Thursday, October 8, 2009
In Actuality, I Should Be Dead
As you, my faithful droogies know from earlier this week, I had a significant event via my cardiac system. I experienced a Myocardial Infarction. Ok..I saw that on "E.R." and heard that radioed in during my siren laden trip in the meat wagon on the way to the Cardiac Unit at the hospital. And most times on "E.R.", the patient survived and would appear on the following week's "C.S.I." as that episode's killer.
Damn those defibrillator crash carts!
That doesn't appear to be what's real, at least in my case. I will not be killing anyone, anytime soon.
Fortunately as of today, that's by my choice. However, it could have been much different if the fates had an alternate chosen course of events.
From what I was told today, most who suffer what I did on Monday do not make it to the Cardiac Unit at the hospital...breathing. And those who do make it will, over all, face a time where they get to be in a "The Scooter Store" ad acting all frisky while doing doughnuts on the hardwood floors of their active community condo while holding on to their mobile oxygen tanks.
I would at least have a designer nose piece on mine. Make it look like Snidely Whiplashes' mustache. (60's cartoon pop culture reference)
So I arrive at the Cardiac Unit at the hospital feet first, but breathing on my own and no one using their hands on my chest, counting out the pumps before we kiss. I am surrounded by a team, each one taking turns asking me the same questions over and over doing stuff to my body. Finally I meet the cardiologist who tells me he is going to send a sensation up my leg, but quite unlike the one Chris Matthews expressed feeling upon hearing Barack Hussein Obama's name. To get my sensations, the thing I most wanted to sprout "down there" at an age when my voice was cracking would be shaven and a tube inserted inside me going up to me ticker. And no..NOT inserted "there"..but through a new man made hole in my skin.
It was that or pretty much die.
SIDETRACK: In the ambulance I was in a fair amount of pain that ranged from a 5 to a 7 to a 9, and back again, over and over. I was asked if I wanted morphine for the pain, but in so much as my MP3 Player chock full of Heavy Metal music was left at home, I declined said treatment. Also, I wanted to be fully aware of the levels of pain as well all of what was going on around and to me. That paid off in me not passing out when said hole was created and I was able to video some of what was going on with and inside me.
Into a new room I go, surrounded by three or four very attentive professional young ladies prepping me for said new hole. Lo and behold, there was one young lady in particular who grew up across the street from my sister that I have known since she was little, REALLY little. Since I was being pumped full of a variety of substance, I can't recall if she was the one who shaved me "down there" or not. But I could have sworn that just as the disposable electric razor began doing it's thing, I heard a male voice say..
"Well..you should know. My name is Chris Hansen and I am doing a show about..."
But I digress....
I notice a rack of flat screen monitors in an array not dis-similar to a TV studio control room. And in my haze I can see that it's the fluoroscoped images of what was happening and about to happen to me. I feel around, find my tiny camcorder and shoot the best I can.
SIDETRACK REDUX: Earlier that day at the site of said cardiac event, I was at a storage facility provided to me by the generous folks who handled the lock out at my former residence. This is where they so graciously trashed many of my possessions. I decided to sell most of the metal objects to a scrap metal dealer guy and as we made our way through the storage bin, I would video or photograph the "especially well" taken care of items for posterity...and use in litigation. BTW..the scrap metal guy was really a great guy. I would deal with him again in a heartbeat. And fortunately, I currently have spare heartbeats.
It was shortly after the scrap guy left and my oldest came to help me with the last details, that my heart decided to let me know it was displeased. Thus...the camcorder being in my pocket when at the Cardiac Unit at the hospital while my stuff "down there" was being made old (elementary) school.
Part Two: How I Avoided Meeting With Obama's "Death Panels"