Seven, yes, seven firefighters arrived to wait with me until the ambulance arrived. The two ambulance drivers lifted me onto a gurney and off we went, eight blocks to the large, well respected hospital near my apt.
From the moment I entered it was a whirlwind of activity. The man in charge seemed most concerned about my heart. I directed him to take note (poor bastard) of my vomit, which my much concerned partner had placed in a small Tupperware container for future evaluation. (She, needing an electric wheel chair herself, had no way to go with me; besides we have a rule---one stays back to hold down the fort. And again, WINTER STORM.)
The leader of the pack of young scrubs with needles took a quick look at the treat I brought and asked, “You don’t want this back do you?” in a calm, low, seen-it-all, voice. Following my fast laugh and, “No,” he tossed it Tupperware and all in a “TOXIC” container.
He was a handsome man. Blue eyes to dive into, soft gray hair, and just enough facial lines to express wisdom and experience. I didn’t know at the time that he was a cardiologist. He planted himself on a chair in front of the bed I was on. (My entire 5 days there were all about big machines behind me, showing much “Diane” information, none “Diane” was privy to.) To wit: I clearly recall his name tag, used his name when joking with him and yet, when my partner called to check on me she was told a cardiologist by another name was attending to me; I received a bill from THAT unknown cardio, but I swear he never saw me.
Dr. Blue Eyes thought that although there might be a bit of blood (or perhaps not) in my gift, that the problem was my “tacking” heart. Apparently I presented with tachycardia, super fast heart rate. My heart rhythms were playing on a screen behind me---no Jazz, no Motown. So…Dr. Blue Eyes did what anyone would: he had the scrubs stop my heart. You heard me, STOPPED MY HEART, twice, a defibrillator stayed by my side for the next hour or so. The idea was to reboot me. It didn’t work.
This was followed by an EKG, EEG, ultrasounds, photos, a shot of something that makes you feel like you are about to die. To Dr. Blue Eyes credit, he did warn me I would feel that way but only briefly. My brain started shouting, "Diane! You are not asking enough questions." At one point a woman took my new (see previous post about the hell I went through to get that $%^& ID) and I kept thinking, "She better bring that back." (Nope, she didn't---another story.)
Yes, I kept telling everyone I had MS, but many had not a clue what that even meant.
Many lessons were taught to me in the ICU. Lesson #1 Whatever “specialist” is observing/testing you will believe your problem lies in his/her speciality. After a CAT scan of my heart, sonar something, MRI, and more blood draws than at Dracula’s Thanksgiving; my heart got the A-OK.
Next up: Let’s check her lungs.
TO BE CONTINUED
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Taking My Multiple Sclerosis to the ICU
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Seven, yes, seven firefighters arrived to wait with me until the ambulance arrived. The two ambulance drivers lifted me onto a gurney and off we went, eight blocks to the large, well respected hospital near my apt.
From the moment I entered it was a whirlwind of activity. The man in charge seemed most concerned about my heart. I directed him to take note (poor bastard) of my vomit, which my much concerned partner had placed in a small Tupperware container for future evaluation. (She, needing an electric wheel chair herself, had no way to go with me; besides we have a rule---one stays back to hold down the fort. And again, WINTER STORM.)
The leader of the pack of young scrubs with needles took a quick look at the treat I brought and asked, “You don’t want this back do you?” in a calm, low, seen-it-all, voice. Following my fast laugh and, “No,” he tossed it Tupperware and all in a “TOXIC” container.
He was a handsome man. Blue eyes to dive into, soft gray hair, and just enough facial lines to express wisdom and experience. I didn’t know at the time that he was a cardiologist. He planted himself on a chair in front of the bed I was on. (My entire 5 days there were all about big machines behind me, showing much “Diane” information, none “Diane” was privy to.) To wit: I clearly recall his name tag, used his name when joking with him and yet, when my partner called to check on me she was told a cardiologist by another name was attending to me; I received a bill from THAT unknown cardio, but I swear he never saw me.
Dr. Blue Eyes thought that although there might be a bit of blood (or perhaps not) in my gift, that the problem was my “tacking” heart. Apparently I presented with tachycardia, super fast heart rate. My heart rhythms were playing on a screen behind me---no Jazz, no Motown. So…Dr. Blue Eyes did what anyone would: he had the scrubs stop my heart. You heard me, STOPPED MY HEART, twice, a defibrillator stayed by my side for the next hour or so. The idea was to reboot me. It didn’t work.
This was followed by an EKG, EEG, ultrasounds, photos, a shot of something that makes you feel like you are about to die. To Dr. Blue Eyes credit, he did warn me I would feel that way but only briefly. My brain started shouting, "Diane! You are not asking enough questions." At one point a woman took my new (see previous post about the hell I went through to get that $%^& ID) and I kept thinking, "She better bring that back." (Nope, she didn't---another story.)
Yes, I kept telling everyone I had MS, but many had not a clue what that even meant.
Many lessons were taught to me in the ICU. Lesson #1 Whatever “specialist” is observing/testing you will believe your problem lies in his/her speciality. After a CAT scan of my heart, sonar something, MRI, and more blood draws than at Dracula’s Thanksgiving; my heart got the A-OK.
Next up: Let’s check her lungs.
TO BE CONTINUED
Seven, yes, seven firefighters arrived to wait with me until the ambulance arrived. The two ambulance drivers lifted me onto a gurney and off we went, eight blocks to the large, well respected hospital near my apt.
From the moment I entered it was a whirlwind of activity. The man in charge seemed most concerned about my heart. I directed him to take note (poor bastard) of my vomit, which my much concerned partner had placed in a small Tupperware container for future evaluation. (She, needing an electric wheel chair herself, had no way to go with me; besides we have a rule---one stays back to hold down the fort. And again, WINTER STORM.)
The leader of the pack of young scrubs with needles took a quick look at the treat I brought and asked, “You don’t want this back do you?” in a calm, low, seen-it-all, voice. Following my fast laugh and, “No,” he tossed it Tupperware and all in a “TOXIC” container.
