PICCn' and Grinnin'

My new BFF.
We're growing quite attached.

Because my veins don't take kindly to being poked on a regular basis, it was determined that a PICC (peripherally inserted central catheter) be inserted.
I schlepped to the hospital yesterday, took the elevator to the lower level - aka basement and found the infusion center. It's a large room. In the center were recliner chairs where those getting IV therapy could relax while their "liquid gold" dripped slowly in their veins. Around the center are bays separated by curtains with beds. Quite comfortable, I might add.
This is where my procedure took place.
My specially trained nurse M invited me to sit on the bed while she positioned herself next to me. We went over the dreaded, but required list of, "this is what could go wrong". This is where I took the deep breath and summoned my courage to keep from shaking her hand and very politely thank her for her time, but I'd changed my mind and would be leaving now...thank you very much. At least she was slow and caring about the whole thing, unlike the bullet speed voice over at the end of a drug commercial on TV.
It was now time for the production to begin. Lots of blue paper drapes, tubes, syringes and other paraphernalia to be revealed and positioned.
To be honest, the whole thing was relatively painless. Yes, the initial poke required some birth coach breathing, but it only lasted seconds. Then the second poke was the magic lidocaine which kicked any discomfort to the curb.

However... oh yes, there was a however.
The guide wire wouldn't advance to where it was suppose to. M pulled it out a little and tried again, and remember, no pain, so all I knew that something wasn't working was her vocalizations. Sill no dice. So much for my left arm.
Another unpacking of sterile equipment and... lets try the other arm. Once again,the ultrasound showed a luscious, round, ready for action vein.
The wire slid in and kept going. She was pleased.
Now it was time for the x-ray tech to arrive with his machine to snap a glossy 8X10 to make sure the tube was where it was meant to be.
 The wait wasn't long and the picture popped up on M's computer.
Houston, we have a problem.
The tube slid up into my juggler vein in my neck instead of down toward my heart.
Try again. She pulled the tube out to the junction point and gave it another go. We waited for Mr. X-ray again. Smile for the camera...
Results? Even after turning my head and tilting my chin as instructed, it wanted to slide up again. Bad, bad tube!
By now, I'm worried, and frustrated and M is more than frustrated. This twirnt spose to happen. I'm quietly praying, I can tell she's praying and we give it the third time's a charm. But this time M has requested help from the other PICC nurse, C. She pushes my head over and down - not quite into an exorcist position, but let's just say, your nose can touch the pillow when you lay on your back. She also pushed on my juggler vein to discourage the tube from entering. She told me to tell her if I started to feel my brain turn to mush. Now, how am I suppose to know that... I gave my brain cells to my kids at birth.
One more wait, one more visit from THE MACHINE, and...
High fives all around. It worked. She finished the procedure, taped my new jewelry in place and I was good to go.
What doesn't kill you, makes you stronger.
I was sent home with my "care and feeding of your new PICC line" paper.

See how much fun you can have at a hospital?
Next time: Hi Ho Hi Ho, it's off to the cancer center I go. It's Not To Late To Help 

The Mitford Life

 Marta's Journey. I've ambled here and there in my posts. A little commentary, a recipe or two, day to day happenings... For the most part it reads like a Jan Karon Mitford book. For those not familiar with the Mitford series, which by the way I highly recommend, Father Tim is an Episcopal priest and lives in a small bucolic town in North Carolina. That about sums it up. He has adventures, a small crisis or two, a few highlights, but overall, his life is pretty level. That's why I love reading these books.
What I see on TV, or scroll through on my Facebook page can turn a fairly decent day into a death spiral in a matter of minutes. I get weary of angst and carnage bombarding my eyes and ears, especially when I don't seek it out. So, yes, call me Pollyanna and I enjoy wearing rose colored glasses, thank you very much.

However, I've now been torn out of Mitford, North Carolina and plopped smack dab in New York City - the bad side, during a blizzard and garbage strike.

