With tax season just around the corner, I don’t feel one bit guilty about getting my money's worth out of my community’s infrastructure this past weekend. While my memory is still fuzzy when it comes to recalling the exact siren count between the numerous police, firemen and paramedics, we had quite a few civil servants show up at our house on Saturday night. But that’s what happens when a husband calls 911 reporting that his wife thinks she’s having a heart attack. They tend to show up pretty quickly for stuff like that. On the other hand, reporting that your mechanical Rudolph was stolen from your front yard on Christmas morning? Not so much. (But that's another story.)
Making this particular event even more memorable was the fact that we had just finished hosting a herd of well-behaved high schoolers, the last of whom had just left about 20 minutes prior. While I am pretty sure my neighbors spent at least a little while speculating on the drinking and drug use at our home that evening, I couldn’t really care about that; I honestly thought I was dying.
Now, I could further describe the pain that was in my chest or the pain that was my spouse, who initially encouraged me to wait out the interminable squeezing of my heart until I pointed out the possible downside to his waking up with a corpse, but those are just details. He relented eventually. The pain also relented - eventually - but not before I landed my first (and hopefully, last) ride in an ambulance. This, too, might have been OK had I not been strapped down to a gurney while riding over potholes the size of moon craters while an otherwise nice EMT guy tried to insert an IV in my hand (which, sadly, was later mocked by the hospital staff while they put one in my other hand). It does bear mentioning, however, that despite mediocre IV placement, if you have heart pain and think you’re dying, calling an ambulance almost always puts you at the head of the line once you arrive at the ER – especially with a family history like mine! Good to know.
Ironically, what lay at the heart of the matter had absolutely nothing at all to do with my heart! And while I am still left wondering why I never took an anatomy class in high school or college, the various scans, x-rays and tests galore, along with a very astute and seasoned ER doc, deduced that my gallbladder was the culprit and had to go. Of course, my questions were simple. “What’s a gallbladder?” and “Why does it feel like a heart attack when it’s pissed off?” Apparently, English majors don’t usually know these things.
Despite my love of a good Google or two, I still don’t really have all those answers, but due to a lengthy family history of bad tickers, most of my Sunday was spent giving enough blood to infuse a small country, undergoing the all-important Echo Stress Test and getting my only sustenance through multiple cups of ice chips. I did move up to a little broth later in the day, but considering the extensive ala carte menu that is now the rage at our local hospital, I felt a little let down by my lack of culinary enjoyment.
After the offending gallbladder was removed bright and early Monday morning via laparoscopy, the surgeon told David it went “beautifully,” although apparently they don’t seem to offer up your organs preserved in a glass jar they way they did with tonsils back in the 60’s. Bummer. Still, three little band-aids and a couple of steri-strips later, I found myself safely tucked into my own bed at home by 3pm that afternoon. I will also add that I passed all heart related tests and inquiries with flying colors.
As an aside, I did take note that my husband does not like hospitals. And this would be a gross understatement. He actually found a place to park that would allow him a mere 20 minutes of free parking, where he could quickly visit and get the heck out of there, all within the prescribed time. I surmise that as we further age, either he has to go first or I will have to be hit by a bus! Don’t get me wrong, he’s very good once at home, but there is just something about a hospital that turns him slightly green around the gills. His discomfort is palatable to everyone. I’d understand this far better if he were the patient, but as a visitor, not so much. I will also say that this was one incredibly nice hospital and, except for that little thing called major abdominal surgery, everything and everyone was very nice, almost like a hotel. And with the added benefit of having a nurse show up at your beck and call upon pushing a conveniently located button, it was far better service than I ever get at home! So at least I had that going for me.
As weekends go, it was indeed interesting. But it wasn’t Paris. And once again, I’ve buried the lead. While I was feeling death coming for me on Saturday night, my oldest daughter was flying home from Paris. After a wonderful week of perusing famous museums, eating at French cafes and taking romantic strolls along the Seine, the end result was a proposal of marriage on bended knee on a bridge with a view of Notre Dame in the distance.
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| Engaged and Elated! |
I can hardly believe she’s that grown up. But of course she is. And now, wistfully recalling the day she was born, I feel a whole new kind of pain in my heart. And with or without my gallbladder, I couldn’t be happier for them both!!