He was a handsome man. Blue eyes to dive into, soft gray hair, and just enough facial lines to express wisdom and experience. I didn’t know at the time that he was a cardiologist. He planted himself on a chair in front of the bed I was on. (My entire 5 days there were all about big machines behind me, showing much “Diane” information, none “Diane” was privy to.) To wit: I clearly recall his name tag, used his name when joking with him and yet, when my partner called to check on me she was told a cardiologist by another name was attending to me; I received a bill from THAT unknown cardio, but I swear he never saw me.
Dr. Blue Eyes thought that although there might be a bit of blood (or perhaps not) in my gift, that the problem was my “tacking” heart. Apparently I presented with tachycardia, super fast heart rate. My heart rhythms were playing on a screen behind me---no Jazz, no Motown. So…Dr. Blue Eyes did what anyone would: he had the scrubs stop my heart. You heard me, STOPPED MY HEART, twice, a defibrillator stayed by my side for the next hour or so. The idea was to reboot me. It didn’t work.
This was followed by an EKG, EEG, ultrasounds, photos, a shot of something that makes you feel like you are about to die. To Dr. Blue Eyes credit, he did warn me I would feel that way but only briefly. My brain started shouting, "Diane! You are not asking enough questions." At one point a woman took my new (see previous post about the hell I went through to get that $%^& ID) and I kept thinking, "She better bring that back." (Nope, she didn't---another story.)
Yes, I kept telling everyone I had MS, but many had not a clue what that even meant.
Many lessons were taught to me in the ICU. Lesson #1 Whatever “specialist” is observing/testing you will believe your problem lies in his/her speciality. After a CAT scan of my heart, sonar something, MRI, and more blood draws than at Dracula’s Thanksgiving; my heart got the A-OK.
Next up: Let’s check her lungs.
TO BE CONTINUED
Seven, yes, seven firefighters arrived to wait with me until the ambulance arrived. The two ambulance drivers lifted me onto a gurney and off we went, eight blocks to the large, well respected hospital near my apt.
From the moment I entered it was a whirlwind of activity. The man in charge seemed most concerned about my heart. I directed him to take note (poor bastard) of my vomit, which my much concerned partner had placed in a small Tupperware container for future evaluation. (She, needing an electric wheel chair herself, had no way to go with me; besides we have a rule---one stays back to hold down the fort. And again, WINTER STORM.)
The leader of the pack of young scrubs with needles took a quick look at the treat I brought and asked, “You don’t want this back do you?” in a calm, low, seen-it-all, voice. Following my fast laugh and, “No,” he tossed it Tupperware and all in a “TOXIC” container.
He was a handsome man. Blue eyes to dive into, soft gray hair, and just enough facial lines to express wisdom and experience. I didn’t know at the time that he was a cardiologist. He planted himself on a chair in front of the bed I was on. (My entire 5 days there were all about big machines behind me, showing much “Diane” information, none “Diane” was privy to.) To wit: I clearly recall his name tag, used his name when joking with him and yet, when my partner called to check on me she was told a cardiologist by another name was attending to me; I received a bill from THAT unknown cardio, but I swear he never saw me.
Dr. Blue Eyes thought that although there might be a bit of blood (or perhaps not) in my gift, that the problem was my “tacking” heart. Apparently I presented with tachycardia, super fast heart rate. My heart rhythms were playing on a screen behind me---no Jazz, no Motown. So…Dr. Blue Eyes did what anyone would: he had the scrubs stop my heart. You heard me, STOPPED MY HEART, twice, a defibrillator stayed by my side for the next hour or so. The idea was to reboot me. It didn’t work.
This was followed by an EKG, EEG, ultrasounds, photos, a shot of something that makes you feel like you are about to die. To Dr. Blue Eyes credit, he did warn me I would feel that way but only briefly. My brain started shouting, "Diane! You are not asking enough questions." At one point a woman took my new (see previous post about the hell I went through to get that $%^& ID) and I kept thinking, "She better bring that back." (Nope, she didn't---another story.)
Yes, I kept telling everyone I had MS, but many had not a clue what that even meant.
Many lessons were taught to me in the ICU. Lesson #1 Whatever “specialist” is observing/testing you will believe your problem lies in his/her speciality. After a CAT scan of my heart, sonar something, MRI, and more blood draws than at Dracula’s Thanksgiving; my heart got the A-OK.
Next up: Let’s check her lungs.
TO BE CONTINUED
Seven, yes, seven firefighters arrived to wait with me until the ambulance arrived. The two ambulance drivers lifted me onto a gurney and off we went, eight blocks to the large, well respected hospital near my apt.
From the moment I entered it was a whirlwind of activity. The man in charge seemed most concerned about my heart. I directed him to take note (poor bastard) of my vomit, which my much concerned partner had placed in a small Tupperware container for future evaluation. (She, needing an electric wheel chair herself, had no way to go with me; besides we have a rule---one stays back to hold down the fort. And again, WINTER STORM.)
The leader of the pack of young scrubs with needles took a quick look at the treat I brought and asked, “You don’t want this back do you?” in a calm, low, seen-it-all, voice. Following my fast laugh and, “No,” he tossed it Tupperware and all in a “TOXIC” container.
He was a handsome man. Blue eyes to dive into, soft gray hair, and just enough facial lines to express wisdom and experience. I didn’t know at the time that he was a cardiologist. He planted himself on a chair in front of the bed I was on. (My entire 5 days there were all about big machines behind me, showing much “Diane” information, none “Diane” was privy to.) To wit: I clearly recall his name tag, used his name when joking with him and yet, when my partner called to check on me she was told a cardiologist by another name was attending to me; I received a bill from THAT unknown cardio, but I swear he never saw me.
Dr. Blue Eyes thought that although there might be a bit of blood (or perhaps not) in my gift, that the problem was my “tacking” heart. Apparently I presented with tachycardia, super fast heart rate. My heart rhythms were playing on a screen behind me---no Jazz, no Motown. So…Dr. Blue Eyes did what anyone would: he had the scrubs stop my heart. You heard me, STOPPED MY HEART, twice, a defibrillator stayed by my side for the next hour or so. The idea was to reboot me. It didn’t work.
