Panic Attack Part III
The saga continues. Sorry, gentle reader, if I am boring you to tears, but I have to get this out. My physician brother, the one who called my physician sister, was convinced Panic Attack II was caused by the simvastatin, the cholesterol-lowing medication I took exactly once on my own doctor's recommendation. He said our family has a notoriously low tolerance for any drug. He said to stop taking it. But a few days after Panic Attack II, I decided to try it again. I cut the pill in half, so we're talking a measly 10 milligrams of a drug said to have few side effects. I took half a pill one night, and half a pill the following night.
My body did not respond well. My heart palpitated. My mind raced. I had vertigo. But the clincher was a gigantic bruise that bloomed on my upper right arm when I could recall no injury. I studied the insert from the pharmacy, which warned of an allergic reaction, which was supposed to be rare. Bruising and dizziness were signs of an allergic reaction, and if I had those symptoms, I was to seek medical attention "immediately." These words did nothing to reduce the low level panic I had continued to experience over the previous few days. When my doctor returned my call, 4 hours later (yes, HOURS), I was close to frantic. He seemed perplexed, but was willing to believe that I had suffered a reaction since I gave it a second try. He prescribed another medication, pravachol. "I've had good results with this one," he said. I was willing to try it, but I was feeling worse and worse all the time.
I continued to have heart palpitations and a feeling of dread. I felt dizzy and nauseated. I forced myself to go about my day, even to my regular workout at the gym, but all the time worried that that day was to be my last. I allowed myself one half of one xanax on three occasions over the course of the week. It helped, a lot. I just had to make it until Thursday, I thought to myself, and by "make it," I meant "live". Thursday was the day I was to have the stress test and echocardiogram to rule out my heart as the cause of my distress.
I arrived at Passavant Hospital at the designated time, and over the course of 3 hours, I was injected, scanned, plugged in and exercised on a tread mill. The nurse tried to put the IV in my hand but my veins would not cooperate. I was left with a gigantic hematoma that reminded me of when my kids would bonk their delicate foreheads against wood floors or furniture and be left with huge blue eggs like they had been whacked on the head. It was the aspirin, I was told. Keeps your blood from clotting. Between the blue egg on my hand and the colorful bruise still decorating my upper arm, I am sure that more than one person in that hospital thought I was the victim of abuse. Which I was. By my own body.
On Friday I received a message from my doctor that all tests came back normal. I should have been relieved, but by that time I was experiencing what I can only describe as Braxton-Hicks contractions, which I remembered vividly from the many months I had been pregnant over the course of my life. But these contractions were almost like labor, like my uterus was determined to expel something foreign from my body. And it was, I thought. It was trying to expel my very youth. It was like I was wrapped in a vise that was being cruelly tightened by the minute. I used breathing techniques remembered from Lamaze class to get through the contractions.
Saturday was worse. And where was my period, by the way? It was nearly 2 weeks late. Could I have been pregnant? Unlikely, since I am 50 years old and Hubby had a vasectomy 10 years ago. But you hear about people who get pregnant even with vasectomies, and even when the woman is, shall we say, of a certain age. Maybe that was why my body was going haywire. I bought a pregnancy test and took it. Twice. Came back negative. Twice.
On Saturday I lay in a ball under the blanket on my bed, trying different breathing patterns to get through the contractions and heart palpitations. We were scheduled to go to dinner with friends that evening, and I decided dinner with friends would be a good distraction. Maybe it was all in my head anyway.
This was probably the worst thing about this whole episode. I became someone who I am not, and someone I do not want to be. Someone who complains. Someone who people feel sorry for. Someone who's drinking water at dinner when one of her dining companions has generously brought a selection of fine wines. Someone who's drinking herbal tea when her friends are drinking port. Someone who wants only to get in bed and close her eyes and hope to wake up alive the next day, instead of enjoying the good company of friends.
