Niehart
Pie Smuggler
Hans, glad your still part of our tribe! :yahoo:
JB's Excellent (Near Death) Adventure
- Thread starter James Burleigh
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James Burleigh
Well-known member
While the ambulance raced along I managed to raise my head and look out the back window. “Hey,” I thought to myself, “this isn’t the way to the hospital. These guys must not be from around here.” Then we suddenly stopped. I was hauled out and wheeled into some building I didn’t recognize. Shouldn’t we be going to a hospital?
We rolled down various hallways where a number of civilians standing around looked at me with worried, wondering, or amazed expressions. But I didn’t care. I was feeling pretty relaxed, although that pain was still there in spite of the morphine. And occasionally I would grit my teeth and gulp some air.
Then just like in the TV show I was pushed into a bright room with a raised bed in the center, high-tech machines all around, and about nine people looking at me like I was the Thanksgiving turkey. Mighta been the team my ambulance boys (and they were all boys that day) were playing baseball with before they got the call. They did all seem to know each other. And by way of introduction, my ambulance team began sharing with the ER team all the fun facts and features we had talked about at home and during the ride over.
I was slid from the gurney onto the bed, and like an incapacitated, living person surrounded by zombies, those 18 hands and arms all reached in and immediately began a purposeful grasping and poking and tugging and yanking at me. There were also lots of questions, the same ones the baseball team had asked me earlier. I’m pretty sure I didn’t answer them right, and I worried I was disappointing everyone who was expecting to be treating a heart attack:
“Do you have any pain in your arm?” No.
“Are you a smoker?” No.
“Are you diabetic?” No.
“Are you being treated for high cholesterol?” No.
“Any family history of heart disease?” No.
“Feeling nauseated right now?” No.
“Sweaty?” No.
“Light-headed?” No.
“Short of breath?” Maybe. Kinda. A little. Not really--And then my chest heaved as I grimaced, gulped more air, and consoled my aching heart by resting a limp hand on my chest.
“Lie still. Don’t move.” Beep, beep, beep….
“F**k,” I thought. “They’re gonna kick my non-smoking, non-diabetic, low-cholesterol butt right outta here if I fail this quiz. “You’re wasting all our time!” they would yell, and I would ignominiously have to pull out my IV and disconnect my EKG leads and haul myself down off the gurney, then limp on outta there under my own steam, with 18 eyeballs burning their displeasure into my back.
Then they pitched the next question: “Being treated for high blood pressure?”
Yes! Yes! I have high blood pressure.
I’m pretty sure I smiled with pleasure at getting one of their questions right. But it was hard to tell since I was having a general out-of-body experience. Not because I was floating up into the light, not yet anyway, but more because my body was no longer completely under my control.
The ghost in the machine was no longer entirely in control of the machine, not since I had sent the 911 call. Whether hauling me from place to place, moving me from a gurney to a bed, lifting and dropping my limp arms after sticking things in them or taping things to them, or attaching leads to my shaved chest, my body was caught up in the maelstrom of events I had set off by making the call. That ghost, that “I,” that famous “cogito” of Descartes could only passively observe and reflect, and vocalize when asked a question.
So when asked again (as they had in my living room and then in the ambulance) what my level of chest pain was on a scale of one to ten, ten being “the worst pain you’ve ever experienced,” well, I could only honestly conjure a five; maybe a six. But I sensed an air of disappointment about the team whenever the best number I could produce was only a six. And I worried that a lousy six wasn’t gonna be enough to convince anyone I was having a heart attack.
But I’m not sure I even understood the range. I mean, to me, a ten must be like when those lousy North Vietnamese commie *******s got hold of Rambo and tortured him in that bamboo hut, just before he went all Green Beret on their *****. But I’d never been tortured like that. Not really.
Sure there was the time when I was seven and my sister and her girlfriends all tackled me and sat on my chest and arms and legs and kissed me on my face till I screamed for mercy. But that was a different kind of pain, really, and probably not as bad as Rambo had it out there in the jungle. So for me, in my white-collar live-in-the-suburbs world, probably a tough (sometimes excruciating) moment on the toilet after eating a chili cheese dog at the ballpark was the best number ten I could come up with to peg that outer limit of the scale.
As a result, compared to those kinds of sharp chili-cheese-dog bowel pains where you arch your back, grit your teeth, let out a silent scream, and promise God you will never search again on-line for a naughty picture of Jennifer Anniston if He’ll just make the pain go away--compared with that, the pain I was experiencing in my chest was, after all, only a dull (not sharp) ache, and relatively bearable. But maybe I was over-thinking the whole thing.
