h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

Uncle B.'s going to tell you the exciting tale of wonderful health care in the good old US(pronounced just like 'us') and how it really works for those with PTS.



Richenda had mowed the front lawn (till I made her stop) which, given the state of my legs, is pretty much the standard order of things. She had done most of it and I managed to push out the last little bit while her color went from her usual shade of glow in the dark red to her more usual shade of normal, people color.

She'd had a frustrating, boring day at work and wanted to work off her sense of combined guilt, anger, and fear. (G: She'd been paid, A: she felt she hadn't earned it, F: they might decide they didn't need her and let her go. Please note: part of the message she made me leave at work included a list of stuff that had come in late so that she hadn't been able to finish and that she wanted to make sure her boss knew was there waiting to get done. And, oh, by the way, she's in the hospital with heart problems if you don't mind -- she still hasn't seemed to catch on to the fact that this bunch of people she's working with are actually human.)

OH! You might as well nibble while I talk. The bar's open. Help yourselves. You are about to discover why B. is synonymous with long postings.

(Oh, I'm also too tired to spell check this so fend for yourselves.)

After mowing the lawn and breathing a bit (Breath in ... Breath out ... Breath in ... Breath out ...), she went off to physical therapy for her ankle/nerve damage, where her therapists evidently asked her if she was up to going on several times. Something they hadn't felt the need to do before. But, she felt fine, so she finished the full hour, then drove home.

Somewhere in here she noticed that her heart seemed to be doing an imitation of the scene where Tipi Hedron is running away from all the birds, only her heart was the birds. So, of course, she drove past the hospital to our cosy little home where I made her breath into a bag to get the hyperventilation down to a modest level while I hoped that her heart would stop the flamenco demonstration. It didn't.

We went to the Emergency Room, which was surrounded by a chainlink fence with no instruction that those seeking emergency care should park --- over there --- and walk down this maze to the entrance area. After driving around the hospital, twice -- well, once and a half -- we decided to do just that. (Sound of birds fluttering madly and the top blowing off of MY head.)

Once inside, the triage nurse moved us into the ER and the team sprang into action.

It was more or less just like on the tube, with no one getting into anyone else's way and doing what needed to be done.

They had her hooked up and were watching the birds flutter in a rapid moment and the doctor directed them to give her something IV push.

This was very good timing because, Richenda was just explaining to the gentleman that if he was going to insert that IV needle he would need to either numb her first or get four people to hold her in place. (She has this thing about IV's) The doctor said, "We don't have time." The male nurse said, "That's done." And, she said, "Oh!"

Another nurse came in with a hyperdeemic nerdle, inserted it into the IV port, and pressed hard. I heard something go splash as a large portion of it blew out a relief valve. Thus informing me as TV never had what was meant by 'push'.

The whole team watched the monitor with it's three lines of squiggles. (I, of course was watching the wrong line -- I happen to own a surplus EKG and the lines were in different places on this one.) They all went varying degrees of 'yay' followed by varying degrees of "Aw, shucks!" as her rhythm went from very rapid to normal sinus (which isn't a sinus wave) to back to tachycardia.

The doctor, a thirtyish man whom I had just noticed seemed to move an awful lot like Groucho Marx, ordered another medicine IV push and a follow up drip.

There was another push, another splash, and, after her rhythm began to come back to normal, a discussion of technique which seemed to revolve around why so much splashed out with the conclusion being that the needle, which was in the crook of the arm might have been partially restricted for three or four reasons.

After this the doctor decided that she was responding well enough to the second drug that he halted the drip which had just been plugged in. (No, you can't take the leftovers home -- even if you have your own IV kit.)

Various tests were ordered and the team dissappeared, much as the gnurs came from the voodverk out, only in reverse.

The doctor, who definitely did walk like Groucho, galumphed off to other patients while Richenda's blood was drawn by skilled vampires who, as usual, seemed to be taking one vial more than necessary and licking their lips in an unwholesome way.

