Jumbled thoughts, ambulance lights, hospital gurney: A Fresnan’s night in the ER | Opinion

A night in the emergency room. Not exactly the column I had in mind when I sat down at my computer early last week, but then again, some things are wildly out of our control. A handful of friends had recently mentioned missing my musings in The Bee, so as the weather changed, I found myself doodling on the side of my journal with themes to inspire kindness, a greater sense of community, maybe even write about the mystery of elusive time since I now had four teen-aged grandchildren, one at the 20-year mark, which in all honesty was making my head spin. Feels like just yesterday I was changing diapers, hosting sleepovers, holding them in my arms, and singing nursery rhymes. Now they are driving, dating and filling out college applications.

I sit this morning with cursor in hand, recalling a medical crisis that sent me by ambulance to the hospital exactly one week ago. Wearing zero make up, a pair of battered lounging pajamas, outdated Sketchers, my daughter and husband called 9-1-1 when they realized I could not remember the names of the grandkids I adore. I had entered the twilight zone and they knew they had to act fast.

I remember not being able to finish my thoughts and feeling fuzzy to the bone.

I remember pretending everything was OK when it clearly was not.

I remember my husband Dan, calling my primary care physician — my daughter arriving so they could be a united front when the ambulance arrived to whisk me away.

An emergency room is no place for the faint of heart. I am the patient tonight, the one signing consent forms for what will, in retrospect, feel like an endless eternity of pokes, drips, scans and monitors, but in reality, a brief expanse of 10 measly, yet life-altering hours. I’m petrified. Thirsty. And exhausted.

And if I’m exhausted, then what are the sentiments of this medical crew guarding watch over me? One tells me he’s working a 12-on, 12-off shift tonight. Extra mulah he says with a chuckle, trying in earnest to lessen my angst. I want to offer him a seat on my gurney, but we both know this is no time for jokes. My body is conspiring against me and we need to find out why.

I remember the blood pressure cuff squeezing my arm like a vise.

I remember Seth, a male nurse, catching my eye and making me wish I had worn lipstick.

I remember surrendering to commands of technicians telling me to hold my breath and then let it out.

After a battery of tests, I am told computers are down, which means no results for hours at best. It’s going to be a long night. Wailing patients, code blues, and a series of shrills and sirens play full volume in my head despite the midnight hour. Someone covers me with a heated blanket. Someone else assures me with a whisper I haven’t had a stroke. I know I should feel relieved, but a weird word salad of disjointed thoughts emerges from my lips, bringing on tsunami-sized waves of anxiety. I want to go home.

I’m coming apart at the seams like a flimsy hemline. And I have to pee, which sets off an entirely different set of hospital protocols, too unpleasant to report here. I reply an adamant “no” to the bed pan offer.

My brain is foggier than Fresno’s frostiest winter solstice — my body unattractively trembling while the medical team gives me a final once-over. Findings: inconclusive. Test results: negative. By all accounts I am healthy as a horse. My brain still fuzzy, but slowly rebooting. By 3 in the morning I can recite the names of my grandkids. At 4:36 a.m., we get the green light to go home. Dan and I are so exhausted we get lost driving north on Temperance.

I began writing this column to convince myself my brain was still intact and that my mind, body and spirit had returned. Sharing personal aspects of life’s journey has always been my signature writing style – maybe a way of saying we’re all in this crazy life together. When we share our stories, we feel less alone in the world.

Let’s face it, life is fragile and we are all human, vulnerable, breakable. Handle with care, please. Let’s vow to check in on each other and be more gentle and kind. If you see someone drowning in the undertow of life, say something. Do something. I underscore this message to the women in my world, most of us no matter our age, always traveling at light’s speed to save the world. From time to time we must find a rest stop, place ourselves in protective custody, and exhale.

I will also use this space to attest with gratitude that there is magic in the choreography of emergency room physicians, nurses, aides and staffers — all of them dazzling this patient with compassionate care, dignity, and the kind of eye contact conveying concern and assurance that I was in the best of hands.

Ultimately the night would launch yet another self-study in life editing — deciding what would stay and what would not in this current chapter of life. Health scares have always had a way of grabbing my soul. And while I am tempted to self-proclaim the reboot complete, I know better.