Pulling into
the drop off loop in front of the A and E doors, Don parks off to the side and
out of the way. Before the driver’s side door is even closed, a security guard is
sure to tell Don to move the car asap. (Now, I get that the loop needs be kept clear for emergencies, but, umm, I am the emergency at this point, yes?
Back off dude. I could die at any
second.)
I check in
only to wait a short five minutes while the hoodlum in triage gets his arm
wrapped, his saggy-panted (trousered) friends loitering in the door, enjoying
the show.
My name is
then called and I go in alone, since my dearly beloved is still outside
properly parking the bloody car. (Sorry car. It’s not your fault.)
Mr. Triage
asks a few questions, types a few notes and immediately does an ECG. (Which comes
back normal.)
“Are you
always this pale?” Mr. Triage asks. Umm...I can’t see my face {when I’m with
you.} (Actually, that would’ve made such a better lyric, yes? At least it makes
more sense even if lacking in poetics.) So that’s a tricky one. Am I more pale
than my usual pale self? Where is Don when you need him. Oh right...the car.
I did have
some concern for Mr. Triage as his breath is more laboured than mine had been
at the peak of the whole fiasco. Out of shape? Asthma attack? Heart attack?? This line of thinking
might border on oversensitivity or even paranoia, but I feel for the guy. With a quick phone call a wheelchair is ordered (for
me, in case you too are concerned for him) and Mr. Triage opens the door so we
will know when it arrives to whisk me away for the test.
Here’s where
it gets a little weird. Piecing together what Don witnessed in the waiting room,
(Yes, he was back from the oh-so-important car parking.) and my perspective
from inside the room, we still can’t conclude the why as to what happened next. A mother, father and a four or five
year old son had checked in and were told to wait for triage. The second the
door opens, with me sitting inside waiting for my wheelchair, the three of them
move into the doorway totally blocking it and just stand there, staring at me
for the next four or five minutes. They do not glare. They stare. I stare back.
Umm...I just had a heart attack
people. BACK OFF. (Okay, it’s four a.m. Give me a break.) Even Mr. Triage is
shocked to see them there as he peeks around his desk to see what is going on. A
teensy bit of satisfaction may cross
my face as my wheelchair arrives and this little family of three have to move
out of the way. As I am whisked away I can’t help myself. I meet Mom’s eyes,
silently gloating that my case is serious.
After the
driver wheels me backwards to my
curtained-off room (insert motion sickness here), we arrive to see two chairs
and a bed. We sit in the chairs. Why did you not get on the bed, you ask? A
nurse walking by asks that same question until I simply lift my arm and point to
the bare, unmade bed. To her credit, she promptly gets the disinfectant spray,
wipes it down and makes it up with (hopefully?) fresh linens. (This is where I
point out that hospitals can be one of the most dangerous places for sick
people with all the viruses floating about - yet another reason not to rush in
unless absolutely necessary.)
I climb up
onto the bed. (The word bed is a
little deceiving, as that would imply some level of comfort.) But I have to
admit, so far the staff have done everything right. (Minus the backward
wheeling.) I got in immediately. Triage took me seriously. An ECG was done. And
the bed was quickly made. After many an emergency room visit, this one
impressed, so far.
A nurse or lab
tech arrived within half an hour, inserted a line in my arm and took four vials
of blood. Then she said, “This could get messy. I have to take a vial of
blood.” Umm...you just took four already. Did you think I didn’t notice? And
why would number five be messy? Regardless, the last vial, a different shape
being longer and narrower than the others, did not cause a mess and she assured
me it would all be sent to the lab immediately. Results would return within an
hour or two and then the doctor would see me and decide what came next.
Absent of
working wifi, I decide to try and get some shuteye while we wait. Always in
some level of pain in the night, this just wasn’t happening – not with the
lights, noise and the non bed-like bed.
Still I try. I
close my eyes. My thoughts turn to pancakes. Yes, my pillow is but a flat
pancake, void of maple syrup or Nutella. Now I can’t stop thinking about
Nutella.
My blood test
results are returned and hung on the wall to taunt. Is my heart okay? What will
the test have shown?
Two hours
later a doctor appears to discuss my case.
“Describe the
headache to me. How long did it last? What were you doing when it started?”
I answer,
adding the list of other symptoms that occured.
“You may have
burst a blot clot in your head. We call this venous thrombosis. We may need to
do a CT scan. I will discuss this with the consultant on duty. First though,
let’s do some neurological testing.”
Umm, okay.
I follow her
finger with my eyes. I keep both arms raised in the air. I push against her
palms. I pass all the neurological tests.
“Okay, so I
will just go and speak with the consultant and he will decide if you need
further testing.”
“Sure, but
wait,” I say. “What about the heart blood test? Is it normal?”
“Oh, we didn’t
do that test. It doesn’t look like it was ordered.”
I turn my head
and meet Don’s eyes. She did not just
say they didn’t do the test.
“Umm, I have
had type 1 diabetes for 32 years and came in with symptoms of a heart attack
and you didn’t do the test?”
“Well, I’ll
check again but I don’ think it was ordered.” She walks away to talk with the
consultant.
A silent and
invisible question mark stands tall like a statue between Don and I as we wait
for the doctor to return.
The curtain
pulls back and she reappears with their conclusion. No CT is necessary and no
need for the test to be ordered.
For the sake
of rationing words, I will just tell you this. For the next 10 minutes or so a
debate came to life as to whether the test should have been done, based on
symptoms and my risk of a cardiac incident due to the diabetes. Apparently, I
am too young and too healthy to have
a heart attack? This conclusion was drawn after no questions as to my history
of high blood pressure, high cholesterol, and after giving the list of multiple
serious complications from the diabetes. Hey, I love the idea of being at low risk
for heart disease, but seriously?! AND YOU TOOK FIVE VIALS OF MY BLOOD.
We left the
hospital with mixed emotions. Was I probably fine? Yes. Could they have ruled
out anything serious? Yes. Did they? No.
Knowing we had
an appointment with an amazing specialist the very next day (for other
reasons), we knew we could get an honest opinion as to whether we were we right
in going in and should they have done the
test and could it still be done.
His answers
went like this: Yes we did the right thing. Yes, they absolutely should have
done the test, (when in fact, almost
everyone who walks through the door gets the
test) and sadly, yes, I am at a higher risk than the average person for
heart attack. (An atypical one, thanks to the Betes.) And without a baseline
from the time of the incident, a test at this point would not give us a
comparison, thus telling us nothing.
We missed the
window.
At the close
of this discussion, the advice we received was this: If you get these symptoms
again, go in and present your
symptoms.
“As in, clutch
my chest and throw myself on the ground, writhing in pain?”
“Correct.”
Message
received.