Richenda was already feeling much better. Enough so, in fact, that she realized that we were, at 7:30, a long ways past her lunch around Noon.

The brought in a portable X-ray unit and shot candids while the technicians huddled behind the copious protection of the curtain across the treatment bay and said, "Smile." Then she was wheeled off for a CAT scan (which has nothing at all to do with checking to see where Yoda is at the moment.)

Then she was wheeled back into the ER while all the tests were processed and we both got more hungry. (Well, actually, time has been passing here while we hurried and waited to hurry and wait. So, while she was be checked for kittens (?), I snuck off and grabbed a bag of vaguely chip(crisp) like things from a vending machine and a bottle of the brown, bubbly, sugar saturated, caffene infused elixer of life which is necessary to my own (well controlled, not that it would matter) diabetic life style. (Modern drugs are just wonderful. Thank you very much!)

Shortly, when young Dr. Marx had okayed it, the nurse ran off and came back with sandwiches for us both, which made the hair stop growing on our faces and the backs of our hands. The fangs receeded and we could once again speak a human language. (No, American. We don't speak much of that foreign stuff.)

Richeda's heart was moving right along at the right rate but her blood pressure was still low for her.

The tests came back

--- oops, that bowl's empty. Here's a fresh batch. Look, you folks are going to have to take care of yourselves here. I'm busy being amusing about my wife's heart thing. ---

with everything normal. The doctor shouted this information across the hallway from the Nurses statation and this was where the nightmare truly began.

She wasn't showing any symptoms so Dr. Marx scratched his forward hanging head and decided that she should spend the night for observation. Se was taken up to an intermediate care ward where she was shown to her room. We both walked in. After a stop for her in the necessary room, we found ourselves standing all alone with me holding her IV bag waiting for anyone to show up and take charge. I had her get into bed and hung her bag on the appropriate hook and we waited.

Then we waited. After which we waited.

Finally a technician came in to take her blood pressure and temperature, hook her up to the monitoring system, and to program her bed (Scary isn't it? The bed actually had it's own LCD screen with menus and everything.) I immediately felt better because it clearly wasn't running Windows.

That was when the tech said that she wasn't going to enter in the vital stats because the shift was changing and that she would pass them on. She didn't. Or they were lost.

After the staff sorted itself out, likely with a rigorous game of scissors, rock, paper, we finally saw a nurse. I couldn't have taken more than 45 minutes so I was really glad that Richenda had been kept under close observation.

Oh, did I mention how the monitor tech was having this argument with the other tech about which was the correct broadcast pack for Richenda's bed. Which was finally resolved by my reading the much faded number on it's back and by the two techs coming back in to change the battery on the device.

Oh, did I mention that it was decided that I should run home to fetch Richenda's meds and run back again.

Well, after I got back, I discovered that the Midnight shift nurse was a lovely person who was seemingly the first person that day to notice that Richenda was terrified, ready to scream, and, had such been handy, throw things.

Of course, this was also the nurse who was the first to tell us that what we had been told in the ER had no resemblance to what seemed to be the actual case, that Richenda's problem was clearly related to some kind of stress -- hitherto denied -- and that she had probably suffered a myocardial infarction (MI) which is doctor talk for a temporary blockage of blood flow to the heart which had probably been the cause of the tachycardia.

Need I add that Richenda, was comforted to know that she had not been informed of the most likely specualations and that, to her way of thinking, she was being lied to. NOT!

The night passes.

I get back around 10:00 in the morning to discover that the morning nurse is unhappy with Richenda because she won't take the meds which the pharmacy has changed because they don't stock the ones which were prescribed for her.

Okay, here is where the life of a survivor comes into this in a very obvious way. I want you all to sit back and imagine that I am a totally strange person (true) to you (perhaps not) and I am telling you that your life is at risk (or might be at risk, or isn't much at risk depending on the hands of the clock) and that you must wait for some strange doctor to show up, sometime, to explain why what I want to do to you is the RIGHT thing, even though everything that is being done, is being done based on information from yourself and that you aren't entitled to participate in any of the decisions.

