At The Hospital Part 3 - Indignities, Insults, An Angiogram, and Bring on the Salt!

First thing Monday morning, two ambulance people came in and wheeled my roomie out for her trip to Vancouver for her angiogram, and a couple of hours later my turn came. I was heading for New Westminster for my adventure ... I mean angiogram. After a few days stuck in a hospital ward, it was nice to feel rain on my face, to tell the truth. (And when I said stuck in a ward, I meant it. When the fam came to visit the day before, which was Sunday, I decided I would walk down to the main floor with them - who knows, I may even have smuggled in a couple of packs of salt from the cafeteria - but as soon as the elevator left our floor, something on me began to beep. Seems like the little portable heart monitor was warning the cardio staff there was an escapee ... so I had to elevate myself back up to the fourth floor before they sent out the swat team.)

However, here I was in the ambulance, with a guy from the same ward who was heading to the same place for almost the same thing - he was going for angioplasty, which was the insertion of these little stent thingies that stretch your blocked arteries open again so they could once again be used for blood transportation. Seems he had come to the hospital as a heart attack patient the week before, and had already 'been there, done that' regarding the trip to New West - he already had 5 stents shoved up his arm, and was on the way for 5 more.

After we got to the ward, all we basically had to do was lie on our uncomfortable beds and wait for our turn. A few nurses stopped by to do a bit o this'n'that - one of them filled out a chart for me.

'Your height?'

'5' 3"' (Well, I used to be 5'3". I don't think I quite make it anymore, but I was pretty sure they wouldn't measure me. And since I was lying down, she should have been more clear and asked for my length. That would probably have been 5' 3" anyway, as I was pretty much stretched out from head to toe.)

But here comes the zinger ....

'Your weight?'

'170'

'Is that pounds or kilograms?'

Okay. It's not like my butt was overhanging the bed on both sides. Do you realize how many pounds 170 kgs are? Well, we're talking about 374lbs, 12.574oz. And yes, I meant pounds.

And to add to my indignity, here comes a gal with a razor. Now I knew this 'procedure' was going to take place through my right wrist ... however, she informed me that if that wasn't going to work, they would use the artery in the front of my leg right where it joins the torso ... try not to picture it, please. I felt like telling her to buzz off, but figured she had the upper call.

And finally, off I go on a stretcher, wearing absolutely nothing except a stupid hospital gown and a blanket. Oh yes, and a pair of socks. I guarantee you would never see such an outfit on a Paris catwalk ....

The waiting room for the 'procedure' was cold - more paperwork, more waiting. The guy they had just brought out had been told his blockages were too severe for angioplasty - he was headed for open heart surgery. He said the angioplasty was a 'piece of cake.' He obviously had big fat arteries.

And now my turn. I was looking forward to the sedative they promised me - memories of long ago D&Cs came back. The nice nurses in these hospital wards would give you a shot of something, and as you were wheeled to the OR, you were floating on a sea of clouds, your arms and legs feeling like sea anemones in a warm, calm sea.

And then, once you hit the operating table, you were told to count backwards from 100 ... and about 98 or so you were out cold. Oh those were the days!

However, I scootch over on the table, surrounded by all these machines and computers and people, and a nurse comes over with a needle. She pops it in through my IV, and tells me it's the strongest dose. I just lay there waiting ... waiting ... waiting. In fact, I'm still waiting, and that was over a month ago. Now comes the little doctor, who sits beside my right arm, which is waiting on its own little table thingie. He gives my poor little wrist a shot that just about causes my whole body to elevate at least 5" off the table - this was supposed to be a needle to deaden pain, not cause a whole amount of it. It did its job in what I felt was at least 20 minutes, but was probably a shorter elapse of time.

I felt him poking about - and then heard words you never want to hear when your lying on an operating table.

'I'm going to need a scalpel.'

WHEN in God's name was that drug gonna work????

But that wasn't the worst part. I don't like to think of the feeling of that catheter being pushed inch by inch up inside my arm. The closest thing I can think off to describe it was trying to shove a wiener inside a piece of limp spaghetti. And not giving up. However, once that thing reached my upper arm, I couldn't feel its progress any more, and all of a sudden .... I got the Oh My God I Peed The Bed Feeling.

My nurse had warned me of this. She told me when they injected the dye up the catheter, it would feel like I peed the bed. And though I'm not one who usually wets the bed, I know now what it would feel like.

(I was in bed when my water broke when I went into labour with Steve. My only regret regarding this - that Howard wasn't also in bed.)

Anyway, this was when they told me I had a beautiful heart, so I did get a big smug, even though now I had a hole in my artery, and didn't really feel like going dancing.

Next was a Don't Move That Arm period of time, when a nurse would come along with a needle of some sort, and I do believe draw blood out of whatever thing they had wrapped around my wrist. I didn't really feel like asking or looking - and after a few hours, the ambulance drivers showed up again, this time to take me home... I mean, back to Surrey General.

Nurse said, 'Now, keep that hand still for at least 24 hours - from now on we treat it like a fracture.'

A nice paramedic took my poor hand and laid it on my chest.

'There,' he said, 'leave it over your heart.'

'But ... but ....', I spluttered. 'I won't be able to text.'

I think they thought I was joking. But I wasn't.

The next morning, the cardiologist came in, and started laughing when he saw me.

'You were right,' he said, 'no blockages.'

I love these words, no matter who says them. After the word APPROVED  on the debit card machine, they're the best words in the English language.

So ... the next day I got to go home. Someday, they'll find out what went wrong, and hopefully fix it. Until then, I'll just keep the number for 911 close at hand.