As the story goes, your whole life flashes before your eyes just as you're about to die. Everything from child birth to your final moment can end up on your greatest hits reel. It didn't quite go that way for me. Not that I died or anything, I was pretty convinced I was going to, so I guess it counts. As my hands balled up into clenched fists and my head felt like a teakettle about to explode, the only thing I could think about is whether or not the investment company where I had my 401k was open on Sundays because I forgot to name a beneficiary. I had my phone in a kung fu grip, but it was unlikely they would understand me even if I could find the number because I don't think they speak convulse at ING.
I had no idea what had happened to me. The cop who showed up before the ambulance asked me. The paramedics who drove the ambulance asked me. It was probably the first time in what I figured was the end of my life that I wish I'd gone to medical school so I could answer the questions properly. It felt, without exaggeration, like the worst electrocution I'd ever received. Worse than the one I got pissing on an electric fence. Yes, I did.
The paramedic had a rhythm about him. He would ask me two important questions, and then, in pure non sequitur mode, ask me a nonsensical question. He wanted to know the name of my dog three or four times. I understand it was an attempt to keep me calm, but considering I was strapped to a gurney in the back of a fucking ambulance, calm wasn't likely to happen. Chest pain was one of my main bitches. We all decided maybe I was having a heart attack. A rubber gloved hand shoved four orange baby aspirin into my mouth. I was told to chew. In probably the most pleasant part of this whole experience, they tasted like oranges (what else would they taste like?). I heard that taking aspirin can help if you have heart disease, and I was seriously considering picking up a bottle of these bad boys to have with breakfast.
The other thing they do if they think you're having a heart attack is set you up for an EKG. This whole process involves at least 5 to 7 stickers which REALLY stick. They put them on exceptionally hairy places if you're a guy ( or a hippie chick). I would recommend you never tell a paramedic or a doctor they think you're having a heart attack unless you're 100% sure because they're harder to get off than a eunuch and you can't get a prescription to kerosene.
Another tip is if you get an EKG done in the ambulance, the people at the hospital don't trust the stickers that the paramedics use, so when it's time for THEIR EKG, the nurse will tear the ambulance stickers off without warning. Well, at least the first one is without warning. Only a moron would think they would stop at one. They're like potato chips, after all. I think medical schools should at least teach the common courtesy of putting the new stickers on the bald spots where the old stickers were. I look like a leopard now. Aside from all the normal reasons of not wanting to take off my shirt in public, now I have the added worry of getting shot by poachers.
Both of those readings came back normal. Normal meaning I didn't have a heart attack or any sort of heart related thing other than an actual heart. In the back of the ambulance, we all took turns guessing what was wrong with me. We crossed out stroke since I didn't look like the people at the end of INDIANA JONES AND THE RAIDERS OF THE LOST ARK. As a product of watching too many movies, when somebody has a medical background and they say, “I don't know what's wrong with you”, I hit the panic button (which didn't help the situation much). While the paramedics concentrated on driving, I wondered how I possibly could have gotten a disease only spotted monkeys in South America get. Other than the obvious. But I was drunk that night.
We pulled up to the hospital;it was like the express lane. I got right in. No waiting in the lounge next to other people about to die. Instead I had the pleasure of being double parked next to them in the back hallway. Funny how it might take forever to get your room, but they put the triage on wheels now. Some chick with a laptop on a modified office chair came over and took all my information. It takes a lot of faith to do that job considering that sometimes people can't talk. Like me, for instance. I still thought I did well and deserved a gold star. Or 9 EKG stickers.
Through hours of poking, prodding, bloodletting, and being plugged into all sorts electrical monitors, they came up with anxiety attack. They asked me if I had any extra stress lately. That's like asking a hobo if he's been MORE homeless lately. When I asked about the numbness NOT associated with anxiety, he blamed it on hyper-ventilation. Even though I wasn't.
“Look,”he said matter of factly,”if you breathe twice a second for two minutes, it causes *insert latin words here* to your muscles.”
“So I won't do that...”
I thought it was funny. He didn't. An hour later, I was discharged (heh) with a prescription to Xanax. Well enough to handle the stresses of the world again, the nurse, under the guise of 'walking me out', led me directly to billing. Watching the guy try to ask for my emergency room payment while looking at paperwork stating ANXIETY under my information was like seeing a bomb squad technician not touch the red wire. I suppose if I relapsed, the ER was right there.
I wonder if they'd charge me for a separate visit?
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