This was probably the first time that the phrase, against medical advice (AMA), first crossed Richenda's lips. I don't know. I wasn't there yet. (For those who aren't experienced in this -- is there any such person reading this? -- this means that she was threatening to walk out no matter what the current mis/dis-information was.)

I get there to discover that the doctor (whoever that doctor might be) has yet to arrive.

We wait. Lunch comes. We wait. Lunch is taken away. We wait.

The doctor arrives. She is a petite lady of Indian extraction clearly trained in that country's best manner of speaking down to the fellahin folk. She announces that Richenda has two choices, she can be discharged or she can be transported to another hospital, since Richenda has made it plain that she has lost all faith in her safety at that particular location. (Oooh! She didn't! Yes, she did.) As the doctor attempts to pressure her into making the choice immediately, we both manage to get the doctor's attention and inform her that we have our own physician whom we would like to consult as to which choice (and somehow the doctor has come up with a third choice of seeing a cardiologist before exerercising plan A or B.) This doctor, obviously incensed at having been interrupted and having her busy schedule messed with, now informs us that since this doctor is not on staff at that hospital, she will not consider anything he has to say.

We gently explain that (I'm sorry, you are not listening to ME, doctor) we don't care whether she listens to him or not. That is OUR job. When we have spoken to him, we will let her know.

She replies, "Fine. Now tell me what your decision is."

So, we again explain that we really meant that we were going to talk to our doctor before we answer her and that the fact that no one on staff had bothered to contact him since 7:00 the previous night was bound to really slow things down a bit more. We had finally decided that they simply weren't going to do that, and we had already put in an urgent call to him. As soon as he got back to us, we would make a decision.

This seemed like a good time for the doctor to stalk out calling over her shoulder for us to tell the nurse when we had made up our (obviously deranged) minds.

Now somewhere in here, I had missed a crucial point that Richenda had been making all day. No matter what the outcome of any of this, transfer or no transfer, tests or no tests, she had no intention of spending another night in ANY hospital till she had recovered from her terror at being there.

About then was when another doctor, this one a cardiologist also Indian and probably a graduate of the same medical school, came in and began to quote death statistics from heart attacks among 'Americans' and to tell her that she is having a heart attack. Well, he later said 'developing' a heart attack. And we then find out that tests have show a slightly elevated enzyme indicative of damage to the heart.

At that point, he could have indicated that she was a woman and Richenda wouldn't have begun to believe him. I, politely, indicated that his presence wasn't helping and he, too, stalked out, though not nearly so well as the other doctor had. (I suspect that his neat little line of a mustache over his somewhat portly body in his oh so respectable pinstripe suit just made him too comical to carry it off well. -- as long as we're doing movie star look alikes, think of him as a short and underweight Jackie Gleason in a modern Indian soap opera.)

Of course, right now, Richenda is accusing herself of being prejudiced against Indians despite the fact that it is clearly the doctors' training and lack of bedside manners that has reacted with her own fear of losing control (which has been helped along by her claustrophobia and fear of hospitals -- particularly when related to heart problems and her own family history.) But, of course, being a survivor, she is all to ready to blame herself in any case.

Now it doesn't help that of the three choices this first doctor gave her to make one of, that doctor has already made two. So, about now, a lady shows up to hand out a pro forma letter explaining that the management of the hospital really cares if there are problems and wants to hear about any issues.

Fortunately for her, she was at the far end of the bed so Richenda did not actually get a chance to grab her by the collar and drag her down to hear the whole story. Instead, Richenda as calmly as she possibly could manage explained the whole thing giving ample credit for those people who had done well and similar credit for those who had not. This lady then bustled off after leaving the letter with THE phone number on it. Shortly thereafter, Richenda called that number and lodged a formal complaint.

