I don’t usually get this personal in my blog posts, but this incident still causes the anger to bubble up from deep inside whenever I let myself think about it. So this really is a form of catharsis for me, and hopefully a cautionary tale for all of you. (And probably a welcome departure from my recent focus on what’s been happening in Russia.)

To begin with, let me assure all of my old friends and my newer blog readers and FB friends that I am absolutely fine — everything worked out okay. But it took three full days to determine that that was the case, when it could — and should — have been resolved in a few hours.

It all started on Sunday evening, right after dinner. I had opted for a light meal: a slice of my favorite quiche, followed by a piece of fruit for dessert (trying to cut back on the sweets). When the pain hit, it hit like the proverbial ton of bricks. As background, I do have that all-too-common condition known as acid reflux, plus a hiatal hernia, and I’m accustomed to some after-eating discomfort from time to time. But this was bad — really, really bad — and it felt different from the usual. To the point where I wasn’t completely sure I wasn’t having a heart attack. So I did the sensible thing: I had my family call 9-1-1.

The EMTs were great. They brought in their portable EKG machine, and everything there was normal. So, not wanting to spend the rest of the night in the emergency room, I decided not to go to the hospital, but to tough it out. Less than an hour later, I regretted that decision, because the pain just got worse, and I called for the ambulance to come back and take me to the ER after all. Unfortunately, that’s not a short ride (about 30 miles) from where I live, but we made it. It was then about 1:00 a.m. on Monday.

And this was where the fun really began. It all started out fairly normally. I was seen right away, and put into a rather odd little room waa-a-y down at the end of, and around the corner from, the very large and very busy Emergency Department. Not a regular, roomy, well-equipped room, but a little shared space, divided from another patient by a curtain, and containing only an EKG monitor, a blood pressure gauge, and a TV. My vitals were checked, my information was taken, an IV lead was inserted in one arm, a nice young doctor came in to talk to me for two minutes, and about a gallon (well, maybe not that much) of blood was drained from my body. And then I was left alone.

So there I was, immobilized and wondering whether I was going to die before anyone figured out what was wrong. If my son hadn’t been with me, I don’t know what would have happened. He is a very smart, knowledgeable and assertive guy, but even his attempts to get things moving didn’t help. The nurses — all of whom were very pleasant and apologetic for the delays — were clearly stretched thin that night. But eventually I was told, by a different doctor (we’ll call her Dr. Smith), that she was my attending physician and would be ordering an abdominal CT scan and a nuclear stress test. That sounded fine to me.

It took a while, but all of the people in both departments were efficient and attentive, and eventually the tests were done. So things seemed to be looking up. But by the time the second procedure — the nuclear stress test — was completed, it was about 10:00 a.m. on Monday! We were already nine hours in. And what had been happening during all those in-between hours?

Practically nothing.

Oh, I was given a liquid medication “to line the stomach,” a couple of chewable aspirin in case the problem was with my heart, and an offer of morphine for the pain. But by the time that happened, the pain had eased considerably, so I refused the morphine because I didn’t want to mask the symptoms (why didn’t they think of that?) . . . and I knew it would just have put me to sleep for the next two days, because that’s the way I react to that stuff.

My son was exhausted by this time, and with only a hard wooden chair to sit on, he wasn’t able to really sleep. Even though it was miserably uncomfortable, he did manage to doze off a couple of times, but just briefly. Once the cafeteria opened at 7:00 a.m., I sent him off to get some breakfast . . . and, later, his lunch. Since all of my tests had been completed by then, I was allowed to eat and was actually brought a decent lunch around noon, which — by some miracle — I was able to digest without further pain.

And still we waited. And waited. And waited some more. The nurses continued to promise that a doctor would be coming “soon” — but neither Dr. Smith nor any other physician ever made an appearance. My son even walked the entire length and breadth of the ER in search of a doctor — any doctor — but without success. If there were any in the area, they must have been attending to other patients, but they never showed their faces where he could see them.

By this time, I was feeling just fine. But I had no test results, and no indication of what had actually caused all that earlier pain. And by 2:00 p.m., I had talked it over with my son, and I made the decision that we were getting out of there, with or without a diagnosis. When I told a nurse of my intention, I fully expected that that would rouse someone into action. But it didn’t. The response was a very pleasant “All right,” upon which I was unplugged from the machines, and the IV lead was removed from my arm and a gauze pad taped over the hole. The nurse then left the room . . . just before my arm started oozing blood all over the bed.

You see, I take a prescribed blood thinner (the reason is not relevant here). That information was on the record, but I’m not sure how many of the bevy of nurses had the time to notice that. So I hollered, as loudly as I could, “Bleeding! I need help here!” And a nurse — along with my son, who had stepped out to stretch his legs — came running. The nurse applied pressure and stopped the bleeding, covered the area again, and left me with some extra gauze pads and tiny little alcohol wipes. I was on my own once more, and had to clean myself up as best I could. The bloody sheets were their problem.

And then it was time to leave. I was given a few sheets of papers containing no substantive information — not the normal discharge packet; a wheelchair and driver were brought in; and I was sent on my way. I did not sign out “against medical advice.” I just left. No doctor ever formally released me, and I had been given no test results. It was 3:00 p.m.; we had been on this journey for some 14 hours; and we were both livid.

*. *. *

By a lucky coincidence, I had a routine check-up appointment scheduled with my principal physician the following day. In preparation for that, I tried my best to get the record of the hospital visit from the patient portal, but that didn’t work either. The hospital was supposed to have sent me an email with the link to sign onto the portal, but it never came. So I found the hospital’s website and tried to sign on that way, but I kept getting a response that my information (name, date of birth, and Social Security number) didn’t match their information. Once again, I had ceased to exist.

So when I told my doctor the whole sordid story on Tuesday, she was predictably shocked and appalled. But she couldn’t access my information directly, and I signed an authorization for her to obtain it by fax. I then spent the entire rest of that day and half of the next, trying to reach someone at the hospital who could help me get into the portal. By late Wednesday afternoon, it finally worked. And, as I said in the beginning of this overly long diatribe, I’m just fine — it was not heart-related. It seems to have been just the old hiatal hernia gone batshit.

*. *. *

Today is Friday, and the last word from my doctor was that she had received about half of the record, and had re-requested the remainder. In the meantime, I’m trying to figure out how to transmit what I have to her, without having to provide my login and password to her office. So, although I can see the hospital reports, I still need her analysis and conclusions. Maybe by Monday . . .

*. *. *

So there you are. Take from my story what you will: write it off as a one-time aberration, or a caution not to resort to the ER unless you are two steps away from death. Or, perhaps, as just the ravings of a madwoman. To me, it’s a clear indication that, when my time does come, I’m most likely going to die at home. At least I’ll be comfortable, and not full of holes.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
8/26/23