the wertz generation

Considering the ordeal that a few days in the hospital can become - especially given the least-effort type service that seems to permeate every aspect of American commerce these days - the heart attack itself was almost the highlight of the whole affair.

Having been admitted to the resort-themed Florida Hospital Celebration for tests following chest pains at the beginning of July, I was released with the diagnosis that there was some arterial blockage, but "nothing immediately threatening". I was told that the cardiologist would call to make a follow-up appointment within the month, possibly to include an angiogram. I was put on an aspirin prescription plus nitroglycerin tablets in the event of subsequent chest pains.

Last Friday (the last possible day the cardiologist could have called to schedule an appointment "within the month") around 3pm, I started having chest pains again. I took a nitro tablet and, when the pain didn't subside, took another three minutes later. The pain kept getting worse. After a third tab and another three minutes, I asked Sean to call 911. By the time the emergency vehicles arrived - within a couple of minutes - the pain was almost crippling. I'd broken into a cold full-body sweat, could only breath shallowly and rapidly, and could barely make it from one room to the next. I guess "not immediately threatening" implies an unstated "but possibly seriously threatening before I bother to get back to you".

Anyway, it seems that once a heart attack commences, one has approximately an hour before permanent damage can be done to the muscle and maybe up to three hours before serious scarring occurs. Unless, of course, the whole thing just shuts down in the meantime. So following instructions and calling the ambulance when we did was incredibly sensible, even for those who'd rather sit through a Rob Schneider festival than visit a physician. In case you ever get the feeling that Anna Nicole Smith is practicing her trampoline act on your chest as you're being laced into a corset, don't hesitate - call 911.

But, DAMN - where did they get this EMS crew? Sean later described them as the calendar boys for Emergency Services. There were two firemen that I saw (one blond, one latino) two paramedics (both hunky white guys), and a black ambulance driver. And every single one of them was remarkably well put together. They could have been the cast of an EMS tv series (at least one of whom would appear weekly on the covers of Star, Us, In Touch, and/or People) - or perhaps a ChiChi LaRue movie. In any event, they made the pain more bearable - and it wasn't just the baby aspirin. In fact, if I hadn't been in the middle of a myocardial infarction, it would've been total fantasy material:

Hunky White Paramedic Number One: We need to get your t-shirt off.

Hunky White Paramedic Number Two: Can you move or should we rip it off?

Me: Dude - rip it!

We got to the ER of Florida Hospital Celebration where they gave me some morphine and nothing much else mattered until I became aware of the fact that I was to be taken to a helicopter and airlifted to Florida Hospital Orlando. The flight crew arrived and - I swear - it was ChiChi LaRue's Physical Therapy, Part Two. Are EMS guys recruited through modelling agencies these days? Halfway there, with these studly paramedics soothing me as we soared over central Florida, I began wondering if, in fact, I was having an out-of-body experience. When I go, forget about astral pulses and heavenly flares - just give me the Osceola County emergency response team, some opiates, and a chopper.

But, no - I was still very much in body - and onto the helipad, out of the aircraft, into some emergency cardio unit, then anaesthetic...

Eight or nine years ago, I had similar-ish chest pains to those I had a month ago. I was taken to St. James Hospital in Dublin for tests, including an angiogram - which they performed with just a local anaesthetic. This is minor surgery in which they basically make an incision in your groin and shove a tube through your circulatory system into your coronary arteries. Being awake during this procedure is not advised - especially if the guy shoving said tube through ones arteries into one's heart goes about business as though he were fixing a carburator. Uh... that's a meter-long tube there, doc - should you really be slamming it through my arterial system in four quick, noisy thrusts? Rough sex is one thing, but rough surgery?

Anyway, this time I was either put under or passed out - which is just as well since they had to shove various things from my groin to my coronary arteries at least three times. I'm not sure whether angioplasties and stent insertions require one or two forays through one's system, so it might have been five times.

When I was next conscious, I was still in the cardiac unit, but there was a pressure bandage on my shaved crotch and a nurse standing over me with a urinal bottle. "We need you to void now. Your bladder may be putting pressure on the incision." She hands me the bottle, takes a step back and starts looking at her watch. Very helpful. "Um, could you give me a minute or two?" She sighs and moves to the doorway. Seconds later: "No luck? Okay, then, I'll have to insert a catheter." Icing on the cake. Not long after that treat (and, yes, it lives up to its reputation), I lost consciousness again - and woke up as I was being wheeled into the ICU. Now all I had to do was survive the convalescence.

To be continued...

Tags: gesundheit, social and personal
humour: chipper