Panic Attack, Part I
So I'm sitting in my Florence Melton Adult Mini-School class last week, learning about the Jewish viewpoint on artificial insemination. An interesting and somewhat academic discussion, since I have already birthed my four children and, at age 50, certainly am not planning to have more by the regular means, never mind artificially.
About 15 minutes before the class ends, I begin to have chest pain. Nothing major, the kind I've felt maybe twice a year over the past 30 years. Sharp, stabbing, left side, worse when I inhale. I assume it will pass after a minute or two but it doesn't. I begin to feel faint and dizzy and lean up against my adoring husband, who is seated beside me. "Something's wrong," I whisper. "What is it?" he asks quietly. "My chest," I say. "It hurts." I have my hand on my heart. "I have to lay down," I say.
Picture this: we are seated around a large table in a large room located in the basement of our temple. By "we" I mean my husband and me, the rabbi, and about 8 somewhat elderly Jewish people who convene weekly to learn about Judaism, same as me (except for the somewhat elderly part.) They are alarmed. Two of them are retired physicians, and they stand over me, asking questions. "Do you feel nauseous?" "Have you had this pain before?" "Do you have high blood pressure?" I tell them to call someone. Yes, call 9-1-1. So then I hear the rabbi's voice on the phone in the next room, a 50-year old woman with chest pains, send an ambulance. I feel calm, but my chest hurts. Still stabbing pains, worse when I inhale. I tell one of the retired docs I think maybe it's a heart murmur that a doctor said I had some 30 years ago, but that another doctor said I didn't, 15 years ago. "Do you have indigestion?" One of them asks. "My family is legendary for its hiatal hernias," I reply. He laughs.
After about 10 minutes, the pain subsides and I feel....fine. But by then the ambulance has arrived and here they are, telling me to get on the gurney. I say, "Really, I feel better now," but they are having none of that. My classmates are now clustered together, standing on the other side of the room, looking at me with concerned expressions on their faces. Eyebrows raised in sympathy, tight smiles, as I am wheeled out of the room and maneuvered into the elevator, which does not seem to have been designed for gurnies.
Out of the building we go, bump bump bump down the cement steps, where the ambulance is waiting. Now there's a police car there too. I see my husband standing behind the ambulance clutching my coat and my new Coach purse as they shut the doors. The EMT lady puts an IV in my left arm "so you're ready for medication if you need it when we get to the hospital." She puts one of those oxygen tube things in my nose, like you see in the health wing at assisted living facilities (you know, those places they used to call "old folks homes.")
"Is this really necessary?" I say. "I'm feeling much better now."
"It's protocol," the EMT lady says. "You're in an ambulance after having chest pain. That'll get you an EKG, blood work, Xrays, and 23 hours in the hospital."
"I just don't want my kids to worry," I say.
"Better worried than grieving," she says, and to that, I have no retort.
Once at the hospital, they do just as the EMT lady said: EKG, blood work, Xray. All of which return as normal. One of the questions they ask, before my husband gets there, is "Do you feel safe at home?" I want to laugh because I have a ridiculously happy marriage. But then I think that it's a sad society when a woman comes to the emergency room and a standard questions is, "Do you feel safe at home?" A topic for another day, but suffice it to say, yes, I feel safe at home.
My husband enters and tells me he has called the kids and said I was taken to the hospital in an ambulance. "I wish you hadn't told them that," I say. "They'll be worried."
"Why don't you call them now to tell them you're OK?" he says, handing me his phone. I call, and son #3 answers. He's 17, a shining light in my life. Just looking at him is a joyful experience.
"Hello?" he says.
"Hi Phil, it's Mom."
"Are you OK?"
"I'm fine. I just didn't feel very well so they're running some tests. We'll be home soon." An audible sigh of relief. "Were you worried?"
"Well, Dad said he'd call if anything was wrong, and I saw his cell number on my phone..."
"Sorry honey, I didn't mean to scare you. I'm sure I'm fine and we'll be home probably in half an hour or so."
They send me home with the following instructions: whatever pain you are experiencing is not coming from the heart. To be cautious, rest for the next 24 hours and follow-up with your doctor. Continue with any current medications.
I am not on any medications.
