Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Of hiccups, zombies & mint chocolate chip
I took in my surroundings, although a bit difficult since my surroundings wouldn't stop spinning. The signs on the door admonished me to keep my cell phone off, keep the door closed, and to not dare leave before Nurse Ratchet gave her permission.
On my left was a wall chart depicting various stages of eye disease. Staring back at me was a line of progressively worsening red and festering eyeballs. I wondered what zombie volunteered for the photo shoot. That had to be a creepy casting call.
Classic rock boomed from the overhead. "Sugar (ba-da-bum-bum bump-bum) oooohh honey, honey (ba-da-bum-bum bump-bum) you are my candy girrrrl...." Archies. Nineteen and sixty nine.
I checked out the drawers in the exam table. Nothing but cotton gowns and towels. I leaned my head back against the hard wall, closed my eyes and waited.
Nurse Ratchet arrived. I was weighed and BP'd. I gave her the synopsis of why I was there - weird episode of dizziness, clammy and general malaise that took longer to subside than usual. Oh, yeah, and there was this heart skipping thing.
"Ok, the doctor'll be in in a minute." Ratchet closed the door. I was alone again. The minute turned into several. I leaned my head back once more, closed my eyes and commenced with the "what ifs..."
I thought back to the conversation at brunch. "You are all in my ICE list," I'd announced.
"Ice?" queried friend Mark. "In Case of Emergency list," Norman answered. "You're in my list, too." I pulled out my i-Phone and showed Mark how I'd organized the list to be at the top of the contact list.
The conversation progressed to who had wills, living wills, executor's or not. We thoroughly covered the topic with a healthy amount of humor - har, har, as if any of that's gonna be needed any time soon.
Then I got dizzy. Real dizzy. Dizzier even than what's appropriate for a blonde. And clammy. And there was that heart skipping thing. George Clooney was no where to be seen, so it was skipping for another, more sinister reason I was sure.
I'm no stranger to dizziness. My mother and I shared the affliction of BPV - benign positional vertigo. We were in good company. Mamie Eisenhower suffered from it and was even accused of being an alcoholic because of it.
When it strikes, I will have days where walking into walls isn't unusual or I will have very brief spells of intense dizziness.
But this episode was different. The longer it went on, the more difficult it became to convince myself it was nothing. Finally, the indecision was taken out of my hands.
"We're going to the urgent care clinic. Now."
The doc appeared at last. He was affable and informative. He peered into my ears and throat, listened to my heart and my arteries. Good news - no unusual sounds. He queried me on my malaise, general health, et al, then surmised that it was most likely an inner ear thing, buuuut because there was that heart skipping thing, an ECG would probably be a good idea along with a blood panel.
I was left alone, sitting on the edge of the exam table, to wait again. A large, bearded man came in and announced he was there to stick me. Oh boy. A phlebotomist who's a comedian.
I bared the good arm for him - the one with a nice bulging vein. This guy certainly wasn't new school. No pillow on which to rest my arm... didn't glove up... had a nasty nail-biting habit... sported a gaudy gold ring... and just before sticking me says:
"The pointy end goes down, right?"
Take my blood. Please.
Next came the ECG with Ratchet. No nonsense - strip, exam gown on open in front, lie back, get ten electrodes stuck to various body parts and areas.... ECG done, she removes the hookups and instructs me to remove the electrodes myself.
"There's ten of them." I do as instructed, dress, and wait again.
It occurs to me that in the between times, the time waiting for nurse, blood-sucker and physician, I could have died several times. Oh, well.
I started to wonder about hospitals. The part of the earlier "what-ifs" I avoided. I wondered if I'd be able to go home first. Shower. Change my underwear...
The doc returned, ECG printout in hand and begins to explain it. Good news, it wasn't a flat line. Not so good news, there was a hiccup. In one four count bar, my heart fired too early. Percussion was never my strong suit.
"Not unusual, blah, blah, blah, noise, words, not listening anymore... .... .... but you should follow up with your doctor next week for sure."
"Will do," I promised.
I paid the piper then greeted my friends who'd waited it out - about an hour or so - in the appropriately named waiting room. I informed them I wasn't dead yet and actually was feeling better. Which I was.
Mark said something about ice-cream which resulted in a caravan to Target for some cold-stone ice cream. I love my friends.
The really disturbing thing about my little episode, is now when I hear "Sugar, Sugar" on the radio, it conjures up images of puss-filled eyeballs bulging from a large hairy man with a fist full of hypodermic needles cracking bad jokes.