“Could be a seven. Maybe a seven.”
And during all the questioning I felt the shoes, then the socks, then the pants and unmentionables come off. Then came the t-shirt. In some remote part of my mind I regretted not showering that morning or changing out of the t-shirt and skivvies I had slept in. I made a mental note to remember that for the next time I had a heart attack.
Somehow a gown got slipped over me, the kind that ties in the back (not very well) like a backwards robe, the kind invented by some kind of sociopathic RN with a twisted sense of humor and a fanny fetish. Lying back down, I felt cool air on my groin. That was the other problem with the standard-issue hospital gowns: cut to fall below the knee, they invariably rode well above the waist.
Was my schwanzstucker out of the cave? A shy creature by habit, it is unaccustomed to bright lights and too much attention. “Everyone can see my *****,” I thought. I tugged at the gown, or at least thought I did, but again, the ghost was not in total control of the machine. Oh what the hell, I thought. We’re all grown-ups here. These people see this stuff every day. To them I'm just a slab of beef, a broken machine. Well, maybe not to those two nice old ladies with the shocked expressions standing just out in the hallway.
Someone said, “We’re going to give you some more morphine for the pain.”
Being a “treat the problem not the symptom” kinda guy (in fact, I rarely even take an aspirin), I was concerned they thought I needed everyone to just make the pain go away and then I could go home. Great, they were gonna miss sight of the real problem. I would have to tell them their job: “I’m not worried about the pain. I can stand the pain. [it's only a lousy six! Maybe a seven.]”
I felt another needle followed immediately by a huge head rush. Wow! That was a good one.
A face emerged into focus from the knot of people around the table. This was apparently the ER doctor. His mouth moved. He asked me some questions, or said something. I thought he looked like a vagrant who had wandered into the ER and copped a white coat. When would the others, the real hospital workers, spot him! Hopefully before he could work his nefarious intent on me.
It seemed to me in my haze that the ER doctor, who appeared to be genuine after all, was not prepared to make the call that I was having a heart attack. After all, I’d failed the oral exam. I said six when I should have said seven. And I said no to too many of their questions. I hated doing badly on tests!
As a result, apparently his course of action was stalled. So he had called in a cardiologist from "upstairs." The cardiologist, having read my EKG, made the call: “I don’t like what I’m seeing on the EKG. Let’s get him into the Cath Lab.”
Oh f**k not the Cath Lab! What’s a Cath Lab?
“Excuse me,” someone said. All eyes turned to me. I guess it was me who said that. I had to pee something fierce. I asked how long we would be in the Cath Lab (I could sling the lingo too). “Possibly a couple of hours.” I said I needed to “urinate” (this was a hospital; people don’t pee in hospitals, they urinate). I was handed a plastic bottle, then everyone exited the room and the curtain was drawn.
The room was bright, large, and vacant, its glinting instruments reflecting light off the antiseptic surfaces. I pulled myself up and sat on the edge of the gurney. Whoa: that’s a long way down. Then I self-consciously, with one eye on the curtain, moved all the necessary parts into place. I concentrated. I tried remembering all the words to The Star-Spangled Banner.... (I realized it's a good thing I was never going to win an Olympic gold medal, because I'd have to be one of those athletes who mumbles and fakes it all the way through.)
Only a curtain separated me from hundreds of people eager to barge in on me and catch me in the act of doing my business. I heard voices on the other side, heard footsteps, watched feet shuffle next to the curtain. I felt like I was under the million-candle-power lights of a baseball stadium, standing on the pitching mound, with 60,000 people quietly watching me in great anticipation....
Oh hell. It was hopeless. I could no more pee into that bottle than jump over the moon. A nurse came in and hauled me away to the Cardiac Catheterization Laboratory, promising to insert a catheter to take care of my need.
I had never had a catheter in my life, but I was pretty sure it meant handling my schwanzstucker and forcing something down its throat.
“Wait! Couldn’t I just stop in the men’s room on the way? It’ll just take a second.”
“I’m sorry, sir. There’s no time. The catheter will take care of that. Right now your life is more important.”
Sigh... Tell that to Mr. Johnson.
We rolled down various hallways where a number of civilians standing around looked at me with worried, wondering, or amazed expressions. But I didn’t care. I was feeling pretty relaxed, although that pain was still there in spite of the morphine. And occasionally I would grit my teeth and gulp some air.
