This is my “Adventures In Health Care” month. I am not having a good time.
I told you earlier about a kudzu vine found growing in my head. I am still fighting that battle with periodic applications of jock itch medicine- to my ear. That ear is still messed up. It sounds like I am listening through an aquarium.
I also had a “spell” a few days ago. I didn’t think too much of it..it was more like a case of “the vapors” that Southern belles used to get. I think they get something else these days but I am not sure. Anyway, I mentioned this to the doctor, who promptly ordered up some tests. That is never a good sign.
The doc wanted me to take a cardiac stress test and a carotid artery ultrasound.
Ultrasounds are usually mundane tests that involve warm jelly and some rubbing on the suspected part. Since they were staying away from my lower entry points, I was not worried.
But the cardiac testing was another story. Years ago, I ran over myself with a radio station truck. I was trying to unstick the emergency brake when..well, that’s a story for another day. The result of the accident has left me a little gimpy in my right let. Since there was a good chance the accident could have resulted in the new nickname of “stumpy”, I am pleased to have the gimp. My eternal thanks to Dr. Schaumberg for saving my bacon..er ham as it were.
They way they usually do a cardiac stress test is to put the patient on a treadmill and attempt to run them into a heart attack. If they do not succeed, you are declared fit. If they manage to succeed, you get to see medics in action, or Jesus.
If we were doing a stress test on one of our cars..it would be as if we suspected something might be wrong with the engine- maybe a main bearing. So we rolled ‘er up on the treadmill and jammed the accelerator all the way to the floor..and held it there for a few minutes to see if anything broke. If it didn’t, fine. No problem. If it did, our crankcase and piston rings would be blown all over the floor. Makes you think, huh?
If you cannot walk for a distance, the diagnosticians have developed a medicine that can make your heart beat as fast as if you had raced a grizzly bear in a half-mile sprint to see if you were going to be dinner. The medicine is quite effective. It’s name: Satan’s Heartjuice.
They instructed me to wear loose fitting clothing. That was to make it easier for the mortician in case Beelzebub’s Tonic worked a little too effectively.
Nothing to eat after midnight, either. Hospitals do not account for people who get up and go to work at three in the morning. By the time all of this would be finished, I would be ready to eat a live badger.
The ultrasound was just as I suspected. There were the images of my piping and the “swish-a-swisha”. I couldn’t make out what I was seeing on the ultrasound screen, but I could swear I saw the “Lays Cloverleaf Lard” logo float by at least twice.
Then, it was on to the cardiac lab. I was really impressed with the nurse who started the shunt in my vein. She got it with one stick. Most times, nurses have to stick and probe and stick and probe until my vision narrows and I break out in a cold sweat. That is the signal to go get the little old nurse who has worked in ICU for 50 years. She has one good eye, palsy in one hand, and can get it first try, every time. No need for that this morning…one stick…got it! It probably helps to use a needle that would make a biker gang member cry like a schoolgirl.
Then came the isotope injection. They keep this stuff in a lead container. Even when they draw it out of the big lead container, they slip the syringe into -another- lead sleeve to inject it. It is a bit unnerving to know I would be radioactive for about sixty hours. But my wife could read without her bedside lamp last night. The isotope was used to illuminate my heart.
After waiting for about an hour, I was taken to the lab for the “before” image. Technicians helped me onto the table and as they started to slide me into the imaging machine, I wondered if I might do better had I scheduled a visit with the large animal clinic, or bought the family-sized gallon bucket of Vaseline. After I figured out I was skinnier with my arms over my head, they managed to squeeze me into the machine. Now I know what it feels like to be the baloney before it is smushed into the casing.
Then,I was escorted to the lab for the cardiac test. I was helped onto the bed, which had a nice view of the Tennessee River. The people who turn Baptist into condos will enjoy the view.
Then the technician administered The Liquid Of Demon’s Delite into my vein.
At first, I only felt a little flushed. That lasted for about a half-second. Then, my breathing started to speed up, my pulse rate quickened, and suddenly I felt as if I had tried to dead lift three hundred pounds (without the hemmorhoids). Ed Poe’s “The Telltale Heart” was beating in my chest, at least for the moment. I was afraid that at any second, my cardiac organ would leap out of my chest, stand on my belly and shake it’s little aorta at me, saying “Hey, cut that crap out, fatso.”
But the fun was just begining. Remember the fellow who played accordian on Lawrence Welk?- his name was Myron Floren. My breathing started sounding like Saturday night with Mr. Floren playing “Lady Of Spain”. They were quick little raspy breaths- not enough to take in the air required for proper operation of a lard butt.
“Wheeze…snark…wheeze…snark..cough cough.”
“You’re doing fine Mr. Foulk. Just try to breathe through your nose”
“Snaarrrrrk…wheeze…wheeze…snarrrrrrrrrk, wheeze wheeze.”
“Looking good !”
“Oh….snarrrrrrk yeah? Wheeze wheeze. Hack-a-hacka”
Finally, the time came for the technician to end the IV flow of Water From The River Styx.
But the fun was just beginning. After the test, I was given juice and crackers. I was so winded, I don’t think neither could have been pounded up my exit ramp with a sledge hammer. I wanted a tank of oxygen. I also wanted to pee very badly.
Pee won out. I started to walk to the men’s room where such things were accomplished, but became so winded, I was afraid I would pass out in the toilet and not be found until next week’s clean up shift discovered my body sprawled at the base of a urinal. So I made the command decision to turn around and risk a very unfortunate accident with the hope I could get some help back at the clinic. I had visions of being found dead in the hospital hallway, soaked in my own dee dee, with bystanders saying “I always knew he was a drunk.”
I stumbled back into the technicians area…..this time my breathing had become very labored. I was sounding like an asthmatic cat trying to hack up a sticky hair ball. I was making little “zeeek, whzeeeek, whzeeeek, zeeeek” sounds. And I wasn’t getting enough oxygen to keep a hamster conscious.
That’s when the medical folks got the ball rolling, gave me some oxygen, and a couple of puffs on an inhaler. I was trying to pull the oxygen out of the tank so hard, I thought I was going to make it collapse inward like a milkshake straw.
It took about forty minutes to get things back to a semi-even keel, and I wheezed off and on for the rest of the day, thanks to Lucifer’s Lung Lotion.
They tell me that everything looked normal.
But I don’t think I could enjoy a second look at my good health anytime soon.
And I didn’t even get a complimentary 8×10.