This was followed by an EKG, EEG, ultrasounds, photos, a shot of something that makes you feel like you are about to die. To Dr. Blue Eyes credit, he did warn me I would feel that way but only briefly. My brain started shouting, "Diane! You are not asking enough questions." At one point a woman took my new (see previous post about the hell I went through to get that $%^& ID) and I kept thinking, "She better bring that back." (Nope, she didn't---another story.)
Yes, I kept telling everyone I had MS, but many had not a clue what that even meant.
Many lessons were taught to me in the ICU. Lesson #1 Whatever “specialist” is observing/testing you will believe your problem lies in his/her speciality. After a CAT scan of my heart, sonar something, MRI, and more blood draws than at Dracula’s Thanksgiving; my heart got the A-OK.
Next up: Let’s check her lungs.
TO BE CONTINUED
Seven, yes, seven firefighters arrived to wait with me until the ambulance arrived. The two ambulance drivers lifted me onto a gurney and off we went, eight blocks to the large, well respected hospital near my apt.
From the moment I entered it was a whirlwind of activity. The man in charge seemed most concerned about my heart. I directed him to take note (poor bastard) of my vomit, which my much concerned partner had placed in a small Tupperware container for future evaluation. (She, needing an electric wheel chair herself, had no way to go with me; besides we have a rule---one stays back to hold down the fort. And again, WINTER STORM.)
The leader of the pack of young scrubs with needles took a quick look at the treat I brought and asked, “You don’t want this back do you?” in a calm, low, seen-it-all, voice. Following my fast laugh and, “No,” he tossed it Tupperware and all in a “TOXIC” container.
He was a handsome man. Blue eyes to dive into, soft gray hair, and just enough facial lines to express wisdom and experience. I didn’t know at the time that he was a cardiologist. He planted himself on a chair in front of the bed I was on. (My entire 5 days there were all about big machines behind me, showing much “Diane” information, none “Diane” was privy to.) To wit: I clearly recall his name tag, used his name when joking with him and yet, when my partner called to check on me she was told a cardiologist by another name was attending to me; I received a bill from THAT unknown cardio, but I swear he never saw me.
Dr. Blue Eyes thought that although there might be a bit of blood (or perhaps not) in my gift, that the problem was my “tacking” heart. Apparently I presented with tachycardia, super fast heart rate. My heart rhythms were playing on a screen behind me---no Jazz, no Motown. So…Dr. Blue Eyes did what anyone would: he had the scrubs stop my heart. You heard me, STOPPED MY HEART, twice, a defibrillator stayed by my side for the next hour or so. The idea was to reboot me. It didn’t work.
This was followed by an EKG, EEG, ultrasounds, photos, a shot of something that makes you feel like you are about to die. To Dr. Blue Eyes credit, he did warn me I would feel that way but only briefly. My brain started shouting, "Diane! You are not asking enough questions." At one point a woman took my new (see previous post about the hell I went through to get that $%^& ID) and I kept thinking, "She better bring that back." (Nope, she didn't---another story.)
Yes, I kept telling everyone I had MS, but many had not a clue what that even meant.
Many lessons were taught to me in the ICU. Lesson #1 Whatever “specialist” is observing/testing you will believe your problem lies in his/her speciality. After a CAT scan of my heart, sonar something, MRI, and more blood draws than at Dracula’s Thanksgiving; my heart got the A-OK.
Next up: Let’s check her lungs.
TO BE CONTINUED
Seven, yes, seven firefighters arrived to wait with me until the ambulance arrived. The two ambulance drivers lifted me onto a gurney and off we went, eight blocks to the large, well respected hospital near my apt.
From the moment I entered it was a whirlwind of activity. The man in charge seemed most concerned about my heart. I directed him to take note (poor bastard) of my vomit, which my much concerned partner had placed in a small Tupperware container for future evaluation. (She, needing an electric wheel chair herself, had no way to go with me; besides we have a rule---one stays back to hold down the fort. And again, WINTER STORM.)
The leader of the pack of young scrubs with needles took a quick look at the treat I brought and asked, “You don’t want this back do you?” in a calm, low, seen-it-all, voice. Following my fast laugh and, “No,” he tossed it Tupperware and all in a “TOXIC” container.
He was a handsome man. Blue eyes to dive into, soft gray hair, and just enough facial lines to express wisdom and experience. I didn’t know at the time that he was a cardiologist. He planted himself on a chair in front of the bed I was on. (My entire 5 days there were all about big machines behind me, showing much “Diane” information, none “Diane” was privy to.) To wit: I clearly recall his name tag, used his name when joking with him and yet, when my partner called to check on me she was told a cardiologist by another name was attending to me; I received a bill from THAT unknown cardio, but I swear he never saw me.
Dr. Blue Eyes thought that although there might be a bit of blood (or perhaps not) in my gift, that the problem was my “tacking” heart. Apparently I presented with tachycardia, super fast heart rate. My heart rhythms were playing on a screen behind me---no Jazz, no Motown. So…Dr. Blue Eyes did what anyone would: he had the scrubs stop my heart. You heard me, STOPPED MY HEART, twice, a defibrillator stayed by my side for the next hour or so. The idea was to reboot me. It didn’t work.
This was followed by an EKG, EEG, ultrasounds, photos, a shot of something that makes you feel like you are about to die. To Dr. Blue Eyes credit, he did warn me I would feel that way but only briefly. My brain started shouting, "Diane! You are not asking enough questions." At one point a woman took my new (see previous post about the hell I went through to get that $%^& ID) and I kept thinking, "She better bring that back." (Nope, she didn't---another story.)
Yes, I kept telling everyone I had MS, but many had not a clue what that even meant.
Many lessons were taught to me in the ICU. Lesson #1 Whatever “specialist” is observing/testing you will believe your problem lies in his/her speciality. After a CAT scan of my heart, sonar something, MRI, and more blood draws than at Dracula’s Thanksgiving; my heart got the A-OK.
Next up: Let’s check her lungs.
TO BE CONTINUED
Seven, yes, seven firefighters arrived to wait with me until the ambulance arrived. The two ambulance drivers lifted me onto a gurney and off we went, eight blocks to the large, well respected hospital near my apt.