Call me crazy, but these are not the most illuminating of instructions. But I do make an appointment with my doctor, because I should be following up with him on my blood work from a recent routine physical anyway. Which leads us to Panic Attack, Part II.
About 15 minutes before the class ends, I begin to have chest pain. Nothing major, the kind I've felt maybe twice a year over the past 30 years. Sharp, stabbing, left side, worse when I inhale. I assume it will pass after a minute or two but it doesn't. I begin to feel faint and dizzy and lean up against my adoring husband, who is seated beside me. "Something's wrong," I whisper. "What is it?" he asks quietly. "My chest," I say. "It hurts." I have my hand on my heart. "I have to lay down," I say.
Picture this: we are seated around a large table in a large room located in the basement of our temple. By "we" I mean my husband and me, the rabbi, and about 8 somewhat elderly Jewish people who convene weekly to learn about Judaism, same as me (except for the somewhat elderly part.) They are alarmed. Two of them are retired physicians, and they stand over me, asking questions. "Do you feel nauseous?" "Have you had this pain before?" "Do you have high blood pressure?" I tell them to call someone. Yes, call 9-1-1. So then I hear the rabbi's voice on the phone in the next room, a 50-year old woman with chest pains, send an ambulance. I feel calm, but my chest hurts. Still stabbing pains, worse when I inhale. I tell one of the retired docs I think maybe it's a heart murmur that a doctor said I had some 30 years ago, but that another doctor said I didn't, 15 years ago. "Do you have indigestion?" One of them asks. "My family is legendary for its hiatal hernias," I reply. He laughs.
After about 10 minutes, the pain subsides and I feel....fine. But by then the ambulance has arrived and here they are, telling me to get on the gurney. I say, "Really, I feel better now," but they are having none of that. My classmates are now clustered together, standing on the other side of the room, looking at me with concerned expressions on their faces. Eyebrows raised in sympathy, tight smiles, as I am wheeled out of the room and maneuvered into the elevator, which does not seem to have been designed for gurnies.
Out of the building we go, bump bump bump down the cement steps, where the ambulance is waiting. Now there's a police car there too. I see my husband standing behind the ambulance clutching my coat and my new Coach purse as they shut the doors. The EMT lady puts an IV in my left arm "so you're ready for medication if you need it when we get to the hospital." She puts one of those oxygen tube things in my nose, like you see in the health wing at assisted living facilities (you know, those places they used to call "old folks homes.")
"Is this really necessary?" I say. "I'm feeling much better now."
"It's protocol," the EMT lady says. "You're in an ambulance after having chest pain. That'll get you an EKG, blood work, Xrays, and 23 hours in the hospital."
"I just don't want my kids to worry," I say.
"Better worried than grieving," she says, and to that, I have no retort.
Once at the hospital, they do just as the EMT lady said: EKG, blood work, Xray. All of which return as normal. One of the questions they ask, before my husband gets there, is "Do you feel safe at home?" I want to laugh because I have a ridiculously happy marriage. But then I think that it's a sad society when a woman comes to the emergency room and a standard questions is, "Do you feel safe at home?" A topic for another day, but suffice it to say, yes, I feel safe at home.
My husband enters and tells me he has called the kids and said I was taken to the hospital in an ambulance. "I wish you hadn't told them that," I say. "They'll be worried."
"Why don't you call them now to tell them you're OK?" he says, handing me his phone. I call, and son #3 answers. He's 17, a shining light in my life. Just looking at him is a joyful experience.
"Hello?" he says.
"Hi Phil, it's Mom."
"Are you OK?"
"I'm fine. I just didn't feel very well so they're running some tests. We'll be home soon." An audible sigh of relief. "Were you worried?"
"Well, Dad said he'd call if anything was wrong, and I saw his cell number on my phone..."
"Sorry honey, I didn't mean to scare you. I'm sure I'm fine and we'll be home probably in half an hour or so."
They send me home with the following instructions: whatever pain you are experiencing is not coming from the heart. To be cautious, rest for the next 24 hours and follow-up with your doctor. Continue with any current medications.
I am not on any medications.
Call me crazy, but these are not the most illuminating of instructions. But I do make an appointment with my doctor, because I should be following up with him on my blood work from a recent routine physical anyway. Which leads us to Panic Attack, Part II.
posted by calabresewoman | 8:04 AM
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