I'm thinking about selling tickets but deciding that there won't be time to get them printed up.

Somewhere in here, the young lady working with food services has asked if Richenda has finished with her menu for the next day and I gently explain that she won't be there the next day, while Richenda continues with her phone call. Evidently, she'd never heard such a thing before, because she looked very puzzled as she left.

The nurses, of course, are all aflutter and someone finally thinks of asking another cardiologist to come in and she Richenda. Richenda has attempted to explain that she is evididently prejudiced against Indians and I have attempted to explain what she is explaining. They find a mature Jewish cardiologist who is making rounds who consents to see her and attempt to explain the situation after taking a brief history. When he comes in, he feels obliged to tell her that he has an Indian partner.

After we again explain the situation, he goes through the results and explains that he is not the least confortable with her considering leaving AMA because he is fearful that she has significant blockages in the veins to the heart. He will be happy to arrange for the transfer to the hospital where our doctor practices. And that is when I get to help her make him understand that she has no intention of spending another night in this hospital or any other.

He goes away and sends in the B team. A lesson that the morning's doctors will probably never learn.

Enter the heroine, Steph, the charge nurse. This is the lady in charge of making sense of the insanity on the ward and solving all the hard problems (which up till now were mostly concerned with how to get housekeeping to understand that they are paid to clean up the messes that the patients couldn't avoid leaving for them. Actually, I am maligning this highly skilled professional. She clearly knows what she is doing and how to do it.

When Richenda said she wouldn't consider staying overnight unless she could have the angiogram the next day at whichever hospital she was at. She ran off to see if there was any posibility of arranging it.

It turns out there wasn't. You see, the only reason to have such a procedure done on the weekend, when doctors have a reasonable hope of a couple of days off, is if it is an emergency. To which Richenda replies, "If it isn't an emergency, why can't I go home?"

The return is, "Because you might die without the care we can give you."

"And that care would be?"

"Drugs and our vigilent staff."

"Who won't be here tomorrow to give me an angiogram?"

"Different staff"

"So, this staff I get is all the people who couldn't wangle a weekend off?"

Etc. Etc.

In any case, unless you are definitely dying, they won't bring in the team to find out if you are dying and this is at all the hospitals not at just this one. (Which was really funny after the administrator who came down to respond to Richenda's formal complaint told us that this was a 24/7 hospital and shift changes were no excuse for the problems we had had the previous night. There are evidently excuses and excuses. We never actually pushed the doctor into admitting that the nursing staff wasn't entitled to the same kind of consideration as the doctors were.)

After determining this situation was the case, though she clearly wasn't getting anyone to actually say so either, Steph sat down with a clear air of 'let's negotiate' and did a job that would put a used car salesman to shame, largely because she never once apologized or lied. She explained in the most charming fashion that this cardiologist was worried that Richenda would go home and, to use her exact words, "Drop dead." (I think it was the smile that made it work, that and her perky attitude. That's right, ladies, start hating her, she really is one of those 'perky' people.)

She made the first real effort to understand what Richenda's problem was. Finally, she understood that, more than anything else at that moment, Richenda was suffering from both fear and claustrophobia.

When Richenda mentioned that 'on top of everything else' the blinds on the windows couldn't be opened, Steph jumped on that.

"What if we get them fixed, will you stay through the weekend?"

Richenda had to admit that she could consider trying it but only with the assurance that the test would definitely be scheduled for Monday.

So Steph went to the window to find out what was wrong with the blinds. She pulled the cord and the vertical blinds parted to exponse a wall of glass with a decent view outside.

I don't think I've ever seen a woman stand in one place and dance a victory dance without moving any major muscles.

Richenda was immediately relieved -- and terrified that having made the bargain that she couldn't stick to it.

Steph was simply triumphant.

