This Has Been a Test...

by Dean Kramer
February, 2007

I used to say that one of the last things I’d ever want to do is ride in an ambulance as a patient. I guess, come to think of it, that actually is one of the last things people ever do but, fortunately, not me. Last weekend I got a ride in one and I’m still here to write about it.

I thought I was having a heart attack. I had shortness of breath, a squeezing in my chest, sweating, numbness down my right arm, and chest pain. I felt like I was going to pass out. During this event my MS symptoms acted up as well and, so it shouldn’t be a total loss, my entire digestive system went (to use an aptly descriptive word) KABOOM.

As I staggered past Twink on my way to bed I told her I was feeling pretty sick. Twink, a born Stoic, was initially skeptical. She tried to talk me out of making a big dramatic deal out of this. I responded by making the most dramatic deal one can make. “Call 911.” I moaned. Then, since I don’t appreciate drama either, I said, “No, don’t call them. I’ll be okay.” I lay on the bed gazing out the window wondering if that view would be my last of Cripple Creek. “Not a bad view”, I thought, and I decided that I wanted to go to the E.R. after all. By this time, Twink says, I had turned yellow and looked waxy so Twink, herself, called 911.

Next thing I knew, I was flying along in an ambulance.

I was in the hands of competent professionals. They gave me oxygen and my breathing eased. They gave me nitroglycerine and my chest pain eased (though it may have been easing already). They tried to start an IV, poked me twice, and gave up. Twink and I keep our home fairly cool and I stay slightly spastic as a result. But the ambulance, and the hospital after, were toasty warm. As a result, my muscles relaxed. In the hospital they began doing a cardiac work-up. My blood pressure was not high. The EKG showed no sign of heart attack. My first blood work was negative for cardiac markers. They also gave me medication via an IV for the digestive distress. Within moments I felt so much better that I was sitting up perkily wanting lunch and hopefully awaiting discharge.

No such luck. Due to the possibility that this had been an actual alert, they wanted to monitor me overnight, do more blood work, and give me a stress test the next morning. They convinced me to go to the Emerald City and ask the wizard for a heart, i.e., to spend a night in the hospital.

Staying in a hospital, especially if you aren’t particularly sick, is a stress test all by itself. I wasn’t prepared for a hospital stay. I had no palm pilot loaded with games, no book to read, and no glasses to read it with. I had the clothes on my back. My hoody was soon exchanged for a hospital gown to make the hook-ups to my heart monitor easily accessible to the staff.  I was bored, hyperalert, and totally exhausted, wishing I could click my heels together 3 times and be back at Cripple Creek. When I was able to sleep, staff woke me at unpredictable times for medication, to take blood, and to introduce themselves during shift changes.

“Miss Kramer? Miss Kramer? MISS KRAMER…Oh, good, you’re awake. My name is Bobbi and I’ll be your Nurse’s Aide this evening. Let me tell you about our specials. We have graham crackers served with weak ginger ale. We have relatively fresh water served in a Smiley Face Big Gulp carafe with your own personal straw. You’re on a restricted, heart-healthy diet so your entrée is green beans on a bed of romaine lettuce with a side of applesauce. Please try to relax and get some rest. Remember to keep your arm straight so the IV doesn’t kink or rupture your vein and cause you to bleed to death. We’ll be waking you for a procedure every time you’re just about to drift into a deep, restorative sleep. Do you want fresh ground pepper with your aspirin?”

My room was right next to the nurse’s station where all the (endless, noisy) action was. I had both a privacy curtain and a door to shut out both the light and the noise. Every time I drew the curtain or shut the door, someone came in, did something to me, and left, leaving them open before I could think call out. “My goodness," I murmered, wondering if the stress test was already under way, "people come and go so quickly around here!”

I was given a walker to get to and from the restroom. I’d been warned not to exert myself. But with MS simply moving can require exertion. Getting out of bed was relatively simple. With my legs lowered over the side I let gravity do most of the work. Then, using the walker, I staggered to the restroom.

They wanted a sample to check for any urinary tract infection. My MS symptoms include poor balance, lower body spasticity, numb feet, and a weak right hand with no feeling in the fingers. I had to get my sweatpants off and hold the cup in position with one hand. With the other I had to make sure the cigarette-pack-sized, 1lb. heart monitor, with its 7 little wires attached to my chest and stomach, neither fell in the toilet nor pulled me off balance so I fell to the floor. The whole undertaking was, in its own way, a stress test that, leaving aside the unpleasant details, I was only partially successful in passing.

Getting back into bed was a stress test, too. No matter how much you lower a hospital bed it is still elevated and the sheets slide around on the plastic coverd mattress. First, I tried to lift one leg onto the bed so I could crawl in, but I couldn’t get my leg high enough. Next, I tried sitting on the edge of the bed hoping to slide backward, rotate, and swing my legs around. My loose sweatpants clung to the sheets unmaking the bed, nor could I sit back far enough to swing my legs around because the bed was too high. In the end I lay on my back and wriggled across the bed until my legs were dragged far enough that I could lift them with my hands. I had to do this each time I went to the restroom. The whole experience added to my exhaustion while the sheets became increasingly disarrayed making for a very un-cozy nest (not that it mattered because no sooner did I sink into slumber when… “Miss Kramer? Miss Kramer?”).

As for the actual stress test, needless to say, there was no way I was getting on a treadmill. Instead, they used a chemical to increase my heart rate. I lay on my side on a table. I had electrodes attached to my chest, arms and legs. There was an IV in one arm and a blood pressure cuff on the other. There was a nurse to monitor the IV, a technician to read the EKG, another technician with a sonogram wand to take readings every 2 minutes during the test, and a doctor to stand back and watch the circus. They handed me two cute little foam hearts, one for each hand. I was to squeeze them as often as I could to simulate real exercise during the procedure. The sonogram technician gave me constant instructions, “Deep breath in. Hold it. Breathe. Small breath out. Hold it. Breathe. Small breath in. Hold it. Breathe.” Every time the pressure cuff inflated, the other technician told me to stop squeezing with that hand, but squeeze more with the other. I felt like a beached whale mainlining crystal meth while being forced to do the Hokey-Pokey.

They found absolutely nothing amiss with my heart. Aside from MS, I seem to be in excellent health—low cholesterol, low blood pressure, everything ticking along as it should.

Call it the Drama Queen’s technique for acquiring a clean bill of health. They have several benign theories as to what caused the initial symptoms ranging from a “vagal event” to too many niacin supplements.

A dear friend came for me after the stress test. I was more than ready to leave. She brought my own dear manual wheelchair. As I sat with hands folded in my lap she headed us toward the exit. “I‘d like to roll myself.” I said, eager to be doing something, anything, to contribute to my escape.

“You sure?” she asked.

“Yep.” I replied smiling happily back over my shoulder at her. She took her hands off the chair at the top of (what she claims she didn’t realize was) a downhill wheelchair-accessible exit ramp. The chair took off. In a final stress test, I managed to get the chair under control with only a couple of “spoked” fingers.

Now I’m back at Cripple Creek where the dogs are barking, the squirrels are stirring in the attic, the snow needs to be shoveled, the bills paid, the trash emptied, and the laundry done and, somehow, it all seems so restful. There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home…