After a sleepless night in pain, seriously not one moment of sleep, I packed a small overnight bag and hauled my sorry ass up to the Garberville Emergency room. I was the only client there at 6am and all the wonderful tattooed hippie nurses, candy stripers, and others got me comfortable and did the tests, including EKG, x-rays, and a blood-draw.
The electrocardiogram revealed: heart attack! I didn't care, I'm ready to die, just don't like all that pain! (The old Vietnamese doc kept saying he couldn't understand why I had waited four days and that as I was on no medication and healthy it was odd that I should have a heart attack.) They told me I might have a procedure up in Eureka where they insert something up my femoral artery and be in the hospital a couple days. A stent? Quadruple bypass? No one knew until I saw the cardiologist. I called my sister and she insisted on driving up there also. Okay sure, why not?
They checked my blood pressure repeatedly, asked me about my pain levels, gave me some morphine a couple times, lined up the cardiologist, and the ambulance hauled me to Eureka Hospital. I got about five more mini-shots of morphine in the ambulance which didn't do much so I kept asking for more while looking out at the pretty views of the Eel River valley through the huge back window. One medic drove and the other continually ran tests by my side.
I got the express lane into a private room just off the Emergency Room and all the tests were repeated. Like the Garberville crew, the staff were young friendly people. It was quickly determined by the admitting physician that I had not had a heart attack, what I had was acute pericarditis which is inflammation of the sac around the heart. The cardiologist concurred and listed all the factors in the tests which unequivocally pointed to that condition.
I waited for a couple hours for the lab tests to be done in the comfy room catching up on some sleep. My sister arrived to hang out and eventually take me back south. We got the drugs at Rite-Aid and I got home just now. Though not exactly painkillers, the expensive drug, $175 for sixty pills, will reduce the inflammation, and thus the pain, after a month or so. (The pharmacist offered me a tutorial about gout, which is the most common use of Colchicine, and was surprised when I said it was for a heart condition.)
Wow, exciting day and I'm looking forward to taking the drugs and recovery. I did find my fave beer, Modelo Negra, at the nearly empty and odd retro drugstore which sold wine by the gallon for eight bucks.
Now I'm gonna defrost my fancy Amellia's birthday cupcake and start the celebration a few days early, with Cherry Garcia on top!
Wishing you a swift recovery. I always enjoy your stories n the AVA and in the past The Gulch Mulch
Thanks! I wonder if you are the Noel in Garberville with the funny little car…
I’m thinking of dumping facebook but I don’t want to be one of those people who often say that then never do.
Now that I’m banned from Kmud shouldn’t I self-ban further? How isolated can I go?
Can I really write and live for a few “likes” now and then? What kind of a life is that?
Face it, we post because we want attention, but isn’t that pretty pathetic?
Fb is a joke, very few of you are really friends so why go through this charade? (Definition of friend: one who calls you and says let’s do this, or that, or just hang out.)
I know life isn’t fair and these are tiny issues in the big picture so why can’t I get them out of my head and move on? The negative loop about the Kmud experience keeps going through my head: at sleep, when awakening, I can’t force a positive thought in there.
I keep thinking why did they have to be so mean to me, censor me, and if they had a problem with my content tell me what it was. And if they had a problem with me tell me what they heard so I could defend myself.
I’m crying now because I’m dying, well as Dylan said, we all are. Maybe I’m just prematurely saying goodbye, not to anyone, just to existence, this earth, ya know, that sort of thing.
Yes that heart episode and ambulance ride has affected me.
Knowing my aorta could burst at any moment is making me think I should get my affairs in order.
If I post this it will be because I really am a writer and showing I’m not afraid of expressing my honest raw emotions. (But then I’ll feel pathetic and delete it.)
What do I really want? More attention is usually the answer for everyone, right? Unless you’re swimming in it—good for you.
Yes I’m sweaty and ugly in my gold-plated prison on the hillside.
At least I can write, feel emotions, and not be a cutter.
I suppose I should take a shower and make breakfast.
I would really like to talk to you. I’ve been following you for a long time!
Hey dude, you’re as lively a thinker-writer as ever and I’m glad to see you’re pulling through.
SB! What a blast from the past!
How did you find this site?
I’m in the middle of editing next weeks
rant at the moment.
How’s it going?
Still in G?
email would be better than a public newspaper :)