(Now please understand, this was the first time I had heard about the blinds. I, too, am capable of pulling a string. Evidently what had happened was that Richenda had asked to have the blinds opened -- they were half opened all day, but she couldn't see out them the way they were angled -- and had been misunderstood to be asking to have the window itself opened. While there were windows that could once open, they had been screwed shut evidently because of insurance concerns -- I sure hope she was misunderstood. Richenda was told that they could not be opened, that they had been built that way, and no effort had been made to understand what was being asked for.

I say this because, there is nothing I would loved more to have been able to do than to open those blinds for my wife -- and dance that victory dance. But, I hadn't known that my service was required and hadn't thought to ask. You see, I know or, at least, should have known, that Richenda needs her open views. My problem is that, to me, a window is to let light and air in. I almost never look out them -- certainly not to reassure myself that there is still a world outside. This is a primary example of 'not my trigger', a subcategory of 'somebody else's problem' and I humbly offer it as the lesson I learned today.)

The really interesting thing was that we were shortly to discover that the sweet lady in the next bed had also been suffering from claustrophobia and asked us to arrange the drape dividing the room so that she could see out as well.

So, as this chapter comes to an end, Richenda is asleep in the hospital, which for all it's problems, is still a hospital. This means that I will not be waking up every fifteen minutes all night to see if she is still breathing, though I have little doubt that the doctor's issues are more those of caution than of actual immdediate danger.

Oh, and as I left for the night around 11:00PM, to let the dogs finally uncross their legs after being locked up for far longer than normal, the cardiologist's orders for a beta blocker and blood thinner had not yet made it onto Richenda's chart. Prompting us both to again wonder why she was spending the weekend in a place she is terrified of when she would rather die at home, if die she must, rather in a building full of people who are more concerned with their rules and regulations than with the care of their patients.

That is, of course, without discounting the apparent few there, like Steph and others, who seem to be the only caregivers who keep the villagers from chasing the doctors out of town with pitchforks and torches.

B.

So bad. Yep the classic weekend stay in the hospital!
Nothing will get done. Hopefully the medication will be ordered and given soon

So glad the blinds opened!
Those small things can make a tremendous difference in perspective.
Good Luck and patience to you both.
Thank goodness for good nurses

Goddammit! This really is not Clooney & LaSalle country is it.

Classically, Barton turns a tale of unrepenting horror into an hilarious anecdote. I hope underneath it *you* are coping okay, and this delivery isn't too much of a pretense. Seriously concerned about Candy, esp. since this attack was, as my best friend astutely pointed out, likelier than not triggered by >your< hospital visit the day before.

Extensive and prolonged for you both. Talk to you soon.
and generalised ,

Chris

Makes you wonder why people who refuse to or are incapable of giving a sh*t insist on taking jobs in the care professions.

I just noticed from my Call ID display that you tried to ring me last night, B. Sorry I missed you, I haven't made it out of bed since Thursday night up till now. Hope that Candy's okay and will get the care she needs and the treatment she deserves. Hope you're managing too.

I've got an appointment with the rheumatologist this morning, provided I can make it out the front door, but will be home this evening if you were feeling lonely once visiting hours are up. Promise to answer the phone today if it rings. Hope to hear from you soon either way.



Love,
PC

Hi Barton,
sorry you have had such a struggle, its my experience that hospital visits are always difficult and rarely not helpful, but that takes the biscuit. I walked out last time I was admitted, however my heart wasn't doing what Richenda is, so I felt I could risk it.

Please give my love to Richenda and tell her we (myself and Moonglum) will be thinking of her tonight. She has to get well, cause we are getting excited about our trip to the US and meeting you all.

I am glad she has stayed in hospital it is the most sensible thing to do. Least she is more comfortable now thanks to Steph and the open blind. I hate drawn blinds, especially during the day, at least let me look at the sky.

So she is enough of an emergency case to not go home, but not enough of one for an angiogram, what a load of rubbish. The frustration must really be helping her and you.