My new journey began a year ago in January. I've had issues down in the south end of my body for quite awhile. Diagnosed with the dreaded hemorrhoid, I figured this was my cross to bear and moved on with life. Come January, I had to endure the even more dreaded (cue da-da da dah music) colonoscopy. Yes, sends shivers down the spine of even the most hardy soul. I'll spare you the details of it all (and the collective "thank you" was heard 'round the world). But suffice it to say, the prep is worse than the procedure (well kind of).
I had one of those comedy of error moments going into the procedure, though. About a half hour before I scheduled myself to leave for the hospital, which thank goodness is only about a fourth mile from our house, I got a frantic call from the GI department.
"Where are you?"
"Um, at home?"
"You are suppose to have been here a half hour ago! Your procedure is scheduled to begin in fifteen minutes. We need to prep you."
There we go with that prep thing again. Not good. Not good at all.
Hubster and I dash out the door, arrive in record time, check in at the GI desk and I'm met by Frantic Nurse. I throw my purse at Hubster and am whisked away down the hall and through the "not for public" doors into the pre/post op ward for a quickie prep (vitals, IV and disclosure of any information needed to insure I don't flat line on the table). At this point, I don't have time to worry or panic, which was probably a G~d send.

Fast forward about one hour later (give or take because they drugged me), I emerge from quasi la la land and my gastroenterologist is looking down upon me. Now, I haven't watched many episodes of House, but I know Dr House has a reputation for being blunt, irreverent and a bit rude.
 I met his sister.
I'm not sure if she asked how I was, I don't think so, but her pronouncement was, well, a bit blunt, irreverent and rude.
"We have a problem. You have cancer."

Just like that. No beating around the bush with this one. No, "I saw something suspicious and want you to get further testing". Not even a "why don't you go home a sit on it for a day, we'll get to the bottom of this soon". She gave me the usual post-procedure pep talk, encouraged me to get a CT scan and ultrasound mass measurement, an oncologist and surgeon, shook mine and Hubster's hand and wished us luck.

Next: Now What? or I Think I'd Like to Wake Up From This Nightmare Now, Thank You.

The Care and Feeding of Your Heart Repair.

Recap: Hubster has a stent placed in his 99% blocked artery.

This tour of hospitals is about over. Today is moving day. We get to go home. I wonder if Trip Adviser has a section for "favorite vacation spots - hospitals".
Estimated departure time is between 11 and noon depending on when Dr. Stentnballoon comes to give his parting remarks.
I miss his visit, but Hubster is given the green light. Now we wait for the nurse to come with the "care and feeding of your new stent" information.
Medicine. My never touch the stuff man will now be a card carrying pill popper. Five of them. One, with a warning by everyone associated with this procedure that he has come in contact with - "you MUST take this EVERY DAY for a year. EVERY DAY. NO MISSED DOSES, or you may... drumroll... DIE." Okay, this one is pretty important. We won't even discuss all the side effects that could happen. If you take this medication you may die. If you don't take this medication, you may die. Its comforting to know Hubster and I are cared for by the Creator of the Universe and knows the beginning from the end. Our days are written in His book.
Dressed and ready to go, except for the IV tubes that need to come out at the last minute. We wait. His nurse comes in with a teaser. "Give me about 15 minutes." We start the countdown. Finally she comes in, takes the remaining remnants of Hotel Hospital Down Town out of Hubs arms and then goes through the rules of the new game. You can do this. You can't do that.
While she finishes up, I get the car and wait for my man. I have his get well balloon. Time to go home.
So, to wrap this up - we went out on Thursday for dinner. What we got was dinner and entertainment.
Next time, I think I'll cook dinner at home. Oh yeah, dinners? Low fat, low sodium, low calories, low carbs. There goes Chinese food anyway.

Balloons and Stents

Recap: Hubster had his heart catherterization and a bit of a scare.
Sleep and hospitals are like oil and water. Thankfully, they don't cram a sleeping pill down your throat anymore.
Back to fasting. No food - no water - except for the tiny sip to slide a handful of meds down the gullet.

