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I mean that sincerely - not being a bit sarcastic, here.
Last Tuesday (a week ago today), DH (aka Irish) complained of being very tired and went to bed early. About half an hour later, he called me into the bedroom and said he was hot - feverish - but clammy and his chest hurt, especially when he took a deep breath. He didn't have any jaw or arm pain, it wasn't radiating, and he wasn't sick to his stomach but of course we called 911 anyway. The EMTs came quickly, checked his blood pressure and listened to his heart - all fine - and hooked him up to a monitor - the readings were normal. Since everything was normal, he didn't go to the hospital, but went to a small VA clinic the next morning (Wednesday) to be checked out further.
At the clinic, all his readings were also normal, but because he still had pain in his chest, they wanted him to go to a larger clinic the next morning (Thursday). On Thursday morning, Irish dropped me off at work and drove himself to the clinic. About an hour later, he called and told me they were admitting him to the hospital because his blood pressure was so high (it had been normal on Tuesday and Wednesday). I called my mom, who lives about 20 miles away, and she picked me up at work and took me to the hospital. I got there about an hour after Irish, but I'd been speaking with him on the phone, so knew he wasn't feeling any worse than he had been and that they weren't rushing him into surgery or anything.
By the time I got there, he was in an examining room hooked up to oxygen and a monitor with a drip in his hand (and bleeding all over the place because he tore the tubing loose trying to use the little plastic urinal - he'd told them there wasn't enough slack but they said there was - guess who was right on that one!), watching tv. The ER doctor had narrowed the problem down to pleurisy or a blood clot. Of course we were hoping it wasn't a blood clot; Irish had a blood clot once not long before I met him and ended up in open heart surgery, and neither of us wanted that. Sometime after noon, they took him for a CT scan. Around 3:00, we still hadn't received results, so mom drove me over the the VA clinic to get my car, then she went home.
When I got back to the hospital, they'd finally received the CT scan results. Unfortunately, they showed blood clots - one in each lung. (Oddly, the larger one didn't cause any pain.) Also, once they had a diagnosis and they knew they didn't have to perform surgery or more tests, Irish was allowed to eat. (It was after 4:30 by the time he had a sandwich and he hadn't eaten anything all day.) The rest of the evening was a matter of waiting around till a room was available, which wasn't until just after 10:00 that evening.
So that's why I say "thank God for anti-climaxes" because it really is a bit of an anti-climax to the story to say Irish stayed in the hospital for four and a half days, get shots every twelve hours, and spent most of them bored and restless and wishing he could go home, and I picked him up at noon today and now he's home resting. It's a good anti-climax. This is the kind of adventure that doesn't need to keep building until something big happens. I like to think that Irish is too young (53) to have a fatal heart attack or stroke and that I'm too young (42) to be a widow, but I know that's not true. Anyway, now he's a non-smoker (and an avid cinnamon gum chewer) who has to take Coumadin every day, shave with an electric shaver, avoid wresting with the kitties, and revise his diet (which we both need to do in any case) and, God willing, we'll have a lot of years together. Hopefully without further medical adventures!
Sunrise Hospital, in Las Vegas, by the way, is wonderful and the ER and 5th floor nurses rock. I suspect they're as short-staffed and overworked as hospital nurses are around the country, but they were never cross, short-tempered, or impatient. (Maybe it helped that I told Irish he had to be good to the nurses because they run the place and could make his life miserable? My middle sister is a nurse; I try to treat them as well as I'd like people to treat her.)
And now it's 5:30 and I'm so tired - you'd think I haven't been sleeping but I have - and there's no food in the house, so I'm off to buy a healthy supper to bring home to my sweetie and spend the evening watching more Due South.
Last Tuesday (a week ago today), DH (aka Irish) complained of being very tired and went to bed early. About half an hour later, he called me into the bedroom and said he was hot - feverish - but clammy and his chest hurt, especially when he took a deep breath. He didn't have any jaw or arm pain, it wasn't radiating, and he wasn't sick to his stomach but of course we called 911 anyway. The EMTs came quickly, checked his blood pressure and listened to his heart - all fine - and hooked him up to a monitor - the readings were normal. Since everything was normal, he didn't go to the hospital, but went to a small VA clinic the next morning (Wednesday) to be checked out further.
At the clinic, all his readings were also normal, but because he still had pain in his chest, they wanted him to go to a larger clinic the next morning (Thursday). On Thursday morning, Irish dropped me off at work and drove himself to the clinic. About an hour later, he called and told me they were admitting him to the hospital because his blood pressure was so high (it had been normal on Tuesday and Wednesday). I called my mom, who lives about 20 miles away, and she picked me up at work and took me to the hospital. I got there about an hour after Irish, but I'd been speaking with him on the phone, so knew he wasn't feeling any worse than he had been and that they weren't rushing him into surgery or anything.
By the time I got there, he was in an examining room hooked up to oxygen and a monitor with a drip in his hand (and bleeding all over the place because he tore the tubing loose trying to use the little plastic urinal - he'd told them there wasn't enough slack but they said there was - guess who was right on that one!), watching tv. The ER doctor had narrowed the problem down to pleurisy or a blood clot. Of course we were hoping it wasn't a blood clot; Irish had a blood clot once not long before I met him and ended up in open heart surgery, and neither of us wanted that. Sometime after noon, they took him for a CT scan. Around 3:00, we still hadn't received results, so mom drove me over the the VA clinic to get my car, then she went home.
When I got back to the hospital, they'd finally received the CT scan results. Unfortunately, they showed blood clots - one in each lung. (Oddly, the larger one didn't cause any pain.) Also, once they had a diagnosis and they knew they didn't have to perform surgery or more tests, Irish was allowed to eat. (It was after 4:30 by the time he had a sandwich and he hadn't eaten anything all day.) The rest of the evening was a matter of waiting around till a room was available, which wasn't until just after 10:00 that evening.
So that's why I say "thank God for anti-climaxes" because it really is a bit of an anti-climax to the story to say Irish stayed in the hospital for four and a half days, get shots every twelve hours, and spent most of them bored and restless and wishing he could go home, and I picked him up at noon today and now he's home resting. It's a good anti-climax. This is the kind of adventure that doesn't need to keep building until something big happens. I like to think that Irish is too young (53) to have a fatal heart attack or stroke and that I'm too young (42) to be a widow, but I know that's not true. Anyway, now he's a non-smoker (and an avid cinnamon gum chewer) who has to take Coumadin every day, shave with an electric shaver, avoid wresting with the kitties, and revise his diet (which we both need to do in any case) and, God willing, we'll have a lot of years together. Hopefully without further medical adventures!
Sunrise Hospital, in Las Vegas, by the way, is wonderful and the ER and 5th floor nurses rock. I suspect they're as short-staffed and overworked as hospital nurses are around the country, but they were never cross, short-tempered, or impatient. (Maybe it helped that I told Irish he had to be good to the nurses because they run the place and could make his life miserable? My middle sister is a nurse; I try to treat them as well as I'd like people to treat her.)
And now it's 5:30 and I'm so tired - you'd think I haven't been sleeping but I have - and there's no food in the house, so I'm off to buy a healthy supper to bring home to my sweetie and spend the evening watching more Due South.