Hospital Doctor Rodeo: Decent doctor 1, Idiots 2

I got to learn a lot in the last few days because I spent Sunday and Monday in the local hospital. I went because I was having trouble breathing and had pressure on my chest. Classic symptoms of a heart attack.

The ER nurses were excellent (well, they all were). I had a hard time getting from the wheel chair to the table; my legs were trembling like an old woman's. One of the nurses asked me if I had seen a neurologist yet, and I started to cry, saying that there's a 6 month waiting list for all the local ones. The same nurse said more than once to me, "You're so young to be like this." She sounded frustrated. Finally, someone who seemed to get it.

The ER doc came in and verified my chronic conditions, and when he got to fibromyalgia, I turned to look at him and said, "I'll admit to that if you don't tell me this is a fibro flare and toss me out of here." His face softened and he shook his head a little, and he promised not to do that to me.

DECENT DOCTOR SCORES!

My initial tests, chest x-ray, EKG, and blood tests came back negative for a heart attack. I learned that following a heart attack, cardiac enzymes are present in the blood stream. They kept me overnight because the enzymes from more mild heart attacks don't show up for 6-8 hours.

Also scheduled for the next day was a stress test. I was wondering how they were going to accomplish a stress test when I could barely stand, and I mentioned this to the next doctor who came to visit me. He rolled his eyes (no, really) and said that it would be done "chemically". When he was done telling me that I was fine (no, really), pending the outcome of the stress test, he asked if I had any questions. I asked him what I would have to do to get an appointment with a neurologist. He said there was really nothing I could do because there are only 4 in town. He suggested traveling to Phoenix (the nearest large city). Then he told me again that I was "fine" and left.

IDIOTS SCORE!

I am compelled to give a few details about a chemical stress test. About 30 minutes before the test, a radiologist type person (I don't know her job description, so don't get your knickers in a twist if I don't have it right) came and added some radioactive ooze to my IV. I don't know what it was exactly. I remember the radioactive part though. I was then commanded to drink two glasses of water (which she pour for me, thank you very much) in the the next 10 minutes. Then she huffed out of my room. Yes, huffed. In hindsight, I learned that her department had recently been insanely busy. But I'm not sure huffing out of a patient's room is ever appropriate.

And as an aside, I'm also quite sure that wearing MaryAnn pony tails after age, let's say... 25, is appropriate either. You know, MaryAnn from Gilligan's Island. MaryAnn pony tails are just silly after a certain age, and this woman was long past the cut off. Please inform Todd Gunn.

Thirty minutes after Maid MaryAnn shot me with radioactive ooze, I was wheeled down to radiology at a nauseating speed. I had a towel draped over my head because the constant gale force wind that blew from the climate control vent had irritated my ears and set of a mild flare of trigeminal neuralgia, which had begun to compete with the migraine induced by the nitroglycerin gel held in place by with a paper patch taped onto my chest. So there I was, in my Nascar wheelchair, white towel on my head, draped in a white hospital "blanket", zooming down the hall. I was the White Flying Nun fixin' to toss my stomach acid because I had a large sign outside my door that marked me NBO: Nothing By Mouth. No water, no food.

I arrived in Maid MaryAnn's chamber to be placed on a table that slid into what I can only describe as half of a square. The apex was directly over me, and the sides were to my left and right. I had to place my hands over my head (have I talked about stretching syncope yet? If I haven't, I'll get to it.) and grab some sort of strap. And in this position, I fell asleep, so I don't know any more details about the test.

Then I was wheeled off to Part 2 of the test. The gentlemen in there (there were 2) were so compassionate, assuring me that the "uncomfortable feeling" would last "only" six minutes, plus the 30-40 seconds it would take for the last of the drug to pass through my body after the drip was turned off. They said this over and over, and they asked me if I was ready a few times too. Then these nice men tried to kill me, apologizing the whole time, telling me it was perfectly safe, how much time was left, how well I was doing, telling me stupid jokes LIKE I WANT TO HEAR STUPID JOKES RIGHT NOW, MORONS! I think they felt really bad because I clearly had no idea what I was in for.

Here's what happens during a chemical stress test. They have to get your heart rate up so that the veins and arteries are much larger than normal, and then they take images and EKGS during that process to see how your heart is functioning and check for blockages. They introduce a natural substance into your body, but in much larger quantities than your body produces itself. This makes the heart pound very hard. For me, my thoat felt closed off, I felt very hot and flushed, and the pounding of my heart was painful. I used to run and play volleyball in high school. This heart pounding was a lot like Hell Week - the first week of volleyball practice. Practice didn't end until someone threw up. That's what it felt like. And my poor heart had not worked that hard in 25 years. This lasts for 6 minutes. The first three minutes are the worst, and it's a good thing that the technicians tell you over and over again that the procedure is safe, that you are safe, because I really thought that I might die. The next 3 minutes are kind of like labor for some women. Some of us get very focused and just try to breathe the next breath. That was my experience for the last three minutes. That's when they tell stupid jokes.

My six minutes ended, and I waited for the last of the drug to pass through. As soon as it was gone, I think I fell asleep again. I was woken up by one of the Nice Men asking me if I would take some nitro because the doctor didn't like what she saw on the last EKG "I can't make you take it, but we are recommending it." Not ready to die and my heart still pounding a bit, I took the nitro, which burns under the tongue, by the way. Moments later I was declared fine again and whisked back to my room.

Thirty more minutes passed, and the Nascar Wheelchair Champion was back to take me for Part 3 of the test. Part 3??? I asked her if they were going to inject me again, and she said she didn't think so. I was pretty sure I would live through the third round, so I asked again when I got to MaryAnn's room. She said no in a very un-MaryAnn manner and put me back in the half-square object, where I fell asleep again. Thus, the stress test concluded in an uneventful fashion. Thank God.

Back in my room, now covered by five blankets and my towel whimple, yet another doctor came in. She introduced herself and asked me why I had a towel on my head [because you can't get anywhere in this universe without your towel! Duh!]. Then she told me I was fine and they were sending me home. By now, I am undrugged enough to question her definition of fine. "It's the fibromyalgia." I asked her if fibromyalgia progresses (it typically does not), and she diverted with "This is the costochondritis" and she parried with pushing on my chest. I countered with "it always hurts there, this is a new pain, a new pressure, and I am HAVING TROUBLE BREATHING." She listened to my chest in the way frustrated doctors do by going through the motions, not leaving the stethescope on the back or chest long enough to hear anything. Then she stood upright and backed away from me, whipped out her prescription pad, and offered the only thing she had left: Prednisone. I accepted it only because it was a short course, no one was obviously interested enough in finding out why I can't breathe properly, and I have grown so fond of oxygen.

IDIOTS SCORE AGAIN FOR THE WIN.

And I was summarily dismissed.

Game over? Oh, hell no.