Today's the day for the heart stent procedure. Hubster's got a reputation. Every new doctor and nurse  come in, pat him on the shoulder and with a wink of the eye say, "so we heard about your incident last night." He's in a cardiac care unit for goodness sake. This type of thing doesn't happen all the time? Not by the way the floor chatter is going. We decide they must have needed a little excitement to curtail the boredom.
I'm there for morning rounds. Doctor Stentnballoon comes in to give Hubster the lowdown on THE PROCEDURE. It's not done at Hotel Hospital Number One. Something about the law requiring that there needs to be a full cardiac surgical team available. HHN1 does not have one, but another hospital down town does. HHN1 contracts with Hotel Hospital Down Town. Thus - another transport via ambulance. But this time we get to stay there.
We get the procedure game plan. A tiny incision in the groin through the artery, up to the heart. Another wire with a little balloon is inserted, expanded and then a tiny mesh reinforcement is inserted. The plaque is smooshed to the walls of the artery allowing the blood to flow freely again. Balloon is removed. Badabing badabang. It will take between one to three hours depending on how his heart cooperates. He'll be sent to his happy place so he won't feel anything, but only long enough for the procedure to be completed.
The transport comes, all business guys, so no entertainment on the ride over.
Hubster's mom and sister - who surprise us with their visit since they came from a town 3 hours away, stay with me in the waiting room. We have time for a visit to the cafeteria for snacks and the gift shop for a get well balloon. The wait doesn't seem long before the nurse team that took him in arrive. "Hugs and kisses before we take him to his room. Doctor will be out in a minute to give you the update. He did well." And he did. He looks good. He's awake like he was when they wheeled him in.
Doctor Stentnballoon comes out smiling with two glossy pictures - suitable for framing. Before and after, and explains what he did. The artery was 99% blocked. The first small stent slides in and up beyond the plaque. Another one is put in and does its job. All is well. It only took forty minutes start to finish.
Hubster is now back in his room - a two bed, but we get it all to ourselves. He has to lay still for at least two hours so he won't bleed. That would be no good. No good at all. He's a model patient and obeys orders.
His mom and sister leave. I eat mac and cheese and a salad from the cafeteria and watch him enjoy his second meal - pot roast and potatoes.
We're both tired and ready to settle in. He's doing well and I know I can leave for an early evening at home. We're on the homestretch now.
Conclusion: The Care and Feeding of Your Heart Repair. 

Another Night, Another Interruption. Or, What's So Special About Sleep Anyway?

Recap: Hubster had a heart attack and a heart catherterization.

Ambulances have no shocks on their vehicle.

Time for dinner - real food! First a roast beef sandwich, and then sliced roast beef and mashed potatoes. The menu tag that comes on the tray said meatless spaghetti, salad and other heart healthy food. Someone slipped him the good stuff (or bad which ever way you look at it).
Now it was time to settle in for the evening. Procedure over, daughter there to visit, son and friend of Hubster next in line to come.
And then...

Hub decided to shake things up a bit.
 He crashed. Like almost on the floor. Like - call in the crash cart, crash.
 He'd gotten up and was sitting in a chair when the nurse came in alarmed. Really alarmed. His heart rate was monitored at the nurses station and  registered a big drop. He said he was lightheaded and before you know it began to slowly slump head first toward the floor. The nurse barked for our daughter and I to leave. Being the devoted wife who was darn scared at this point, said,  "I wanted to stay."
 "No, you need to leave." Alarmed Nurse said.
"I'm his wife." I reminded her.
 "We need the room to work." She glared at me. Good enough. Daughter and I left to stand outside the door, hands clasped, praying. And then doctors and nurses from all over the hospital began running in. The crash cart arrived. Lots of yelling his name. Lots of hospital noises. Lots of praying on our part.
Finally, a nurse or two walked out of the room. Their faces looked relieved. "Is he stabilizing?" I asked.
 "Yes."
Deep breath and thank G~ds.
Hubster only remembers feeling lightheaded, sitting in a wheelchair and then lying flat on the bed with an oxygen mask, people looking down at him and hooked up to his IV again with a full line of fluids pumping into his vein. Later we found the paddle pads on his chest. They were prepared to zap him if necessary.
The ER doctor, with sympathy in his voice, told us that it was a very benign thing that happened. His Visceral nerve acted up and caused him to faint. It can happen to anyone. But because of all the meds and such, Hubs heart rate dropped to 20 and his BP to 40. The dude almost lined out on us. Benign? I'd hate to have seen something sinister!
Hub's face began to change from gray to normal again and except for feeling pretty sheepish for all the drama, his vitals returned to where they were before the "incident", and he was back to his take it all in stride self. Our son and our friends came to visit. We all had a good laugh and life returned to normal...for a hospital.
Next time: Balloons and Stents.