Then just like in the TV show I was pushed into a bright room with a raised bed in the center, high-tech machines all around, and about nine people looking at me like I was the Thanksgiving turkey. Mighta been the team my ambulance boys (and they were all boys that day) were playing baseball with before they got the call. They did all seem to know each other. And by way of introduction, my ambulance team began sharing with the ER team all the fun facts and features we had talked about at home and during the ride over.
I was slid from the gurney onto the bed, and like an incapacitated, living person surrounded by zombies, those 18 hands and arms all reached in and immediately began a purposeful grasping and poking and tugging and yanking at me. There were also lots of questions, the same ones the baseball team had asked me earlier. I’m pretty sure I didn’t answer them right, and I worried I was disappointing everyone who was expecting to be treating a heart attack:
“Do you have any pain in your arm?” No.
“Are you a smoker?” No.
“Are you diabetic?” No.
“Are you being treated for high cholesterol?” No.
“Any family history of heart disease?” No.
“Feeling nauseated right now?” No.
“Sweaty?” No.
“Light-headed?” No.
“Short of breath?” Maybe. Kinda. A little. Not really--And then my chest heaved as I grimaced, gulped more air, and consoled my aching heart by resting a limp hand on my chest.
“Lie still. Don’t move.” Beep, beep, beep….
“F**k,” I thought. “They’re gonna kick my non-smoking, non-diabetic, low-cholesterol butt right outta here if I fail this quiz. “You’re wasting all our time!” they would yell, and I would ignominiously have to pull out my IV and disconnect my EKG leads and haul myself down off the gurney, then limp on outta there under my own steam, with 18 eyeballs burning their displeasure into my back.
Then they pitched the next question: “Being treated for high blood pressure?”
Yes! Yes! I have high blood pressure.
I’m pretty sure I smiled with pleasure at getting one of their questions right. But it was hard to tell since I was having a general out-of-body experience. Not because I was floating up into the light, not yet anyway, but more because my body was no longer completely under my control.
The ghost in the machine was no longer entirely in control of the machine, not since I had sent the 911 call. Whether hauling me from place to place, moving me from a gurney to a bed, lifting and dropping my limp arms after sticking things in them or taping things to them, or attaching leads to my shaved chest, my body was caught up in the maelstrom of events I had set off by making the call. That ghost, that “I,” that famous “cogito” of Descartes could only passively observe and reflect, and vocalize when asked a question.
So when asked again (as they had in my living room and then in the ambulance) what my level of chest pain was on a scale of one to ten, ten being “the worst pain you’ve ever experienced,” well, I could only honestly conjure a five; maybe a six. But I sensed an air of disappointment about the team whenever the best number I could produce was only a six. And I worried that a lousy six wasn’t gonna be enough to convince anyone I was having a heart attack.
But I’m not sure I even understood the range. I mean, to me, a ten must be like when those lousy North Vietnamese commie *******s got hold of Rambo and tortured him in that bamboo hut, just before he went all Green Beret on their *****. But I’d never been tortured like that. Not really.
Sure there was the time when I was seven and my sister and her girlfriends all tackled me and sat on my chest and arms and legs and kissed me on my face till I screamed for mercy. But that was a different kind of pain, really, and probably not as bad as Rambo had it out there in the jungle. So for me, in my white-collar live-in-the-suburbs world, probably a tough (sometimes excruciating) moment on the toilet after eating a chili cheese dog at the ballpark was the best number ten I could come up with to peg that outer limit of the scale.
As a result, compared to those kinds of sharp chili-cheese-dog bowel pains where you arch your back, grit your teeth, let out a silent scream, and promise God you will never search again on-line for a naughty picture of Jennifer Anniston if He’ll just make the pain go away--compared with that, the pain I was experiencing in my chest was, after all, only a dull (not sharp) ache, and relatively bearable. But maybe I was over-thinking the whole thing.
“Could be a seven. Maybe a seven.”
And during all the questioning I felt the shoes, then the socks, then the pants and unmentionables come off. Then came the t-shirt. In some remote part of my mind I regretted not showering that morning or changing out of the t-shirt and skivvies I had slept in. I made a mental note to remember that for the next time I had a heart attack.
Somehow a gown got slipped over me, the kind that ties in the back (not very well) like a backwards robe, the kind invented by some kind of sociopathic RN with a twisted sense of humor and a fanny fetish. Lying back down, I felt cool air on my groin. That was the other problem with the standard-issue hospital gowns: cut to fall below the knee, they invariably rode well above the waist.