From the moment I entered it was a whirlwind of activity. The man in charge seemed most concerned about my heart. I directed him to take note (poor bastard) of my vomit, which my much concerned partner had placed in a small Tupperware container for future evaluation. (She, needing an electric wheel chair herself, had no way to go with me; besides we have a rule---one stays back to hold down the fort. And again, WINTER STORM.)
The leader of the pack of young scrubs with needles took a quick look at the treat I brought and asked, “You don’t want this back do you?” in a calm, low, seen-it-all, voice. Following my fast laugh and, “No,” he tossed it Tupperware and all in a “TOXIC” container.
He was a handsome man. Blue eyes to dive into, soft gray hair, and just enough facial lines to express wisdom and experience. I didn’t know at the time that he was a cardiologist. He planted himself on a chair in front of the bed I was on. (My entire 5 days there were all about big machines behind me, showing much “Diane” information, none “Diane” was privy to.) To wit: I clearly recall his name tag, used his name when joking with him and yet, when my partner called to check on me she was told a cardiologist by another name was attending to me; I received a bill from THAT unknown cardio, but I swear he never saw me.
Dr. Blue Eyes thought that although there might be a bit of blood (or perhaps not) in my gift, that the problem was my “tacking” heart. Apparently I presented with tachycardia, super fast heart rate. My heart rhythms were playing on a screen behind me---no Jazz, no Motown. So…Dr. Blue Eyes did what anyone would: he had the scrubs stop my heart. You heard me, STOPPED MY HEART, twice, a defibrillator stayed by my side for the next hour or so. The idea was to reboot me. It didn’t work.
This was followed by an EKG, EEG, ultrasounds, photos, a shot of something that makes you feel like you are about to die. To Dr. Blue Eyes credit, he did warn me I would feel that way but only briefly. My brain started shouting, "Diane! You are not asking enough questions." At one point a woman took my new (see previous post about the hell I went through to get that $%^& ID) and I kept thinking, "She better bring that back." (Nope, she didn't---another story.)
Yes, I kept telling everyone I had MS, but many had not a clue what that even meant.
Many lessons were taught to me in the ICU. Lesson #1 Whatever “specialist” is observing/testing you will believe your problem lies in his/her speciality. After a CAT scan of my heart, sonar something, MRI, and more blood draws than at Dracula’s Thanksgiving; my heart got the A-OK.
Next up: Let’s check her lungs.
TO BE CONTINUED
Seven, yes, seven firefighters arrived to wait with me until the ambulance arrived. The two ambulance drivers lifted me onto a gurney and off we went, eight blocks to the large, well respected hospital near my apt.
From the moment I entered it was a whirlwind of activity. The man in charge seemed most concerned about my heart. I directed him to take note (poor bastard) of my vomit, which my much concerned partner had placed in a small Tupperware container for future evaluation. (She, needing an electric wheel chair herself, had no way to go with me; besides we have a rule---one stays back to hold down the fort. And again, WINTER STORM.)
The leader of the pack of young scrubs with needles took a quick look at the treat I brought and asked, “You don’t want this back do you?” in a calm, low, seen-it-all, voice. Following my fast laugh and, “No,” he tossed it Tupperware and all in a “TOXIC” container.
He was a handsome man. Blue eyes to dive into, soft gray hair, and just enough facial lines to express wisdom and experience. I didn’t know at the time that he was a cardiologist. He planted himself on a chair in front of the bed I was on. (My entire 5 days there were all about big machines behind me, showing much “Diane” information, none “Diane” was privy to.) To wit: I clearly recall his name tag, used his name when joking with him and yet, when my partner called to check on me she was told a cardiologist by another name was attending to me; I received a bill from THAT unknown cardio, but I swear he never saw me.
Dr. Blue Eyes thought that although there might be a bit of blood (or perhaps not) in my gift, that the problem was my “tacking” heart. Apparently I presented with tachycardia, super fast heart rate. My heart rhythms were playing on a screen behind me---no Jazz, no Motown. So…Dr. Blue Eyes did what anyone would: he had the scrubs stop my heart. You heard me, STOPPED MY HEART, twice, a defibrillator stayed by my side for the next hour or so. The idea was to reboot me. It didn’t work.
This was followed by an EKG, EEG, ultrasounds, photos, a shot of something that makes you feel like you are about to die. To Dr. Blue Eyes credit, he did warn me I would feel that way but only briefly. My brain started shouting, "Diane! You are not asking enough questions." At one point a woman took my new (see previous post about the hell I went through to get that $%^& ID) and I kept thinking, "She better bring that back." (Nope, she didn't---another story.)
Yes, I kept telling everyone I had MS, but many had not a clue what that even meant.
Many lessons were taught to me in the ICU. Lesson #1 Whatever “specialist” is observing/testing you will believe your problem lies in his/her speciality. After a CAT scan of my heart, sonar something, MRI, and more blood draws than at Dracula’s Thanksgiving; my heart got the A-OK.
Next up: Let’s check her lungs.
TO BE CONTINUED
Seven, yes, seven firefighters arrived to wait with me until the ambulance arrived. The two ambulance drivers lifted me onto a gurney and off we went, eight blocks to the large, well respected hospital near my apt.
From the moment I entered it was a whirlwind of activity. The man in charge seemed most concerned about my heart. I directed him to take note (poor bastard) of my vomit, which my much concerned partner had placed in a small Tupperware container for future evaluation. (She, needing an electric wheel chair herself, had no way to go with me; besides we have a rule---one stays back to hold down the fort. And again, WINTER STORM.)
The leader of the pack of young scrubs with needles took a quick look at the treat I brought and asked, “You don’t want this back do you?” in a calm, low, seen-it-all, voice. Following my fast laugh and, “No,” he tossed it Tupperware and all in a “TOXIC” container.
He was a handsome man. Blue eyes to dive into, soft gray hair, and just enough facial lines to express wisdom and experience. I didn’t know at the time that he was a cardiologist. He planted himself on a chair in front of the bed I was on. (My entire 5 days there were all about big machines behind me, showing much “Diane” information, none “Diane” was privy to.) To wit: I clearly recall his name tag, used his name when joking with him and yet, when my partner called to check on me she was told a cardiologist by another name was attending to me; I received a bill from THAT unknown cardio, but I swear he never saw me.
