Editorial
Front Page - Friday, August 14, 2009
Are We There Yet?
Life in the ER
Jay Edwards
The doctor finally came round to visit me after four hours in the emergency room. He said they thought my problem was reflux and not acute myocardial infarction. My relieved response was, “The purple pill.” He agreed and I immediately began tearing off the 10 unipolar leads that were taped to my torso for the EKG. They call this “noninvasive procedure,” but it didn’t feel that way as I ripped.
In 21st century America, the availability to change the way you feel, or at least its illusion, is easily come by. Through the pharmacological landscape, where there is a drug for almost any affliction or desire – sleeping, waking, hurrying, slowing, eating, not eating, going, not going, muscle relaxers, muscle hardeners, etc, etc. etc., you quickly learn the apothecary’s slang. So I’m familiar with “The Purple Pill.”
I had awakened two days earlier at 4 a.m., with pain in my chest. I always try to remain calm whenever this happens, which fortunately isn’t often. But when your time on earth is just past five decades, and your father died suddenly from one of those acute infarctions mentioned earlier, at age 51, well, you get the picture.
I got up, took an aspirin and a fish oil pill and went and walked my 2.5 miles, figuring that if it was a heart attack, we might as well get on with it. The walk was no problem and the pain had minimized so I went about the routine of the day. But it kept returning in small but noticeable doses until I determined at noon on Thursday to go get some peace of mind.
I called Kathy, who picked me up. We decided on Baptist because they had been great a year ago, when my immune system decided out of the blue that penicillin was the enemy. But that’s another tale.
We arrived at the hospital, parked and followed the sidewalk, coming to doors and a sign above that read “Emergency Room/Chest Pain Center.”
“Must be common if they have a special center for it,” I thought.
Inside, the waiting room was full. I stood there expecting someone to come over like I was some sort of VIP. When that didn’t happen I asked the triage nurse what to do. He told me to have a seat at a check-in table.
Also waiting was a young guy who had something in his eyes that was causing him a lot of pain. Then a group from a church came in with their minister, who had collapsed while at work. An elderly lady, with an eye that looked like she’d sparred with Mike Tyson, was led in by her daughter.
I gave my information to a nurse and we found some seats. The TV was talking about the guy in Minnesota who’d shot those women at the health club before turning the gun on himself.
The reporter said that in a Web site posted under his name, the shooter wrote rambling messages about his hatred of women and how he was tired of being rejected by them. Not your usual “quiet, friendly,” serial killer, next door.
A man brought a young boy in who wore handcuffs and chains around his ankles. He looked to be about 12.
The triage nurse called me and I gave him more information. He asked me what number my pain was, between 1 and 10. There wasn’t any pain, and I felt guilty being there, so I said “2,” as if it were a question. “You don’t win anything,” he said.
After taking some of my blood, they led Kathy and me back to one of the rooms. I was given an “open-back” robe and put it on. Rob, the nurse, hooked me up to the EKG and left. Jerry Springer was on the TV, but thankfully Kathy turned to Turner Classic Movies, where “Me and My Gal,” with Judy Garland and Gene Kelly was coming on. About every 15 minutes the machine took my blood pressure, which was normal.
Hours later, I made Kathy go get herself something to eat. I was about 30 minutes into “In the Good Old Summertime,” also with Judy Garland, when the doctor at last showed up. As he talked I guess he saw my eyes darting from him back to Judy, because he turned her off. That’s when we decided I needed “The Purple Pill.” He said he would write a prescription. Thirty minutes later I was walking out through the ER, which was refilled with new faces. Illness, real or imagined, is relentless.
Outside, August was making up for the wet wimpiness of July. Kathy was waiting and asked if I wanted to go get the prescription filled.
I said, “No, I’ll have a chili dog.”
Some people never learn.
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