February 22, 2013
Dust to Dust
Wednesday, February, 13th was Ash Wednesday. Some of our Care Partners have a hard time getting to Ash Wednesday services because of their work schedules, so we made it available to them this year with an assist from the priest and deacon from St. Gabriel’s Episcopal Church. It is a sobering reminder of our mortality when the priest puts the ashes on our foreheads and says “Remember, man/woman, that you are dust and to dust you will return.” I had less trouble remembering that this Ash Wednesday than usual. The day before, it became quite clear to me that I am decidedly mortal.
As I was walking in from the parking lot that morning, my chest tightened, my heart began to race and I felt lightheaded. I stopped and leaned on the trunk of a car, tried to reign in my rising anxiety and then continued to the door. As and aside, my father died at age 40 of a heart attack and I have sometimes experienced mild anxiety about the same thing happening to me, especially as I approached the same age. This time, the anxiety did not subside as usual and the pressure in my chest increased.
As I entered the South doorway of the hospital, I stopped and sat on the corner of the desk there. The two auxiliary women greeted me and I told them how I was feeling. They offered to take me in a wheelchair to the Emergency department. I told them about my sometime anxiety and that it would pass soon. Again, it didn’t. After some encouragement from them, I agreed to go to the Emergency Department, but I insisted on walking.
When I arrived there, I told Martin, the charge nurse, that I was having some chest discomfort. Always the kidder, Martin told me to go back outside and sign in at the desk. “Okay,” I said, and I started to do that. “You’re not kidding, are you?” he said and then he instructed me to go and sit in room 13.
So began a day filled with reminders that I am indeed mortal. I had sticky tabs stuck to my chest that were then attached to wires for an EKG. I had an IV placed in my right arm and blood work drawn- twice. My cardiologist came in and I told him I felt a little silly being here and God bless him, he said what I always say to other people; “You don’t ignore pain in the chest-you did the right thing.”
So, after a stress test and a nuclear scan, I’m happy to say that all the results were negative. I have no idea what caused the chest discomfort or why I felt the way I did. But I will tell you some of the things I saw, felt and heard.
I felt anxious and vulnerable. On most days, I am in the Emergency Department a couple of times a day even if nothing tragic is going on. I cruise through to chat with the nurses, EMTs and physicians and sometimes find things that need my attention. I feel comfortable there. I did not feel comfortable as a patient there. I wondered if my EKG would be normal, would I end up in the Cardiac Catheterization Lab, would I die. Really, I suspected the dying part was only a remote possibility, but I did think about it.
I was not allowed to go the bathroom. My nurse, Traci, handed me one of those bottles with the flip-top lids and said with a smile, “You’ll have to use one of these.” I felt out of control, vulnerable and embarrassed. My bladder helped me get over that.
A few other observations about my experience that I hope will continue to inform my interaction with patients and their families- and maybe yours as well.
- Voices carry into the room more than you think. I could hear conversations between people 20 feet away clearly even with the glass door closed and the curtain drawn. Be careful about your speech.
- No matter how you say it, calling spouse or family to tell them you are in the Emergency Room frightens them. I was reluctant to call my wife, but I was sure happy to see her face.
- I was anxious. That is why I was listening so closely to what was being said outside my room. I was listening for clues to what was going on, what would happen next, what the test results had shown, would I be admitted or would I go home.
- I craved information. The more information was shared with me about what was happening to me, the less anxiety I felt.
- I felt safe. I knew I was among friends. What about people who don’t know us as friends? What can we do to help them feel safe?
- I asked for and received a numbing shot prior to the insertion of the IV. When Traci had a bit of a time getting my vein to cooperate and fill up the tube, I felt no discomfort at all. Maybe that should be standard procedure.
- Allowing me to choose something, anything, helped me feel a little less helpless. I asked if I had to go on the stretcher to the Diagnostic Imaging department for my stress test. I was allowed (do you hear the language…I was “allowed”) to go in a wheelchair. A small thing, perhaps, but I felt less like an invalid in the wheelchair.
- I was treated with care and professionalism. I’m not at all surprised. Do we treat all our patients the way I was treated as a member of our Care Partner family? If we do, we’ll never have any problems with patient satisfaction scores.
Blessings to you all,
Jerald