Was my schwanzstucker out of the cave? A shy creature by habit, it is unaccustomed to bright lights and too much attention. “Everyone can see my *****,” I thought. I tugged at the gown, or at least thought I did, but again, the ghost was not in total control of the machine. Oh what the hell, I thought. We’re all grown-ups here. These people see this stuff every day. To them I'm just a slab of beef, a broken machine. Well, maybe not to those two nice old ladies with the shocked expressions standing just out in the hallway.
Someone said, “We’re going to give you some more morphine for the pain.”
Being a “treat the problem not the symptom” kinda guy (in fact, I rarely even take an aspirin), I was concerned they thought I needed everyone to just make the pain go away and then I could go home. Great, they were gonna miss sight of the real problem. I would have to tell them their job: “I’m not worried about the pain. I can stand the pain. [it's only a lousy six! Maybe a seven.]”
I felt another needle followed immediately by a huge head rush. Wow! That was a good one.
A face emerged into focus from the knot of people around the table. This was apparently the ER doctor. His mouth moved. He asked me some questions, or said something. I thought he looked like a vagrant who had wandered into the ER and copped a white coat. When would the others, the real hospital workers, spot him! Hopefully before he could work his nefarious intent on me.
It seemed to me in my haze that the ER doctor, who appeared to be genuine after all, was not prepared to make the call that I was having a heart attack. After all, I’d failed the oral exam. I said six when I should have said seven. And I said no to too many of their questions. I hated doing badly on tests!
As a result, apparently his course of action was stalled. So he had called in a cardiologist from "upstairs." The cardiologist, having read my EKG, made the call: “I don’t like what I’m seeing on the EKG. Let’s get him into the Cath Lab.”
Oh f**k not the Cath Lab! What’s a Cath Lab?
“Excuse me,” someone said. All eyes turned to me. I guess it was me who said that. I had to pee something fierce. I asked how long we would be in the Cath Lab (I could sling the lingo too). “Possibly a couple of hours.” I said I needed to “urinate” (this was a hospital; people don’t pee in hospitals, they urinate). I was handed a plastic bottle, then everyone exited the room and the curtain was drawn.
The room was bright, large, and vacant, its glinting instruments reflecting light off the antiseptic surfaces. I pulled myself up and sat on the edge of the gurney. Whoa: that’s a long way down. Then I self-consciously, with one eye on the curtain, moved all the necessary parts into place. I concentrated. I tried remembering all the words to The Star-Spangled Banner.... (I realized it's a good thing I was never going to win an Olympic gold medal, because I'd have to be one of those athletes who mumbles and fakes it all the way through.)
Only a curtain separated me from hundreds of people eager to barge in on me and catch me in the act of doing my business. I heard voices on the other side, heard footsteps, watched feet shuffle next to the curtain. I felt like I was under the million-candle-power lights of a baseball stadium, standing on the pitching mound, with 60,000 people quietly watching me in great anticipation....
Oh hell. It was hopeless. I could no more pee into that bottle than jump over the moon. A nurse came in and hauled me away to the Cardiac Catheterization Laboratory, promising to insert a catheter to take care of my need.
I had never had a catheter in my life, but I was pretty sure it meant handling my schwanzstucker and forcing something down its throat.
“Wait! Couldn’t I just stop in the men’s room on the way? It’ll just take a second.”
“I’m sorry, sir. There’s no time. The catheter will take care of that. Right now your life is more important.”
Sigh... Tell that to Mr. Johnson.
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rushes
Well-known member
Epic adventure I reckon!
Thank you for sharing this Hans....
Thank you for sharing this Hans....
Patriot
Isabella is Lazarus
the wife just handed me my meds as I reached the mid point of the post
then, laughing hysterically, I feel off my desk chair and hurt my elbow
looking up, as my eyes fell on the words: "Mr Johnson", I felt pain in my chest...
then, laughing hysterically, I feel off my desk chair and hurt my elbow
looking up, as my eyes fell on the words: "Mr Johnson", I felt pain in my chest...
BikerGeek99
Yeah, it's a concrete corn cob. So?
This has gotta be the first time I've laughed out loud at the experiences of a person having a heart attack.
I like the levity in your writing, Hans.
I like the levity in your writing, Hans.
HIGHLANDER
naewittyshitepostedeere
You do know that some of the literary giants of our time ( London, Castaneda, Kerouac, Poe, etc ) were on " medications " 
when they wrote their best works......you must be following in their footsteps.............care to share the prescript's ?
when they wrote their best works......you must be following in their footsteps.............care to share the prescript's ? 