Dr. Blue Eyes thought that although there might be a bit of blood (or perhaps not) in my gift, that the problem was my “tacking” heart. Apparently I presented with tachycardia, super fast heart rate. My heart rhythms were playing on a screen behind me---no Jazz, no Motown. So…Dr. Blue Eyes did what anyone would: he had the scrubs stop my heart. You heard me, STOPPED MY HEART, twice, a defibrillator stayed by my side for the next hour or so. The idea was to reboot me. It didn’t work.
This was followed by an EKG, EEG, ultrasounds, photos, a shot of something that makes you feel like you are about to die. To Dr. Blue Eyes credit, he did warn me I would feel that way but only briefly. My brain started shouting, "Diane! You are not asking enough questions." At one point a woman took my new (see previous post about the hell I went through to get that $%^& ID) and I kept thinking, "She better bring that back." (Nope, she didn't---another story.)
Yes, I kept telling everyone I had MS, but many had not a clue what that even meant.
Many lessons were taught to me in the ICU. Lesson #1 Whatever “specialist” is observing/testing you will believe your problem lies in his/her speciality. After a CAT scan of my heart, sonar something, MRI, and more blood draws than at Dracula’s Thanksgiving; my heart got the A-OK.
Next up: Let’s check her lungs.
TO BE CONTINUED
Seven, yes, seven firefighters arrived to wait with me until the ambulance arrived. The two ambulance drivers lifted me onto a gurney and off we went, eight blocks to the large, well respected hospital near my apt.
From the moment I entered it was a whirlwind of activity. The man in charge seemed most concerned about my heart. I directed him to take note (poor bastard) of my vomit, which my much concerned partner had placed in a small Tupperware container for future evaluation. (She, needing an electric wheel chair herself, had no way to go with me; besides we have a rule---one stays back to hold down the fort. And again, WINTER STORM.)
The leader of the pack of young scrubs with needles took a quick look at the treat I brought and asked, “You don’t want this back do you?” in a calm, low, seen-it-all, voice. Following my fast laugh and, “No,” he tossed it Tupperware and all in a “TOXIC” container.
He was a handsome man. Blue eyes to dive into, soft gray hair, and just enough facial lines to express wisdom and experience. I didn’t know at the time that he was a cardiologist. He planted himself on a chair in front of the bed I was on. (My entire 5 days there were all about big machines behind me, showing much “Diane” information, none “Diane” was privy to.) To wit: I clearly recall his name tag, used his name when joking with him and yet, when my partner called to check on me she was told a cardiologist by another name was attending to me; I received a bill from THAT unknown cardio, but I swear he never saw me.
Dr. Blue Eyes thought that although there might be a bit of blood (or perhaps not) in my gift, that the problem was my “tacking” heart. Apparently I presented with tachycardia, super fast heart rate. My heart rhythms were playing on a screen behind me---no Jazz, no Motown. So…Dr. Blue Eyes did what anyone would: he had the scrubs stop my heart. You heard me, STOPPED MY HEART, twice, a defibrillator stayed by my side for the next hour or so. The idea was to reboot me. It didn’t work.
This was followed by an EKG, EEG, ultrasounds, photos, a shot of something that makes you feel like you are about to die. To Dr. Blue Eyes credit, he did warn me I would feel that way but only briefly. My brain started shouting, "Diane! You are not asking enough questions." At one point a woman took my new (see previous post about the hell I went through to get that $%^& ID) and I kept thinking, "She better bring that back." (Nope, she didn't---another story.)
Yes, I kept telling everyone I had MS, but many had not a clue what that even meant.
Many lessons were taught to me in the ICU. Lesson #1 Whatever “specialist” is observing/testing you will believe your problem lies in his/her speciality. After a CAT scan of my heart, sonar something, MRI, and more blood draws than at Dracula’s Thanksgiving; my heart got the A-OK.
Next up: Let’s check her lungs.
TO BE CONTINUED
Seven, yes, seven firefighters arrived to wait with me until the ambulance arrived. The two ambulance drivers lifted me onto a gurney and off we went, eight blocks to the large, well respected hospital near my apt.
From the moment I entered it was a whirlwind of activity. The man in charge seemed most concerned about my heart. I directed him to take note (poor bastard) of my vomit, which my much concerned partner had placed in a small Tupperware container for future evaluation. (She, needing an electric wheel chair herself, had no way to go with me; besides we have a rule---one stays back to hold down the fort. And again, WINTER STORM.)
The leader of the pack of young scrubs with needles took a quick look at the treat I brought and asked, “You don’t want this back do you?” in a calm, low, seen-it-all, voice. Following my fast laugh and, “No,” he tossed it Tupperware and all in a “TOXIC” container.
He was a handsome man. Blue eyes to dive into, soft gray hair, and just enough facial lines to express wisdom and experience. I didn’t know at the time that he was a cardiologist. He planted himself on a chair in front of the bed I was on. (My entire 5 days there were all about big machines behind me, showing much “Diane” information, none “Diane” was privy to.) To wit: I clearly recall his name tag, used his name when joking with him and yet, when my partner called to check on me she was told a cardiologist by another name was attending to me; I received a bill from THAT unknown cardio, but I swear he never saw me.
Dr. Blue Eyes thought that although there might be a bit of blood (or perhaps not) in my gift, that the problem was my “tacking” heart. Apparently I presented with tachycardia, super fast heart rate. My heart rhythms were playing on a screen behind me---no Jazz, no Motown. So…Dr. Blue Eyes did what anyone would: he had the scrubs stop my heart. You heard me, STOPPED MY HEART, twice, a defibrillator stayed by my side for the next hour or so. The idea was to reboot me. It didn’t work.
This was followed by an EKG, EEG, ultrasounds, photos, a shot of something that makes you feel like you are about to die. To Dr. Blue Eyes credit, he did warn me I would feel that way but only briefly. My brain started shouting, "Diane! You are not asking enough questions." At one point a woman took my new (see previous post about the hell I went through to get that $%^& ID) and I kept thinking, "She better bring that back." (Nope, she didn't---another story.)
Yes, I kept telling everyone I had MS, but many had not a clue what that even meant.