Take care of yourself and Richenda

We all seem to be going through Real time crises at the moment. I'm going to give my instant message address if anyone wants to or needs to get in touch this way; but I will slightly "code" it so it doesn't get picked up by spam trawlers; that's the lsat thing I need right now!

Terriandyoda

at symbol

hot

mail (all that is one word)

dot then the inevitable com!

This is an msn instant message thingy, not aol.

In a nutshell, I can totally relate to what is going on here with Richenda & the hospital, having been through much the same but with the added complication of language barriers, try doing it in Urdu, Arabic or French!

If there is any way I can help, I'm here.

Also, re: my own immediate probs ; ie: no funds; I have made it this far, mainly due to combining forces with , who is in pretty much the same boat. However, he has a network of "RL" friends who seem to have whisked him off for a jolly weekend; I don't, so I am back to square one again! I don't really want to say more on hootoo about this, but will squeak by email; assuming my Beast doesn't pack up on me again, I plan to send some emails now.

Take care everyone, keep hanging on! We ought to call ourselves the "skin of the teeth" club! Ho bloody ho!



Terri.

Hey there all

Have also had nasty experiences with hospitals, and all of the added anxiety and misery that comes along with dealing with uncooperative or incompetent staff. Although I *am* glad that Richenda's agreed to stay a bit longer until we know she's in the clear.

B., if you read this tonight, if you think Richenda'd like me to, I could try to work out a way to come visit her tomorrow, even if only for a little while? Or I could ring her in her room at least and offer some company that way? Meanwhile I'm sending healing thoughts your way and praying for you both. Love you guys!

Terri, are you sure you going to be okay? My offer still stands... won't get into it here but the word "few" wasn't meant quite that literally...

Love the "skin-of-the-teeth club", how appropos...

Here's a quick update.

We found a new heroine, another shift nurse, Julie (not Judy as I reported elsewhere). The result was that today went fairly well with a wonderful visit with PC.

Unfortunately, shortlybefore I arrived at the hospital with PC, some one came in to tell her that her diabetes was out of control for at least the last four months, her triglycerides were nearly off the scale, and the other nasty blood thingies. This was curious because, despite her family history, she has had no such problems. And, the same tests from our doctor's office, just last month, showed that all was absolutely fine or close to it. Later in the day, she had her blood sugar measured twice with it coming in dead perfect every time.

Strangely, no one at the nursing station found this the least bit strange.

My personal feeling is that some idiot put the wrong labels on a set of vials or completely blew the blood tests. Can you guess just how happy I am to have Richenda thrown back into dispair by what appears to be another act of carelessness? Can you count to ten and get past two?

We will be insisting that the tests be re-run. I've been a diabetic for years now and fully understand all these tests. I have to agree with the doctor who said that Richenda's report of occasionally giving herself sticks using my kit or that of her sister and getting readings of the optimal 100 is impossible. The major difference here is that I know that Richenda is fully capable of reading a digital readout and this idiot evidently didn't see fit to question whether something so anomalous might be due to a mistake in his lab rather than in the intelligence of the patient.

Tomorrow Richenda will have her angiogram assuming that further such things along with the misplaced attempts on the part of her family to force our estranged son to suddenly turn human, in a way guaranteed to make him do exactly the opposite, don't actually push her back toward the emotional cliff we just recently coaxed her away from.

I'm thinking of arranging a seminar for the hospital staff on the significance of PTS along with Remedial Human Consideration, 051. (You never know, one or two people who need it might show up.)

B.

*groan*

Thinking of you. Calling you later.
Love,

Chris

It was a relief to see that Richenda's tests came back normal later in the day... I'm with you in thinking that some moron botched the tests earlier or mixed up the vials or something. I'm not normally as brusque with people as I was with that guy who did her blood test, but the fact she'd been kept waiting really made me angry. She deserves to be treated like a person and not an object.