"You are my candy girrrl - and you got me wanting you... heh, heh, heh....."
Make it stop.
On my left was a wall chart depicting various stages of eye disease. Staring back at me was a line of progressively worsening red and festering eyeballs. I wondered what zombie volunteered for the photo shoot. That had to be a creepy casting call.
Classic rock boomed from the overhead. "Sugar (ba-da-bum-bum bump-bum) oooohh honey, honey (ba-da-bum-bum bump-bum) you are my candy girrrrl...." Archies. Nineteen and sixty nine.
I checked out the drawers in the exam table. Nothing but cotton gowns and towels. I leaned my head back against the hard wall, closed my eyes and waited.
Nurse Ratchet arrived. I was weighed and BP'd. I gave her the synopsis of why I was there - weird episode of dizziness, clammy and general malaise that took longer to subside than usual. Oh, yeah, and there was this heart skipping thing.
"Ok, the doctor'll be in in a minute." Ratchet closed the door. I was alone again. The minute turned into several. I leaned my head back once more, closed my eyes and commenced with the "what ifs..."
I thought back to the conversation at brunch. "You are all in my ICE list," I'd announced.
"Ice?" queried friend Mark. "In Case of Emergency list," Norman answered. "You're in my list, too." I pulled out my i-Phone and showed Mark how I'd organized the list to be at the top of the contact list.
The conversation progressed to who had wills, living wills, executor's or not. We thoroughly covered the topic with a healthy amount of humor - har, har, as if any of that's gonna be needed any time soon.
Then I got dizzy. Real dizzy. Dizzier even than what's appropriate for a blonde. And clammy. And there was that heart skipping thing. George Clooney was no where to be seen, so it was skipping for another, more sinister reason I was sure.
I'm no stranger to dizziness. My mother and I shared the affliction of BPV - benign positional vertigo. We were in good company. Mamie Eisenhower suffered from it and was even accused of being an alcoholic because of it.
When it strikes, I will have days where walking into walls isn't unusual or I will have very brief spells of intense dizziness.
But this episode was different. The longer it went on, the more difficult it became to convince myself it was nothing. Finally, the indecision was taken out of my hands.
"We're going to the urgent care clinic. Now."
The doc appeared at last. He was affable and informative. He peered into my ears and throat, listened to my heart and my arteries. Good news - no unusual sounds. He queried me on my malaise, general health, et al, then surmised that it was most likely an inner ear thing, buuuut because there was that heart skipping thing, an ECG would probably be a good idea along with a blood panel.
I was left alone, sitting on the edge of the exam table, to wait again. A large, bearded man came in and announced he was there to stick me. Oh boy. A phlebotomist who's a comedian.
I bared the good arm for him - the one with a nice bulging vein. This guy certainly wasn't new school. No pillow on which to rest my arm... didn't glove up... had a nasty nail-biting habit... sported a gaudy gold ring... and just before sticking me says:
"The pointy end goes down, right?"
Take my blood. Please.
Next came the ECG with Ratchet. No nonsense - strip, exam gown on open in front, lie back, get ten electrodes stuck to various body parts and areas.... ECG done, she removes the hookups and instructs me to remove the electrodes myself.
"There's ten of them." I do as instructed, dress, and wait again.
It occurs to me that in the between times, the time waiting for nurse, blood-sucker and physician, I could have died several times. Oh, well.
I started to wonder about hospitals. The part of the earlier "what-ifs" I avoided. I wondered if I'd be able to go home first. Shower. Change my underwear...
The doc returned, ECG printout in hand and begins to explain it. Good news, it wasn't a flat line. Not so good news, there was a hiccup. In one four count bar, my heart fired too early. Percussion was never my strong suit.
"Not unusual, blah, blah, blah, noise, words, not listening anymore... .... .... but you should follow up with your doctor next week for sure."
"Will do," I promised.
I paid the piper then greeted my friends who'd waited it out - about an hour or so - in the appropriately named waiting room. I informed them I wasn't dead yet and actually was feeling better. Which I was.
Mark said something about ice-cream which resulted in a caravan to Target for some cold-stone ice cream. I love my friends.
The really disturbing thing about my little episode, is now when I hear "Sugar, Sugar" on the radio, it conjures up images of puss-filled eyeballs bulging from a large hairy man with a fist full of hypodermic needles cracking bad jokes.
"You are my candy girrrl - and you got me wanting you... heh, heh, heh....."
Make it stop.
Posted at 3:18 PM | |
