So, up until last week, I thought
I was in pretty good health. Well, sadly I was mistaken because I just suffered
a heart attack. What? Yes, that is exactly what I thought. How could this happen? I go to the gym
a couple times of week, eat pretty well, and am physically active all year
round. Sure, I was being treated for a cholesterol problem, but nowadays who
isn’t? The CDC reports that a
third of all Americans suffer from high cholesterol. So I wasn’t alone.
But yet...
I was plowing the recent snowfall
when I felt a tightening in my chest.
It was bitter cold, so I naturally thought that was reason. I went in, sat down and it went away. But the rest of the day I felt
kind of off. I had, what I thought, was a lot of indigestion; some mild
discomfort under my breastbone. Annoying, but not too serious. That afternoon, I took a nap, woke up
and wasn’t too hungry for dinner.
That was a warning sign to my wife, who know I have a pretty good
appetite. As the evening wore on,
the symptoms got worse. The chest
pain would come and go, each time getting a little worse. I consulted with Dr. Internet and wasn’t
really convinced. I didn’t have pain
radiating down my arm, I wasn’t sweating, and I didn’t feel nauseous. About 8 o’clock the pain suddenly got severe. So severe that I couldn’t breath. I
took some aspirins just in case and got dressed. Now the pain was excruciating and we called an ambulance. They arrived, hooked me up to an EKG machine. The results were somewhat
puzzling. The readout said no
heart attack. They transported me
to Middlesex Hospital. I was
wheeled into the ER and was immediately set upon, and interviewed by a bunch of
nurses and techs. More EKG patches
were attached to me. More EKG’s
were taken and still no indication of a heart attack. I was then taken to the Cardiac Care Unit. The doctor in charge came in and
discussed the possibility that it was simply an esophageal spasm. Now that was something I could wrap my
head around because I still could not believe that I could be having a heart
attack. That was until the pain
started coming in faster and faster waves. When they describe the feeling as an elephant sitting on
your chest, they are not freaking kidding. It was a pain that was positively the worst I had ever experienced. Intense, crushing, debilitating pain. I was screaming and writhing in anguish. The entire cardiac team was in the
room, taking blood samples, more EKG patches and readings, nitroglycerine and
finally morphine. The EKG tech and
the cardiologist were having a pow-wow and I could tell that they weren’t
discussing the NFL playoff picture or the current cold snap. The cardiologist looked at me, smiled
sweetly, and in her beautiful Barbadian accent informed me that, yes, indeed, I
was having a heart attack. This did nothing to diminish the
pain. Now panic set in. Heart attack. People die from heart attacks. People are disabled from heart attacks. I’m looking at this room full of
strangers and thinking, “So these are the last people that I’m going to see on
this earth. Could they have at least brought up a couple of scantily clad
women?” Oi Vai! They stabilized me, gave me more
morphine and transported me to Hartford Hospital, where they had an emergency
cardiac catheter team ready and raring to go.
We roll into the hospital and
they take me to the “cath” unit. I
am immediately stripped of my clothes, and two ladies, whom it never met
before, pull out disposable razors and immediately start to manscape my
junk. Afterwards, when I checked
out their handiwork, it appeared they gave me something of a porn star design. I
don’t know if that was by design or some sort of cruel revenge for getting them
out of bed three o’clock in the morning.
Kinda creepy, and very itchy
to be quite honest. Ladies, I don’t
know how you do it. They inserted a balloon through my groin, inflated it in
the affected artery and installed a stent. Forty-five minutes later we are done. I’m wheeled into the intensive care
unit, slapped with more EKG patches, stuck with IV needles, and tucked into
bed.
And what a bed it was. To avoid bedsores, hospitals now have
anti-decubitus (pressure sores) mattresses. They have this wave-like action that continuously moves to
prevent pressure points. Yeah,
that’s all well and good, but this “wave action” literally moved me from the
head of the bed to having my feet dangling over the edge. As soon as I got
comfortable, it shifted again. ALL
NIGHT LONG!!! The nurses
would haul me back to the head of the bed and as soon as they finished, I
“waved” myself back to the foot.
Needless to say, I didn’t get much sleep in the hospital.
When the cardiologist came to
visit, he looked my straight in the eye and said, “Mr. Scott, you are one lucky
man. There was no damage to your
heart. You’ve been given a second
chance!” When he said that, it was
as if, the clouds parted, nymphs started playing lutes and lyres, and unicorns
gaily leaped over rainbows.
I spent the next two days in the hospital being visited by an
assortment of doctors, nurses, techs, and aides. I was given pills and potions, stuck innumerable times and
fed the most God-awful food imaginable.
But, in the end I did walk out under my own power. And that is the bottom line, walking
out rather than being carried out.
As I recuperate, I have some time
to reflect upon this entire ordeal. A second chance. Not too many people get one of those. I’m a real good cook and usually eat
pretty healthy stuff, but I suppose that some of my more un-healthy habits have
to come to an end. No more
searching for the perfect burger.
No more snacking on cheese.
Bye-bye butter. Hello,
oatmeal. How ya’ doing no-fat? Salt? We don’t need no stinkin’ salt! Anyway the bottom line is, if you
have a pain in your chest, don’t consult Dr. Internet. Get your ass down to the hospital! Oh,
by the way, I ended up removing twenty-eight EKG patches from my arms, legs and
chest. And about three pounds of
hair from my chest. Ouch!