What really upsets me about the whole mess-up with the tests and the way she's been treated and spoken to is that I *can* see the pattern which her mind was following- I was able to finish the sentence for her. You realise that the last time A, B, and C happened in conjunction, the result was D, so that's what you prepare for. It doesn't matter that the odds are 99.999% against, you've GOT to be prepared for it, it's inevitable. And these idiots at the hospital have repeatedly confirmed that the situation has been correctly assessed- and she can neither fight nor flee, all she can do is lie and wait.

That someone is so utterly terrified is blatantly obvious, and you'd think these a**sholes could muster up just a slight bit of compassion or at least common courtesy. But no, why not frighten her completely to the point where she's convinced she's not going to survive. Wonderful. A few of those clowns are lucky I could barely walk yesterday or they'd be down in the OR having my foot surgically removed from their collective ass.

Anyway, I'm going to call when I get back from work, but I'll be thinking of you both and sending positive energy your way.



Love you,
PC

Sounds like stupid stuff going on , I am glad that Richanda has friends to stick up for her, cause she needs them at the moment. Keep up the good work all of you.

G & I will give a call later and make sure all is ok. We are thinking of you both.

to each of you.

Just popped in hoping to find good news

I will check back.
I hope good things are happening with the test results and both of you will be home soon.

I'M BACK!*!*!*!*!*

Reader's digest version - everything is absolutely normal with my heart.

More tomorrow...I am just too tired to post.

(4 days of internet withdrawl..and now I'm too tired to post====bummer

I'm sorry you had to go through all that ing hell to find that out (not to mention the angiogram), but I am awfully glad all is okay.

Glad all is OK with your heart
Hope you feel like surfing hootoo tomorrow
Hope B is resting better too

Going out of my mind I was... talk about boundary issues.
Must mean I love you.

Happy as hell you're back and safe. Take care, I'll try calling tonight.

Well, the saga continues.

In additions to Barton's postings...got back from angiogram at 12:30. As they were transferring me from the gurney to the bed, one of the nurses accidentally leaned on my IV tube and ripped it out of my arm..blood everywhere...thank goodness I was still too doped to care! Said they were calling down to have IV restarted. Three hours latter the tech came up to start the IV and started feeling around for the veins in my hand. I told her that she was going to have to numb the hand before she worked on me. She told me she couldn't. I told her that in that case she would have to start at the elbow joint because I could tolerate an IV there but not in my hand. She said she couldn't guarantee that. I told her it was that or nothing. She left.

Cath tech came by in the afternoon to check on incision (around 4ish). I asked him how things looked. He said everything looked good but the doctor would be by around 7 to give me the official results.

Tech came by at 5:00 for a sugar stick. I told her I had only eaten lunch an hour ago and the stick was supposed to be done 5+ hours after eating. Chart said 5:00 so 5:00 o'clock it was. Sugar was 150. I asked her to mark the chart that I had eaten lunch at 4:00 not 11:30 because the sugar reading did not accurately reflect what they needed to know. She told me that wasn't her job. I asked her, considering I had eaten an hour before, what did 150 tell her. She told me it said I was perfect. (But when the see the 150 in the chart, the doctors are doing to think it is high- ugh)

IV nurses supervisor showed up around 5:30 to finally start the IV. I gracefully refused. Told here the doctor was due in at 7:00 and I would be leaving then. She went out and checked my chart. She let me know there was no indication on the chart that I was being release the evening. I told her I WAS going. She left.

The doctor finally showed up at 8. That's when I finally got my results - there was absolutely nothing wrong with my heart...no blockages, chamber looked excellent, muscle was fine (I had taken an echocardiogram less than a month ago which also was perfect). He still had no idea what caused the tachycardia. Maybe it was stress related?

The nurse escorted me to the door. I was chanting all the time, internet withdrawal I need an internet fix. Internet withdrawal I need an internet fix.

Then I got home, and was too tired to post


Thanks again guys for keeping me in your prayers!

Must be quite a relief to be home! YAY!