On Sunday last I was just sitting at my laptop writing when I
had a spasm in my jaw. That’s not
unusual as I have TMJ, the result of a bicycle accident back when I was in college in which I went over the
handlebars and landed on my chin. Over
the years this has been controlled through wearing night-guards fitted to my
upper jaw, but I have also had spasms in that jaw at times. Usually they’re triggered by sinus congestion
or stress. They come on suddenly and the
pain is horrible for about ten to twenty minutes.
This time, however, the pain went down into my neck and across
my shoulders. I even felt it in my elbow
joints.
That had never happened before. Clearly something was wrong.
I drove myself to the emergency room and was checked in, had
blood drawn, a blood pressure cuff put on, and was given a nitroglycerin jell patch—as
a vaso-dilator to increase blood flow.
“This may cause a headache,” the nurse informed me.
It didn’t. I seem to
almost always not have the symptoms from medications that someone tells me I will
have.
After blood work was
done, nothing seemed wrong, except that
my ProTime level (associated with Coumadin, which I’ve taken since I had heart
surgery in 2002) was high at 4.0 instead of between 2.0 and 3.0. I’d had it test about a two weeks earlier and
it was perfect at 2.5.
Then, after a second test, I had a minimally elevated troponin
level, with an emphasis on “minimal.”
Troponin, however, is nothing to sneeze at, as it’s often the post-event
sign of a heart attack.
My family apparently has a history of heart issues. I had surgery to deal with an aortal
aneurysm—a not uncommon condition that can lead to aortal dissection and
death—and ended up with an artificial heart valve and a single by-pass. Aneurysms are an issue on my mother ‘s side
of the family, as my mom and an uncle in England both had surgeries for them.
This time things were far from clear. I was kept overnight and the next day I had a
CAT scan and an echo-cardiogram, neither of which apparently showed anything senior.
So I spent a second night in the hospital and the next day was injected with
radio-active tracer and had a gamma ray camera take shots of my heart. It’s hard to describe the experience of lying
flat on your back, arms over your head, and being raised to within an inch or
so of the massive camera, and then waiting as the camera moves slowly over you,
making various mechanical sounds. Those
were the “before” shots. I then was
given a drug that simulates what happens on a treadmill (without the endorphin
high that exercise gives you.) After that,
it was back to the camera, then to my hospital room to wait for the Dr. Chu,
the cardiologist.
When he arrived, he gave me one of those ambivalent
diagnoses: “Your tests are normal, just
not normal enough.”
Ah, the absoluteness of uncertainty.
So that meant a heart catheterization and possibly angioplasty
and a stint.
It also meant a long wait.
The procedure was roughly set for 7 a.m., but was then rescheduled for 1
p.m. So there I was, waiting and worrying,
but at least I was writing in my journal, something I once did virtually
religiously for about ten years, but haven’t done so for more than ten. Naturally I wrote about an incident in my
teens when my dad nearly drove us into a freight train. Ah, nothing helps you cope with a scary,
dangerous situation than recalling an ever more dangerous, potentially deadlier
incident from your past. The impeding
crisis pales in comparison as a result and makes it somehow easier to deal
with.
When I was at last wheeled down for the catheterization, it
was almost 1 p.m. Fortunately I’d been
given valium and Benadryl®. By now
I had grown use to being wheeled on a gurney all around the hospital—actually,
just a section called the “Tower.”
It was much colder in cath lab than the rest of the hospital. So the nurses covered me in a nice warm
blanket. The last time that had happened
was when I was being prepped for surgery in 2002.
I’d had a catheterization before, as a preliminary to the
heart surgery I had in 2002. That was in
the femoral artery in my groin, but this time the cardiologist, Dr. Chu, went
in through my left wrist. So there I
was, flat on my back, my left arm stretched out and covered with the all the
neat surgical stuff to focus the physician’s concentration.
The I was given a local anesthetic in the wrist, and a television
monitor was brought over my head so I could see the procedure—although as I
stared at the dark line that separated the top and bottom halves of the image I
could only think how much it looked like the red line at center ice on a hockey
rink.