On Sunday my period arrived. With a vengeance. Sunday night I took the new meds. Today is Monday. I don't feel fine but I feel half normal. I feel somewhat rational. I have an appointment with my GYN on Thursday, when I hope to convince her that I need HRT.
And that, my friend, hopefully is that.
My body did not respond well. My heart palpitated. My mind raced. I had vertigo. But the clincher was a gigantic bruise that bloomed on my upper right arm when I could recall no injury. I studied the insert from the pharmacy, which warned of an allergic reaction, which was supposed to be rare. Bruising and dizziness were signs of an allergic reaction, and if I had those symptoms, I was to seek medical attention "immediately." These words did nothing to reduce the low level panic I had continued to experience over the previous few days. When my doctor returned my call, 4 hours later (yes, HOURS), I was close to frantic. He seemed perplexed, but was willing to believe that I had suffered a reaction since I gave it a second try. He prescribed another medication, pravachol. "I've had good results with this one," he said. I was willing to try it, but I was feeling worse and worse all the time.
I continued to have heart palpitations and a feeling of dread. I felt dizzy and nauseated. I forced myself to go about my day, even to my regular workout at the gym, but all the time worried that that day was to be my last. I allowed myself one half of one xanax on three occasions over the course of the week. It helped, a lot. I just had to make it until Thursday, I thought to myself, and by "make it," I meant "live". Thursday was the day I was to have the stress test and echocardiogram to rule out my heart as the cause of my distress.
I arrived at Passavant Hospital at the designated time, and over the course of 3 hours, I was injected, scanned, plugged in and exercised on a tread mill. The nurse tried to put the IV in my hand but my veins would not cooperate. I was left with a gigantic hematoma that reminded me of when my kids would bonk their delicate foreheads against wood floors or furniture and be left with huge blue eggs like they had been whacked on the head. It was the aspirin, I was told. Keeps your blood from clotting. Between the blue egg on my hand and the colorful bruise still decorating my upper arm, I am sure that more than one person in that hospital thought I was the victim of abuse. Which I was. By my own body.
On Friday I received a message from my doctor that all tests came back normal. I should have been relieved, but by that time I was experiencing what I can only describe as Braxton-Hicks contractions, which I remembered vividly from the many months I had been pregnant over the course of my life. But these contractions were almost like labor, like my uterus was determined to expel something foreign from my body. And it was, I thought. It was trying to expel my very youth. It was like I was wrapped in a vise that was being cruelly tightened by the minute. I used breathing techniques remembered from Lamaze class to get through the contractions.
Saturday was worse. And where was my period, by the way? It was nearly 2 weeks late. Could I have been pregnant? Unlikely, since I am 50 years old and Hubby had a vasectomy 10 years ago. But you hear about people who get pregnant even with vasectomies, and even when the woman is, shall we say, of a certain age. Maybe that was why my body was going haywire. I bought a pregnancy test and took it. Twice. Came back negative. Twice.
On Saturday I lay in a ball under the blanket on my bed, trying different breathing patterns to get through the contractions and heart palpitations. We were scheduled to go to dinner with friends that evening, and I decided dinner with friends would be a good distraction. Maybe it was all in my head anyway.
This was probably the worst thing about this whole episode. I became someone who I am not, and someone I do not want to be. Someone who complains. Someone who people feel sorry for. Someone who's drinking water at dinner when one of her dining companions has generously brought a selection of fine wines. Someone who's drinking herbal tea when her friends are drinking port. Someone who wants only to get in bed and close her eyes and hope to wake up alive the next day, instead of enjoying the good company of friends.
On Sunday my period arrived. With a vengeance. Sunday night I took the new meds. Today is Monday. I don't feel fine but I feel half normal. I feel somewhat rational. I have an appointment with my GYN on Thursday, when I hope to convince her that I need HRT.
And that, my friend, hopefully is that.
posted by calabresewoman | 3:24 PM
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