A few firsts recently: A recounting of a medical event
I stood up after a crouch and a lean, I was killing time. No chairs where I was waiting, in a warehouse. The issue was a network test. There’s another story there, but it is not this story. Of course the crouch started to get uncomfortable, so I unfolded myself more painfully than I would care to admit. After getting up to a full stand, I got really light-headed. I closed my eyes. I start to breathe slowly but fully to let the sensation pass.
I wake up on the ground. I do not remember falling, but I hit the ground pretty good. Seems like that fall might have been head first—based on evidence.
My fall was witnessed, at least in part. A 911 call was in progress as consciousness returned. Alertness returned while being rolled onto my back. I heard that someone tried to get to me before I hit the ground. I heard that I may have seized. I was told not to move. I note the loading dock number where I fell was numbered 17. My head hurts. The back of my left hand is scraped. My left thigh is sore.
Losing consciousness: that’s an automatic visit from an EMT crew. I know the rules. Blood sugar tested because I admitted diabetes. It was not low. Blood pressure was high in the moment. Icepack on my head feels amazing. Comments from the crew about the welt on my head. I shared the list of my conditions, the list of my meds. I remember, but its hard. I know my name. I know my birthday. I know the sitting president. I struggle with the day of the week but I got it. I know they’re testing my awareness and memory. I learned later that my blackout is technically amnesia.
Hitting my head buys a precautionary ambulance ride. Risk of neck injury and risk of internal bleeding. First time on a gurney. First time in the back on an ambulance. They put me on full telemetry en route, added a neck brace, strapped me in. Blood oxygen monitor on my finger. They insert a line in my hand as a precaution. I sign a tablet. Yes, I’ll pay for the ride, I think to myself. I don’t know about lights, but the siren was used only briefly at an intersection. There are indicators inside the ambulance when the brake lights are on or when turns are signaled. The EMTs are so used to this. They are not blasé, but expert.
No one could have been nicer to me, honestly.
Ingest and exit of the gurney is mechanized and shockingly fast and smooth. The gurney ride is long. I note at least four ambulances were already there before mine. I don’t get taken into an emergency bay. I’m taken to a waiting room. To wait for triage.
The hospital is just so full of waiting and not knowing.
Triage happens. I say my name, I spell my name because I have to. I confirm my birthday. I tell my story again. List my conditions and known concerns, again. More detail than before. Heart rate and blood oxygen and blood pressure are measured. Three good-sized vials of blood pulled. The nurse used the line from the ambulance. Put saline back in when she finished. She is efficient, expert. I go back to wait in the lobby.
The finance people get their turn. I show my insurance card, I show ID. Yes, I’m employed. I share by whom. It says so on the insurance card but I respond to the terse questions with terse answers. She just needs information. In a few minutes she’ll be asking another person all of the same things. Sadly, I’ve been a patient here, before. Yep, all the information they have is correct. I sign a digitizer four times, or was it five? Yes, I know. I’ll pay, I think to myself. Then I wait in the lobby. I must find a new chair, now.
Did I mention the lobby? It’s bright with lots of glass. Are the walls beige or off-white? They are not tan. They are definitely not white, but light in an inoffensive, non-descript kind of way. That desire to be inoffensive is offensive. I tell no one.
The lobby stays full, like an airport lobby. In a way, we were all waiting for our various medical destinations. I’m proud of myself for that analogy. Lots of loudly-spoken names. It seems some people are hard to find. One fellow, I learn, has difficulty hearing, but other folks seem to know where he is. I can only see the direction I’m facing because of the neck brace.
I see a few very young couples and I speculate silently but wildly.
I don’t see crying. I don’t hear crying. I do see people in pain. I see lots of wheelchairs. There are a few IV bags.
The EKG session was way shorter than I imagined. The tech was able to re-use the “stickers” placed by the ambulance crew, but he added a few to my torso, legs, and arms. I was surprised when the stickers were removed immediately after. I take this as a good sign. I’m instructed to wait in the lobby. The tech isn’t clear on next steps. I must find a new chair, again.
I don’t know what’s happening. Time is racing. Time is crawling. I am very aware of this. I can’t relax, but it doesn’t pay to be on high alert. I try to read tech news.
It’s easy to have a sense that I’m unimportant. I’m clearly one of many dozens. Conscious and outwardly polite, I must wait for I don’t know what and I don’t know for how long. I think about how politeness deprioritizes me. I know that other folks in this space face more dire consequences, certainly outwardly more urgent. I am afraid of what I don’t know. I am afraid of being forgotten or lost in the shuffle.
A woman in scrubs asks to look at the identifying band I’m wearing. She says thank you and moves on. I’m not her concern.
“We have a bed for you.” “Am I going to be staying a while?” I wonder to myself. My escort won’t know. I walk because I want to. It’s a fair distance. In a hallway, by a nurse station, I have a new location to wait: B15. The paper sign is laminated. There is a now specific place to find me. I get on the bed, as one does. They elevate the head of the bed for me. The neck brace is irritating. Dulcet tones of alarms, alerts, and multilingual interactions. It’s quieter and louder than the waiting room. I try to read tech news. Then I try to save battery.
In the game of the ER visit, I’m a non-player character. I think the main character is the stream of information the hospital manages and responds to. I’m useful at a few points, though I am not aware of the narrative. My dialog is limited to a few options. I do not decide when to act. My job is to be pleasant to the villagers, most of whom are not interested in me in any way.
I realize I don’t know what my head looks like. I take a selfie. You wouldn’t know by looking at me what had happened. I’m grateful. But also? Ow! Very sensitive!
I wish I could sleep in situations like these. But I don’t want to trigger an alarm that a patient lost consciousness. I also don’t want someone shouting my name several times out into the universe before I regain alertness. I’m below half battery on two phones. I use my work phone for tech news. RSS helps.
The doctor (finally!) and a senior have good news, the EKG and the bloodwork are within normal ranges. Guidance to not stand too quickly, hydrate well. A CT scan is recommended. Doctor looks at me earnestly and says he would recommend it if it was for someone in his own family. It’s a good line, but I agree. Honestly, I need to know if there is anything I don’t know. Then I wait.
They moved me to the CT scan room by pushing my B15 bed through the corridors. I feel awkward about this. I’m still in the neck brace. Naturally they want me to move very little. CT scan was also super short. I just closed my eyes and it was over.
On the bed ride back to B15. Part-way through, the person moving me asked me to kick one of his colleagues. He said he would take me to the vending machine if I did. I kicked no one, but there were laughs between colleagues.
I’m facing the opposite direction now, in the nursing station hall. I’m still in my street clothes. Folks have been commenting on my shiny shoes. Most people I see on beds are clearly here for longer stays. Battery on my phone is under 20%. Dulcet tones continue: alarms and alerts. Codes announced. Multi-lingual consults continue. Someone suggests results from the doctor in 30 minutes.
A nurse comes to remove my neck brace. She says nothing is broken. Hints that I may be able to go home soon. Suggests 30 minutes before the doctor can return. I wait on the bed. There is muscle soreness in my neck. I must have hit the ground with authority.
The nurse returns some time later. She has several pages of paper neatly stapled together. The CT was clear. I show clearly where I hit, but no invisible internal damage or bleeding. I can go.
I ask to have the line in the back of my hand removed finally. The nurse does this quickly, but gently. It hurt way less than I expected. Gauze and bright green wrap around my hand and thumb.
I’m very grateful to arrive at my house. I know in my soul that the loss of consciousness I experienced could have been a lot longer.
The mystery came knocking.