Hospital Time

It wasn’t a big deal ... just cardiac issues of the electrical variety. The ER doctors, of course, made it sound like a big deal, with talk of “a-fib clots” that could cause a stroke or worse. The RVR, the Rapid Ventricular Response accompanying the a-fib, also concerned them. But then, it’s their job to be overly concerned. It took me an hour and a half in the waiting room before I could get to the back of the ER to a treatment room. The ER doctor ordered an infusion of Corvert which, she said, usually works pretty fast. It took another hour and a half for the Pharmacy to send down the Corvert.  But finally it arrived and the nurse infused it, and … nothing changed. I suggested a second bag, and they said they could do that, so they infused a second bag of Corvert. Still, no change. The ER doctor told the nurse attending me, “We’re keeping him.” They sent me to the fourth floor – the cardiac floor - and rolled my stretcher into a semi-private room. When I was settled into bed, they hooked up a cardizem drip to the IV line the ER doctor had put in my arm. They injected the first of several blood thinner shots into the side of my abdomen. It was all familiar; this was the third time I’d been to ER for this issue in 10 years, including twice since 2011.

I left the hospital today at noon. I should have mowed the grass yesterday at the latest, but at that time I was lying in a bed getting an echocardiogram and talking with the pretty, young, Indian sonographer. She grew up in India and moved to America after she was married. She said her husband was Indian and was from America. “So,” I mused, “she lived in India and married an Indian man living in America. Sounds like an arranged marriage.”

So I asked her, “Was your marriage arranged?”

“Yes,” she said. But they dated for a year before marriage so they could get to know each other. Arranged marriages are still popular in India, but she said that many people are marrying for love now. Like America in the Sixties, in India “the times they are a’changing.”

My roommate in the semi-private room was a good-natured 75 years-old-man named Donald. He had lived many years in New York City making sheet metal ductwork for HVAC systems. But he and his wife retired to Emporia, Virginia. Emporia is a small town in southern Virginia. His wife, I think, had had enough of the Big City. I don’t know why they chose Emporia, but the town is right on Interstate-95 not far from the North Carolina line. It’s got that small-town vibe, yet it isn’t hundreds of miles from nowhere.

Now it's 8:05 PM and I just finished mowing the front lawn. Heat index is 90° F but if I don’t mow it, it’s going to get too high. Now I'm trying to cool down before tackling the back yard. I'm sweating, red-faced, on the verge of heat-stroke ... maybe I’m too old to do this kind of stuff on the same day I get out of the hospital. Whew. Sweatin' like the proverbial mule.

In the hospital I ate a bland, "heart-healthy" diet, which, if I had to eat it full time, would be a fate worse than death. Eggs? Yes, but no salt. French fries? Not even without salt – too much fat. Potato salad? Sorry, not on the diet. Ketchup? Not on the list. And so on. So on the way home I stopped at King's BBQ and bought a large plate, minced, with fries and slaw. Best pork shoulder ever! Later, I went to Mickey D's and bought two hamburgers and a bag o' fries. Living dangerously, I doused the fries with ketchup. Take that, wimpy hospital food!  Tomorrow I’ll resume my healthy veggie diet.

I had intended to mow the back yard today, but before I could get cooled down enough to resume mowing, there came a knocking on my front door. It was my neighbor, Sally. She wanted to chat. So we chatted until the daylight was gone. Then I went inside, showered, and sat down at my ‘puter to write this blog post.

And for now, all I can say is: be very thankful if you’re not lying in a hard, lumpy, hospital bed, with cold air blowing on you from the vent above you in the overly air-conditioned room, being jabbed with needles and subject to other small tortures of the modern health care system, virtually wired into your bed with EKG leads, peeing into a bottle so your evil overlords can measure and chart everything that goes in or out of your body, while listening to the totally lame TV show your roommate is enjoying on the other side of the privacy curtain. Be very thankful.