Passing the ham, part 3. (Sorry for keeping all six of you on tenterhooks for five days. In sympathy, apparently, with my own health adventures, my trusty PC came down with hard drive troubles, now resolved. I hope.)

Anyway, back to the hospital. On the second evening, the nurses came in and stuck another IV line into me, this time into the back of my left hand – "just in case". So now both hands sported IVs. Moira stayed as late as she could, and then I succumbed to the lure of mindless television – I think I watched the same Mythbusters episode 3 times in a row – and then a nurse came in and offered to put on a featurette on angiograms and angioplasty. Ok, fine... hey, all these people are a lot older than me. And they're getting outpatient care! Another nurse came by and dropped off the informed consent form, and I saw a bunch of terminology on it that I didn't remember ever discussing with the cardiologist, so I left it unsigned. The angiogram would run a catheter up my right radial artery, so the nurse shaved all the hair off my wrist. I turned out the light and, with tubes stuck in both hands and 12 ECG leads on my torso, I tried to get some sleep.

The next morning, I could only get the pre-surgery breakfast – clear, saltless broth, yellow Jell-O, and tea, no milk – I lay on the bed in a funk, swathed in the big fuzzy robe that Moira had been kind enough to bring. Some co-workers arranged to drive my car, left at work two days before, back to our house, because we were anticipating near-blizzard conditions by that evening. The cardiologist stopped by; we discussed the consent form, and he answered my questions satisfactorily, so I signed. A nurse came by and asked to see my feet.

"Why?"

"We need to know where on your feet we can get a good pulse during the procedure."*

She massaged each foot for a minute, then took out a black Sharpie and marked a big black X on the top of the arch, and again near the ankle. I looked like I was getting measured for crucifixion.

Moira kept me company while I waited for something to happen; the catastrophizing part of my brain kept evolving scenarios that held me captive in the hospital for days. Everything about being in the hospital seems designed to make the patient feel cut off from the world of the healthy. There's no way I'm getting out of here today, my brain kept repeating. Oh, well, at least I can look good. The IV tubes in my hands discouraged me from making use of the shower in the bathroom, and my hair was getting pretty rank, but at least I could shave, and I did. Much better. Look sharp, feel sharp...

Then a nurse came in with a Valium and a cup of water. After that, details start to get fuzzy. I remember getting on a gurney, pushed by a big strong lad from the cardiac catheterization unit, or "cath lab", as they called it. Another nurse gave me a heated towel to cover myself with. As we headed down into the bowels of the hospital, we discussed sushi options around town, and the advisability of eating sushi when 1500 miles from the ocean.

Down in the cath lab (hey, I like the sound of that. Cool. Punchy. Monosyllabic.), one of the nurses opened up a small oven packed full of hot towels, and got me another one. Neat! Now, the details start to get really fuzzy. Moira took her leave, and the cath lab guys (I'm, like, one of them now, so I can call it that cool name) wheeled me into the operating room, or lab room, or whatever. They hooked up my IV to some kind of bodacious sedative, and from that point on I didn't care what they did. I was conscious throughout, but all I remember now is that it seemed like we all, the nurses and the cardiologist (begowned now) and I, were all just having one big party, hanging out, shooting the breeze. I think they were talking about football, or movies, or something. I don't remember anything about any angiogram, any part of it. I fully intended to watch the whole thing, but at this point I don't remember them actually conducting the procedure at all. By the time it was finished, I would have been perfectly happy if we turned around and did it all over again, it seemed like such a mellow good time.

And the result of it was... I was clean. No appreciable blockages at all, anywhere. The stress test implied a blockage, but the angiogram was the definitive answer, and the angiogram said I was fine, so fine I was. In my serene and equanimitable mood, that was ok. Anything would probably have been ok at that moment, but "no blockage" was definitely ok.

The rest of the day is fairly jumbled up in my head still. They put some sort of pressure bandage on the catheterization site, so that I wouldn't spring a leak. Once back in my room, I remember having all the other bits of paraphernalia removed. I remember Moira and the Ranting Spawn being present, and having a splint put on my wrist (to keep the catheterization wound from reopening) and speaking to my father on the telephone, and apparently I was released from the hospital. I clutched a little packet, containing a business card for the cardiologist, an appointment card with my regular physician, a page or two of patient care advice, a little card signed by my buddies, the cath lab nurses (I mean, those are the guys. I love those guys!) and an insulated water bottle with the hospital insignia on it.

And I'm still not sure what caused the whole thing.

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*Why did they need to know that? She explained it, but it's all gone fuzzy now.

Posted by David Fleck at 02 February 2008 03:57 PM