Hospital Tours

To recap - the Hubster is in the hospital. Diagnosis - heart attack.
No food for you.
Thursday Chinese dinner was becoming a fleeting memory, but a necessary one. He would have to rely on memories of food and water because he was now in fast mode.
 He had IVs in both arms and various poke marks on the back of his hands from blood draws. He probably wouldn't have wanted to drink - leaking issues, don't you know.
Next step - a heart catherterization. His father had one back in the 80s. It was painful.
But, this was the way to see what was going on with his heart.
The hospital he was at was booked up for the procedure and they wanted it done sooner rather than later, so he'd be transported via ambulance to a hospital in another city - about 30 minutes away.
Oh boy, an ambulance ride!
The EMT team came in, made us all laugh with their banter, strapped him in and off he went. I followed by car.
Then I waited. That's hard. The waiting room was cold, no one answered the phone to the nurses station, so I would know what was happening. Did they take him in already? Was he waiting in the bay for his turn ? I pulled out my computer and worked on a project. No use trying to make something happen. I waited. And then, I tried the phone one more time. Sorry, but I'm not a good waiter when I don't have information to go on. The nurse, in a cheery voice told me to come on back. He was done with the procedure. I knew he would have a small amount of sedation, so I expected him to be out of it. But there he was, like nothing had happened, except two nurses were busy around him checking monitors and his wrist. This is where they snaked a thin wire up the artery, injected contrast dye and then watched where it went within the various arteries and veins in his heart.
He was having a good time chatting up the nurses. He mentioned that when they were ready to start the procedure, the tune that was playing over the sound system was, "Highway to Hell." The nurse, with a laugh, apologized and said it was a radio station - no control over the play list. The party was in the recovery bay. The doctor came in, said everything went as planned, a major artery was around 90-95% blocked and the next step would be to have a stent placed in the artery.
After everything checked out, his transport was called for the trip back to the first hospital. When they arrived, the party continued. The two EMT gals (young and cute), two nurses, myself and Hubster who was sitting on the side of the bed spent, oh, around twenty minutes chatting and laughing - like we'd met friends at a mall.
"Well, you ready to head back?" says one of the EMTs.
"Sure, why not, I'm not dressed for a night out on the town."
Back to Hotel Hospital Number One.
Next: Another Night, Another Interruption. Or, What's So Special About Sleep Anyway?

Have a Heart

Last Thursday the Hubster and I went to our favorite little dive for Chinese food. On the way home, the conversation went like this:
Hub - "So, what are your plans tonight."
Me - "Nothing. I'm gonna kick off my shoes and relax."
Hub - "What would you think about spending some time at ER?"
Okay, this is serious. He'd mentioned the previous Friday that his lungs ached and he figured it was a new form of heartburn. He'd just downed a few chicken hotdogs on bread for a snack. The following week he'd experienced a bit of the same thing off and on. Now on our way home, he said it was getting uncomfortable. He figured he'd dash in, get some antacid pills and be on his way.
Since the hospital is about a quarter mile from where we live, he had me drop him off while I drove home with the leftovers for the fridge. By the time I came back and parked - maybe around 15 minutes, he was already in a room with blood drawn for testing. He's been in ER twice before in the course of 5 years with pains in his chest, but this time he got the red carpet treatment. Maybe they looked at his face and knew this was serious. And this is the first time they did the blood test. Before, he had the standard EKG, and lots of questions. The last time, they kept him overnight for observation and a stress test and pronounced him healthy.
The blood test came back positive for a cardiac enzyme that says heart distress.
He was having a heart attack.
I made the mistake of asking the ER doctor if it was a minor heart attack. Bless his heart, he came around the bed, leaned over towards me and with his very serious doctor voice said, "ma'am, there is no such thing as a minor heart attack." He went on to say that they come in two styles, one can be detected by the external tests, stress, EKG - the ones that monitor the rhythims of the heart. The other, they call the silent ones. The heart looks normal on paper, beats normal and strong, but the arteries are not getting the blood they need. He said these are the deadly ones.
So, we figured that the other 2 times we went to the ER, Hubster's heart was telling him, "hey we have issues here - just giving you the heads-up." But they didn't test his blood for the enzyme.
By midnight, he was shipped to telemetry for a possible heart catheterization.
I left around 2:30AM and returned at 7:30AM to see what the new day held.
Next time - Hospital Tours.