![fjackets Real Lambskin Leather Biker Jacket — Quilted Cafe Racer Zip Up Moto Leather Jackets For Men | [1100085] Johnson Brown, XL](https://m.media-amazon.com/images/I/41I7Pm1f+vL._SL500_.jpg)
bramfrank
BramFrank
This is quite the well honed tale. You should sell it to the local tabloids when you are done.
Crash Cash
Well-known member
Man, you can sure keep a sense of humor and perspective on the situation that I certainly wouldn't be able to do... me 'at's off ta yez, guv!
dcarver
Well-known member
Whoa. My Mr. Johnson just shrunk up thinking about Mr. Catheter.
Of course, the going in is the easy part...
Great read Hans, wonderfully written.
Of course, the going in is the easy part...
Great read Hans, wonderfully written.
madmike2
Shtirrenuppenmeister
I've missed your reports, sir.
Well done! :clapping:
.
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.
.
.
.
.
.
.
When do we get to the poking and prodding? :yahoo:
Well done! :clapping:
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
When do we get to the poking and prodding? :yahoo:
beemerdons
Certifiable Old Fart
Dear Hans, I'm so very glad to hear that you're OK and I just love your witty write up on this event; I had my heart attack on October 8, 2005 while skin diving in Hawaii and lived to tell about it.
However, I'm just a little offended you didn't include Papa Chuy, along with Fairlaner and RadioHowie, as Healthy Habits Poster Boys! I consume lots of cerveza and tamales to obtain my shape!
However, I'm just a little offended you didn't include Papa Chuy, along with Fairlaner and RadioHowie, as Healthy Habits Poster Boys! I consume lots of cerveza and tamales to obtain my shape!
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chivvalry
Well-known member
I can't believe I am laughing at someone's description of their heart attack experience. I await with bated breath the next installment of your odyssey. Glad to see you are alive and, it seems, recovering.
Bungie
FrostBack #2 - IBA # 44620
Inga is sitting here giggling and finally managed to get out "heh heheh he said 'Schwanzstucker'"
Great job JB.
Great job JB.
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El Toro
Innocent Bystander
We've corresponded a few times, and I have to say when I saw your post title this morning, I was a bit anxious... but then any story posted by the guy who has been the victim of a heart attack probably has a happy ending. You've done a great job. Forget the tabloids. Write a book. You spin a good yarn.
The sad thing about heart attacks is that often genetic factors are an even bigger deal than lifestyle factors, although both are important. I'm afraid I'm one of the poster boys for poor habits, but what works for any of us today may stop working tomorrow. Better to be wise, as you have been, and live the healthy life style.
I'm really glad to see that you're in good humor and sharing your tale.
The sad thing about heart attacks is that often genetic factors are an even bigger deal than lifestyle factors, although both are important. I'm afraid I'm one of the poster boys for poor habits, but what works for any of us today may stop working tomorrow. Better to be wise, as you have been, and live the healthy life style.
I'm really glad to see that you're in good humor and sharing your tale.
rogdeb
Scouser
Can't believe I'm saying this --- but Deb and I laughed our arses off, and I don't have much of one to start with.
An extremely witty report of what was a hell of a scary experience :lol: .. Way to go Hans :clapping:
Now ---- the rest of it ?
An extremely witty report of what was a hell of a scary experience :lol: .. Way to go Hans :clapping:
Now ---- the rest of it ?
madmike2
Shtirrenuppenmeister
YES......We want The Rest of the Story!
James Burleigh
Well-known member
Hi, Mike!YES......We want The Rest of the Story!
So, I got all this time on my hands now, since I'm taking a week off work to recover (it ain't my ticker that's got to heal, though it still aches from time to time; it's that nasty swollen, black-and-blue place near my "groin" as they call it in the hospital where they shoved that heart catheter into my femoral artery and snaked it on up into my heart--OUCH! It's got me limping around like, well, like Fang). Anyway, today I worked on the first part of a YouTube video on my WFO speech to share with the forum. Might be able to post the first part 2nite.
But I've read and very much appreciate everyone's comments in this thread and the other that MM2 started.
JB
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Cool!
I missed your speech, JB, (was outside having a smoke with Fairlaner) and been dying to hear it.
Wonderfully crafted story so far!
wheatonFJR
...
So how does the story end? Does he live?
