontrollably, and the vast emergency room was filled with
the echoes of his suffering.
Meanwhile, the woman in the
station next to me talked casually on her cell phone about her minor
biking accident. Dr. Kevin, the ER resident, walked over and shook my
hand. He asked me about my symptoms, and recommended a chest X-ray.
After
a while, two X-ray technicians raised up the back of my bed and placed
a hard square plate behind me. I told Dr. Cline, a heart specialist,
that I had never suffered any major health issues but heart disease
does run in my family.
“Just to be on the safe side, I’m going
to order a stress test for tomorrow. We’re going to keep you
overnight,” Dr. Cline said. “Your chest X-ray looks fantastic,” Dr.
Kevin said. A big exhale helped bring my heart rate down a couple
notches.
At one point, I watched the heart monitor surge to
106 beats per minute. A few deep breaths and my heart rate dropped back
to 72 beats per minute, which I thought was normal. I figured out later
that night my normal heart rate is around 56 beats per minute.
They
moved me up to the emergency department holding area to stay for the
night. The cacophony of the ER was silenced. About 15 minutes later,
the first of my relatives appeared. My aunt and uncle drove down from
Mount Airy, and the moment they walked in the room, I felt better.
Family members continued to arrive throughout the afternoon and
evening.
When they moved me into a private room, I felt normal
for the first time. My nurse practitioner, Heather, gave me a good
report. The EKG and blood tests had all come up negative for a
pulmonary embolism or damage to the heart muscle. A final test would be
performed before I went to bed and I would have my stress test in the
morning. My mom decided to spend the night in my hospital room. She’s a
big believer in the philosophy that you never leave anyone alone in the
hospital. Charlene arrived for a late visit, and I began thinking about
the precious nature of friendship.
Once the test results
turned up negative, my body began to respond to the good news. I was
feeling better, but still afraid to eat any solid food. I had two cups
of yogurt before trying to get some sleep, which was fitful due to the
six wires connected to my chest. Eventually, the exercise physiologist
showed up to take me to my stress test. Despite my dehydration, she
told me I did well on the treadmill. I waited on the results for the
next couple of hours but I had a feeling I already knew the outcome.
Sure
enough, the test revealed that my heart is in good working order, and
Saturday’s event was not cardiac-related. I never got a definitive
answer on why the episode took place, but nurse Heather seemed to think
the combination of prednisone and caffeine on an empty stomach had
something to do with it. As I walked to Parking Deck B with my mother,
my brother and my 7-year-old nephew, I remembered something my father
said years ago after having quadruple-bypass surgery. For bypass
surgery, surgeons must stop the heart for a brief period. The
after-effects vary on each patient, but my dad had to re-learn how to
do simple things like pick up a pencil. He felt like a newborn, he
said. That’s exactly how I felt on Sunday — a newborn with another
chance at life. I felt humbled and incredibly grateful. My true nature
has always been a peaceful one. I will be true to that nature in the
way I treat others and I will go forward without fear because somebody
up there must really like me.