Many lessons were taught to me in the ICU. Lesson #1 Whatever “specialist” is observing/testing you will believe your problem lies in his/her speciality. After a CAT scan of my heart, sonar something, MRI, and more blood draws than at Dracula’s Thanksgiving; my heart got the A-OK.
Next up: Let’s check her lungs.
TO BE CONTINUED
Seven, yes, seven firefighters arrived to wait with me until the ambulance arrived. The two ambulance drivers lifted me onto a gurney and off we went, eight blocks to the large, well respected hospital near my apt.
From the moment I entered it was a whirlwind of activity. The man in charge seemed most concerned about my heart. I directed him to take note (poor bastard) of my vomit, which my much concerned partner had placed in a small Tupperware container for future evaluation. (She, needing an electric wheel chair herself, had no way to go with me; besides we have a rule---one stays back to hold down the fort. And again, WINTER STORM.)
The leader of the pack of young scrubs with needles took a quick look at the treat I brought and asked, “You don’t want this back do you?” in a calm, low, seen-it-all, voice. Following my fast laugh and, “No,” he tossed it Tupperware and all in a “TOXIC” container.
He was a handsome man. Blue eyes to dive into, soft gray hair, and just enough facial lines to express wisdom and experience. I didn’t know at the time that he was a cardiologist. He planted himself on a chair in front of the bed I was on. (My entire 5 days there were all about big machines behind me, showing much “Diane” information, none “Diane” was privy to.) To wit: I clearly recall his name tag, used his name when joking with him and yet, when my partner called to check on me she was told a cardiologist by another name was attending to me; I received a bill from THAT unknown cardio, but I swear he never saw me.
Dr. Blue Eyes thought that although there might be a bit of blood (or perhaps not) in my gift, that the problem was my “tacking” heart. Apparently I presented with tachycardia, super fast heart rate. My heart rhythms were playing on a screen behind me---no Jazz, no Motown. So…Dr. Blue Eyes did what anyone would: he had the scrubs stop my heart. You heard me, STOPPED MY HEART, twice, a defibrillator stayed by my side for the next hour or so. The idea was to reboot me. It didn’t work.
This was followed by an EKG, EEG, ultrasounds, photos, a shot of something that makes you feel like you are about to die. To Dr. Blue Eyes credit, he did warn me I would feel that way but only briefly. My brain started shouting, "Diane! You are not asking enough questions." At one point a woman took my new (see previous post about the hell I went through to get that $%^& ID) and I kept thinking, "She better bring that back." (Nope, she didn't---another story.)
Yes, I kept telling everyone I had MS, but many had not a clue what that even meant.
Many lessons were taught to me in the ICU. Lesson #1 Whatever “specialist” is observing/testing you will believe your problem lies in his/her speciality. After a CAT scan of my heart, sonar something, MRI, and more blood draws than at Dracula’s Thanksgiving; my heart got the A-OK.
Next up: Let’s check her lungs.
TO BE CONTINUED
Seven, yes, seven firefighters arrived to wait with me until the ambulance arrived. The two ambulance drivers lifted me onto a gurney and off we went, eight blocks to the large, well respected hospital near my apt.
From the moment I entered it was a whirlwind of activity. The man in charge seemed most concerned about my heart. I directed him to take note (poor bastard) of my vomit, which my much concerned partner had placed in a small Tupperware container for future evaluation. (She, needing an electric wheel chair herself, had no way to go with me; besides we have a rule---one stays back to hold down the fort. And again, WINTER STORM.)
The leader of the pack of young scrubs with needles took a quick look at the treat I brought and asked, “You don’t want this back do you?” in a calm, low, seen-it-all, voice. Following my fast laugh and, “No,” he tossed it Tupperware and all in a “TOXIC” container.
He was a handsome man. Blue eyes to dive into, soft gray hair, and just enough facial lines to express wisdom and experience. I didn’t know at the time that he was a cardiologist. He planted himself on a chair in front of the bed I was on. (My entire 5 days there were all about big machines behind me, showing much “Diane” information, none “Diane” was privy to.) To wit: I clearly recall his name tag, used his name when joking with him and yet, when my partner called to check on me she was told a cardiologist by another name was attending to me; I received a bill from THAT unknown cardio, but I swear he never saw me.
Dr. Blue Eyes thought that although there might be a bit of blood (or perhaps not) in my gift, that the problem was my “tacking” heart. Apparently I presented with tachycardia, super fast heart rate. My heart rhythms were playing on a screen behind me---no Jazz, no Motown. So…Dr. Blue Eyes did what anyone would: he had the scrubs stop my heart. You heard me, STOPPED MY HEART, twice, a defibrillator stayed by my side for the next hour or so. The idea was to reboot me. It didn’t work.
This was followed by an EKG, EEG, ultrasounds, photos, a shot of something that makes you feel like you are about to die. To Dr. Blue Eyes credit, he did warn me I would feel that way but only briefly. My brain started shouting, "Diane! You are not asking enough questions." At one point a woman took my new (see previous post about the hell I went through to get that $%^& ID) and I kept thinking, "She better bring that back." (Nope, she didn't---another story.)
Yes, I kept telling everyone I had MS, but many had not a clue what that even meant.
Many lessons were taught to me in the ICU. Lesson #1 Whatever “specialist” is observing/testing you will believe your problem lies in his/her speciality. After a CAT scan of my heart, sonar something, MRI, and more blood draws than at Dracula’s Thanksgiving; my heart got the A-OK.
Next up: Let’s check her lungs.
TO BE CONTINUED
Seven, yes, seven firefighters arrived to wait with me until the ambulance arrived. The two ambulance drivers lifted me onto a gurney and off we went, eight blocks to the large, well respected hospital near my apt.
From the moment I entered it was a whirlwind of activity. The man in charge seemed most concerned about my heart. I directed him to take note (poor bastard) of my vomit, which my much concerned partner had placed in a small Tupperware container for future evaluation. (She, needing an electric wheel chair herself, had no way to go with me; besides we have a rule---one stays back to hold down the fort. And again, WINTER STORM.)
