My Brush With Death
Or, Growing Ever Older and Crankier
I try to be proactive with my health. I think I look good and feel fairly good for my age. There are many reasons for striving to maintain good health besides wanting to appear cool and hip and economically well off enough to shop for organically grown produce and free range fowl and antibiotic-less meat at Plum Market. I will jump on my treadmill three to five days a week, not so I can fit into size small yoga pants so I can shake my tiny behind while I practice my come-hither look (I’m joking here, folks), but because I know that at my age, fitness is a plus.
One reason for the fit kick is that I want to live to 109 so that whatever ‘inheritance’ for my children will be depleted. Sounds selfish, but they should bust ass for whatever they get just as my husband and I have. Both my parents have had bad hearts. My mother died from her first coronary at the ripe young age of 58, so I’m hypersensitive about cholesterol levels and high blood pressure. I don’t want to go the way she did — alone, in the middle of the night, and as complete surprise. She passed so quickly, she didn’t have a chance to tell the paramedics what was wrong with her. Oh, hell no, I can’t go yet. I’ve got a list of Things to Do that is longer than both arms.
Besides, I do not like IVs, I despise having blood drawn, shots…um, no. I will do anything and everything to avoid going to the doctor/hospital.
But I am old, and things do happen.
This past weekend found me at the emergency room at Beaumont Hospital. My lower right face became novocaine numb, and my right hand up to my mid-forearm was as tingly as if someone had hit my elbow as hard as they could with a baseball bat. I could barely speak and I couldn’t write with pen and paper, and forget about typing. So I quickly finished my work and drove myself to the hospital.
The day before, the symptoms were such that I was concerned enough to text my bestie who is also a nurse. She ran me through the basic questions:
I’m over 60 years old. I do know my body well enough to realize when something isn’t right, and widespread tingling is definitely not a normal condition. My doctor’s office is not open on Saturdays and I figured I should skip phoning the office and asking the call center for advice when a major hospital is only three miles away. So I went.
Maintaining a preventative program of care is the best defense against admittance to the hospital. Because although they do excellent work and fulfill the needs of many, I do not like hospitals. I nearly broke out of this same hospital 29.5 years ago after a C-section, but a guard stopped me. I especially abhor emergency rooms. I’ve had my fill of ERs in the last two years, dealing with a couple of family members who have been chronically ill. I’ve been to San Francisco General so many times, I can now find it without a map. (My son knows all the nurses. That’s too many times visiting the ER. I like nurses, they are saints among us lowly humans, but I don’t want to intimately know any of them from prior visits.) I was stuck in the Beaumont ER long enough to witness a shift change. I had to be unplugged in order to go to the bathroom. I had no phone service so I couldn’t talk or text anyone, leaving my family members totally in the dark. When finally on a floor with windows (during a trip for my ECHO test), I hurriedly sent a text to my husband, at 4:30 p.m. — a good eight plus hours after I’d gotten to the ER. The hospital WiFi was weak and required me to log in every time I opened a page.
Can you say bored and disconnected? As well as frightened?
Hospitals have horrible food, and Beaumont is no exception. I’m also a “foodie” making my displeasure so much more pronounced. I made the mistake of accepting a plate of *meatloaf* and *gravy* and *broccoli* while still in the ER. (After six hours tethered to machines and having not eaten since the night before, I was hungry.) Big mistake. I’m not sure the *meat* was meat. Once admitted and in my room upstairs, I ordered chicken soup and chicken pot pie from their *room service* menu. Good lord. Second big mistake. Even worse than three star hotel room service.
I wised up at breakfast and went with food items that were simple and easy to choke down.
After many tests, including blood, X-ray, CAT scan, MRI, ECHO, arterial ultrasound, an EKG, and God knows what else, the consensus was (un)clear: It wasn’t a stroke. The doctors prescribed a high dose of Lipitor and daily baby aspirin and told me to go to my own doctor, or come back to the ER if symptoms worsen. They allowed my bruised body to go home (during a blizzard) Sunday afternoon. (YAY! I did a happy dance all the way to the parking garage.)
Um, okaaaaay…that’s a good thing that it wasn’t a stroke, but what was it? Because here it is, Wednesday afternoon and the symptoms still ebb and flow like a tide on a bipolar schedule. I’m good, then I’m tingly and unable to speak or hold a coffee cup. What was it? A mini stroke? An allergic reaction to my cortisone shot? Shingles?
I am minorly annoyed that teams full of specialists couldn’t pinpoint my problem, but I’m on the case. Next step, neurology, downtown Detroit, Henry Ford Hospital. Hopefully as an outpatient.
I hope these medical minds can figure it out before I get any crankier. Not that I don’t appreciate the skills and effort of the staff, doctors and nurses included. I would love for one of my children to marry someone nice with an MD after their surname. A doctor in the house would be handy for the next episode that is most likely to occur.
No, my foul mood has more to do with my body failing me and less to do with the pitfalls of modern medicine and the fact that our insurance is crappy at best. Think about it, a person feels so much better just having a name for whatever ails them. At least if they narrow it down, it will be so much easier to research on the Internet.
Of course, I’m thankful Beaumont is nothing like this. Poor soul…
Joanne Huspek lives in the now-frozen tundra of Southeastern Michigan with her husband Brad, Boston terrier Millie, and the very bad orange tabby Purrby. In addition to writing, she enjoys cooking and creating twisted wire jewelry, which means her housekeeping skills are practically non-existent.
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