After that, although was awake through the procedure, I can
recall nothing, as I was given an amnesial through my IV tube. Then the next thing I know I’m fully awake
and alert and being told the procedure was complete, and that I didn’t get a
tint because I didn’t need one. Instead,
it was to best treat with changes in my medications.
Great news, I suppose, but it didn’t explain my jaw pain. The cardiologist said he didn’t think it was
angina, but the hospitaler (doctor connected to my PCP) thought it was. In either case, my new meds were now to
include\sublingual nitroglycerin.
At this point I was certain I would get to go home. Except the air-filled plastic cuff on my
wrist had to be carefully removed by first using a syringe to remove the air in
increments 20 minutes apart. But when
the cuff was finally removed, a hematoma began to form at the incision
site. So the nurse put pressure on it,
which meant the cuff had to be refitted and refilled and the whole process
started all over again. That added
another couple of hours to my stay.
Nancy had come up to stay with me, despite her still having a
“boot” for her broken ankle. She’s hoped
we’d get to go home together, but no go.
So Nancy had the friend who brought her up to the hospital take her
home.
I, however, had to stay put.
In the crook of my arm I still had the IV, which was extraordinarily
painful.
Almost as pain were the sticky backed electrodes stuck to my
hairy chest so the transistor radio sized heart monitor hanging around my neck
could send data to the nurses’ station terminals. I have a very hairy chest. The sticky on some of the electrodes often
did not stick well to my skin, but extraordinarily well to the hairs themselves. Those that did not stick initially were held
down by strips of surgical tape.
Having them yanked off of my chest reminded of Steve Carrell
getting his chest waxed in “The 40-Year Old Virgin.”
Over the four days I had had many of these stickers removed
with a yank—mainly because no one seems to use the same leads on their heart
monitors and that required replacing the incompatible electrodes with other,
compatible ones. These were usually
larger and stronger adhesive. Often at
night they would be painfully torn off when I rolled over in the hospital
bed. The agony brought me rudely awake
and invariably set off an alert to the nurses’ station telling them one of
electrode leads was no longer connected.
The nurses then came in and used medical tape to hold the stickers back
in place and place more chest hairs in peril.
Let me say that no torture, not even water boarding, equals
the pain of having chest (and arm) hairs
ripped off repeatedly—and unexpectedly—several times a day.
On the plus side, it meant the nurses didn’t have to wake me
up to give me my medications as I was already alert. One positive aspect of being in the hospital was making friends with a really sweet Korean nursing assistant and with the phlebotomist, a bespectacled, talkative blonde from Colorado. She told me about the new needles the hospital was using for blood extraction, and before I knew it she had drawn the several vials she needed and I hadn't feel a thing. In fact, all the nurses went out of their way to be nice and friendly. Sort of made me feel handsome and attractive.
My rating: <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/695912224">5 of 5 stars</a><br /><br />
A fascinating and well argued book, Halttunen's work examines not just the attitudes, but the behaviors, of a critical generation in American history. She argues how the industrial and market revolutions and burgeoning new cities placed tremendous stress on American society and rather than accept or embrace these changes, many groups tried to adapt older views to maintain their older but increasing irrelevant values. <br /><br />While Haltunnen limits her study largely to the antebellum era, her ideas have fascinating implications for the rest of the nineteenth century and well into the twentieth. What she describes is an America that was essentially a nation of strangers where trust of others was essential, yet where it was also undermined because appearances dominated and the constant reinventing of one's self was a requirement for success. To counter the change, advice books appeared to advise rural youth on to recognize swindlers and jezebel, These volumes on building character and achieving material success while maintaining traditional virtues were precursors to "self-help books like Napoleon Hill's "Think and Grew Rich" and Dale Carnegies "How to Winn Friends," although with a stronger and more explicit Protestant moral veneer.<br /><br />Haltunnen also argues that while supposedly educating people on moral behavior, it also was being undermined by a society where success involved have some of the very con-men characteristics the books warn about.<br /><br />What is interesting to me, though, is how those advice books also eventually become virtual instruction manuals on how to impersonate the moral and virtuous person in order to better con your victims.
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<a href="https://www.goodreads.com/review/list/21099612-nigel-sellars">View all my reviews</a>
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