The leader of the pack of young scrubs with needles took a quick look at the treat I brought and asked, “You don’t want this back do you?” in a calm, low, seen-it-all, voice. Following my fast laugh and, “No,” he tossed it Tupperware and all in a “TOXIC” container.
He was a handsome man. Blue eyes to dive into, soft gray hair, and just enough facial lines to express wisdom and experience. I didn’t know at the time that he was a cardiologist. He planted himself on a chair in front of the bed I was on. (My entire 5 days there were all about big machines behind me, showing much “Diane” information, none “Diane” was privy to.) To wit: I clearly recall his name tag, used his name when joking with him and yet, when my partner called to check on me she was told a cardiologist by another name was attending to me; I received a bill from THAT unknown cardio, but I swear he never saw me.
Dr. Blue Eyes thought that although there might be a bit of blood (or perhaps not) in my gift, that the problem was my “tacking” heart. Apparently I presented with tachycardia, super fast heart rate. My heart rhythms were playing on a screen behind me---no Jazz, no Motown. So…Dr. Blue Eyes did what anyone would: he had the scrubs stop my heart. You heard me, STOPPED MY HEART, twice, a defibrillator stayed by my side for the next hour or so. The idea was to reboot me. It didn’t work.
This was followed by an EKG, EEG, ultrasounds, photos, a shot of something that makes you feel like you are about to die. To Dr. Blue Eyes credit, he did warn me I would feel that way but only briefly. My brain started shouting, "Diane! You are not asking enough questions." At one point a woman took my new (see previous post about the hell I went through to get that $%^& ID) and I kept thinking, "She better bring that back." (Nope, she didn't---another story.)
Yes, I kept telling everyone I had MS, but many had not a clue what that even meant.
Many lessons were taught to me in the ICU. Lesson #1 Whatever “specialist” is observing/testing you will believe your problem lies in his/her speciality. After a CAT scan of my heart, sonar something, MRI, and more blood draws than at Dracula’s Thanksgiving; my heart got the A-OK.
Next up: Let’s check her lungs.
TO BE CONTINUED
Seven, yes, seven firefighters arrived to wait with me until the ambulance arrived. The two ambulance drivers lifted me onto a gurney and off we went, eight blocks to the large, well respected hospital near my apt.
From the moment I entered it was a whirlwind of activity. The man in charge seemed most concerned about my heart. I directed him to take note (poor bastard) of my vomit, which my much concerned partner had placed in a small Tupperware container for future evaluation. (She, needing an electric wheel chair herself, had no way to go with me; besides we have a rule---one stays back to hold down the fort. And again, WINTER STORM.)
The leader of the pack of young scrubs with needles took a quick look at the treat I brought and asked, “You don’t want this back do you?” in a calm, low, seen-it-all, voice. Following my fast laugh and, “No,” he tossed it Tupperware and all in a “TOXIC” container.
He was a handsome man. Blue eyes to dive into, soft gray hair, and just enough facial lines to express wisdom and experience. I didn’t know at the time that he was a cardiologist. He planted himself on a chair in front of the bed I was on. (My entire 5 days there were all about big machines behind me, showing much “Diane” information, none “Diane” was privy to.) To wit: I clearly recall his name tag, used his name when joking with him and yet, when my partner called to check on me she was told a cardiologist by another name was attending to me; I received a bill from THAT unknown cardio, but I swear he never saw me.
Dr. Blue Eyes thought that although there might be a bit of blood (or perhaps not) in my gift, that the problem was my “tacking” heart. Apparently I presented with tachycardia, super fast heart rate. My heart rhythms were playing on a screen behind me---no Jazz, no Motown. So…Dr. Blue Eyes did what anyone would: he had the scrubs stop my heart. You heard me, STOPPED MY HEART, twice, a defibrillator stayed by my side for the next hour or so. The idea was to reboot me. It didn’t work.
This was followed by an EKG, EEG, ultrasounds, photos, a shot of something that makes you feel like you are about to die. To Dr. Blue Eyes credit, he did warn me I would feel that way but only briefly. My brain started shouting, "Diane! You are not asking enough questions." At one point a woman took my new (see previous post about the hell I went through to get that $%^& ID) and I kept thinking, "She better bring that back." (Nope, she didn't---another story.)
Yes, I kept telling everyone I had MS, but many had not a clue what that even meant.
Many lessons were taught to me in the ICU. Lesson #1 Whatever “specialist” is observing/testing you will believe your problem lies in his/her speciality. After a CAT scan of my heart, sonar something, MRI, and more blood draws than at Dracula’s Thanksgiving; my heart got the A-OK.
Next up: Let’s check her lungs.
TO BE CONTINUED
Seven, yes, seven firefighters arrived to wait with me until the ambulance arrived. The two ambulance drivers lifted me onto a gurney and off we went, eight blocks to the large, well respected hospital near my apt.
From the moment I entered it was a whirlwind of activity. The man in charge seemed most concerned about my heart. I directed him to take note (poor bastard) of my vomit, which my much concerned partner had placed in a small Tupperware container for future evaluation. (She, needing an electric wheel chair herself, had no way to go with me; besides we have a rule---one stays back to hold down the fort. And again, WINTER STORM.)
The leader of the pack of young scrubs with needles took a quick look at the treat I brought and asked, “You don’t want this back do you?” in a calm, low, seen-it-all, voice. Following my fast laugh and, “No,” he tossed it Tupperware and all in a “TOXIC” container.
He was a handsome man. Blue eyes to dive into, soft gray hair, and just enough facial lines to express wisdom and experience. I didn’t know at the time that he was a cardiologist. He planted himself on a chair in front of the bed I was on. (My entire 5 days there were all about big machines behind me, showing much “Diane” information, none “Diane” was privy to.) To wit: I clearly recall his name tag, used his name when joking with him and yet, when my partner called to check on me she was told a cardiologist by another name was attending to me; I received a bill from THAT unknown cardio, but I swear he never saw me.
Dr. Blue Eyes thought that although there might be a bit of blood (or perhaps not) in my gift, that the problem was my “tacking” heart. Apparently I presented with tachycardia, super fast heart rate. My heart rhythms were playing on a screen behind me---no Jazz, no Motown. So…Dr. Blue Eyes did what anyone would: he had the scrubs stop my heart. You heard me, STOPPED MY HEART, twice, a defibrillator stayed by my side for the next hour or so. The idea was to reboot me. It didn’t work.
