Two weeks ago, I was struck. Not only did I have my first heart attack; to the best of my knowledge, I had the first one in my immediate family. Thinking it was another acid reflux attack, I drove myself to the hospital, where they told me. “Sir, you’re having a massive heart attack.” Well. That might explain why the pain I was feeling was the worst I had ever felt.
They have no cardiac care in Culpeper, so they stuck me in an ambulance, rushing me to the UVA hospital in Charlottesville, where I went directly into the operating room, without checking in, for a quick exam and stent insertion — very freaky. But once they cleared the blockage, and emplaced the stent, I no longer felt any pain.
When the dust had settled, having passed through intensive care, and been studied, poked, and prodded, they discharged me with a handful of new prescription medicines, one of which promptly turned my back blue, and set me to itching over my entire upper body. That brought me right back to the emergency room. One of the drugs they’d sent me home with, the Plavix blood thinner, was apparently notorious for this. They changed it out for a different thinner, and sent me home again.
Ten days later they added another drug, and the itching began again. The next morning, I couldn’t breathe. Fortunately, on a whim, I’d bought a small oxygen cannister at Lowes (about the size of a bug spray bottle). Two puffs and I was fine, but it was off to the hospital again.
This time they couldn’t decide whether the drug was so important that they should try to find a way to medicate me so that I could ride out the side effects, or have me go off the drug. They opted for going off the drug (my choice, too). It’s been quite a recovery period.
At this point, all I want is to be free of the medical profession for a while. They are fine people, and perhaps they’ve saved my life, but we need to stop meeting for a while. I have a life.