This was followed by an EKG, EEG, ultrasounds, photos, a shot of something that makes you feel like you are about to die. To Dr. Blue Eyes credit, he did warn me I would feel that way but only briefly. My brain started shouting, "Diane! You are not asking enough questions." At one point a woman took my new (see previous post about the hell I went through to get that $%^& ID) and I kept thinking, "She better bring that back." (Nope, she didn't---another story.)
Yes, I kept telling everyone I had MS, but many had not a clue what that even meant.
Many lessons were taught to me in the ICU. Lesson #1 Whatever “specialist” is observing/testing you will believe your problem lies in his/her speciality. After a CAT scan of my heart, sonar something, MRI, and more blood draws than at Dracula’s Thanksgiving; my heart got the A-OK.
Next up: Let’s check her lungs.
TO BE CONTINUED
Seven, yes, seven firefighters arrived to wait with me until the ambulance arrived. The two ambulance drivers lifted me onto a gurney and off we went, eight blocks to the large, well respected hospital near my apt.
From the moment I entered it was a whirlwind of activity. The man in charge seemed most concerned about my heart. I directed him to take note (poor bastard) of my vomit, which my much concerned partner had placed in a small Tupperware container for future evaluation. (She, needing an electric wheel chair herself, had no way to go with me; besides we have a rule---one stays back to hold down the fort. And again, WINTER STORM.)
The leader of the pack of young scrubs with needles took a quick look at the treat I brought and asked, “You don’t want this back do you?” in a calm, low, seen-it-all, voice. Following my fast laugh and, “No,” he tossed it Tupperware and all in a “TOXIC” container.
He was a handsome man. Blue eyes to dive into, soft gray hair, and just enough facial lines to express wisdom and experience. I didn’t know at the time that he was a cardiologist. He planted himself on a chair in front of the bed I was on. (My entire 5 days there were all about big machines behind me, showing much “Diane” information, none “Diane” was privy to.) To wit: I clearly recall his name tag, used his name when joking with him and yet, when my partner called to check on me she was told a cardiologist by another name was attending to me; I received a bill from THAT unknown cardio, but I swear he never saw me.
Dr. Blue Eyes thought that although there might be a bit of blood (or perhaps not) in my gift, that the problem was my “tacking” heart. Apparently I presented with tachycardia, super fast heart rate. My heart rhythms were playing on a screen behind me---no Jazz, no Motown. So…Dr. Blue Eyes did what anyone would: he had the scrubs stop my heart. You heard me, STOPPED MY HEART, twice, a defibrillator stayed by my side for the next hour or so. The idea was to reboot me. It didn’t work.
This was followed by an EKG, EEG, ultrasounds, photos, a shot of something that makes you feel like you are about to die. To Dr. Blue Eyes credit, he did warn me I would feel that way but only briefly. My brain started shouting, "Diane! You are not asking enough questions." At one point a woman took my new (see previous post about the hell I went through to get that $%^& ID) and I kept thinking, "She better bring that back." (Nope, she didn't---another story.)
Yes, I kept telling everyone I had MS, but many had not a clue what that even meant.
Many lessons were taught to me in the ICU. Lesson #1 Whatever “specialist” is observing/testing you will believe your problem lies in his/her speciality. After a CAT scan of my heart, sonar something, MRI, and more blood draws than at Dracula’s Thanksgiving; my heart got the A-OK.
Next up: Let’s check her lungs.
TO BE CONTINUED
Seven, yes, seven firefighters arrived to wait with me until the ambulance arrived. The two ambulance drivers lifted me onto a gurney and off we went, eight blocks to the large, well respected hospital near my apt.
From the moment I entered it was a whirlwind of activity. The man in charge seemed most concerned about my heart. I directed him to take note (poor bastard) of my vomit, which my much concerned partner had placed in a small Tupperware container for future evaluation. (She, needing an electric wheel chair herself, had no way to go with me; besides we have a rule---one stays back to hold down the fort. And again, WINTER STORM.)
The leader of the pack of young scrubs with needles took a quick look at the treat I brought and asked, “You don’t want this back do you?” in a calm, low, seen-it-all, voice. Following my fast laugh and, “No,” he tossed it Tupperware and all in a “TOXIC” container.
He was a handsome man. Blue eyes to dive into, soft gray hair, and just enough facial lines to express wisdom and experience. I didn’t know at the time that he was a cardiologist. He planted himself on a chair in front of the bed I was on. (My entire 5 days there were all about big machines behind me, showing much “Diane” information, none “Diane” was privy to.) To wit: I clearly recall his name tag, used his name when joking with him and yet, when my partner called to check on me she was told a cardiologist by another name was attending to me; I received a bill from THAT unknown cardio, but I swear he never saw me.
Dr. Blue Eyes thought that although there might be a bit of blood (or perhaps not) in my gift, that the problem was my “tacking” heart. Apparently I presented with tachycardia, super fast heart rate. My heart rhythms were playing on a screen behind me---no Jazz, no Motown. So…Dr. Blue Eyes did what anyone would: he had the scrubs stop my heart. You heard me, STOPPED MY HEART, twice, a defibrillator stayed by my side for the next hour or so. The idea was to reboot me. It didn’t work.
This was followed by an EKG, EEG, ultrasounds, photos, a shot of something that makes you feel like you are about to die. To Dr. Blue Eyes credit, he did warn me I would feel that way but only briefly. My brain started shouting, "Diane! You are not asking enough questions." At one point a woman took my new (see previous post about the hell I went through to get that $%^& ID) and I kept thinking, "She better bring that back." (Nope, she didn't---another story.)
Yes, I kept telling everyone I had MS, but many had not a clue what that even meant.
Many lessons were taught to me in the ICU. Lesson #1 Whatever “specialist” is observing/testing you will believe your problem lies in his/her speciality. After a CAT scan of my heart, sonar something, MRI, and more blood draws than at Dracula’s Thanksgiving; my heart got the A-OK.
Next up: Let’s check her lungs.
TO BE CONTINUED
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