Emotional roller coaster – hospital release (the story part 4)

I’ve been writing about my heart attack to spread the word to all women about the risks of heart disease. It is the leading cause of death in women (killing one in three).

I’ve written previously about my early symptoms, the day of the heart attack, and the hospital journey.

Today, I share my emotional roller coaster getting released from the hospital.

By day three of my four days in the hospital, my brain was on overload trying to take in every face, test result, and procedure explanation. I have three cardiologists, four nurses, a dietician, a pharmacist, a physiologist, and a hospitalist. One nurse is a counselor with a soothing voice and a fuzzy cardigan.

Dr. P, my hospitalist, visits me every day, squatting down to look me in the eye. He always holds my hand and asks if I know what’s happened to me. His soft voice is calming.

He makes sure I know I had a heart attack and that I’ve had a stent surgery procedure. Each day, whatever my circumstance, he explains.

Fuzzy cardigan nurse Sarah says, “you’ll find yourself feeling depressed because you almost died. Just expect this at some time.”

A kid in blue scrubs (really a cardiac intern) says he’ll walk me down the hall to see how far I can go. This excites me. I want to prove I’m strong enough to be released.

He offers his arm and I’m surprised I can only make it a few steps out the door of my room before I’m so winded I can’t continue. My ankles are wobbly and legs are weak.

Then there’s Debbie, a manufacturer’s rep. She’s dressed in a pretty slim skirt and peplum jacket. I want her to meet my son, she’s that cute.

She’s there to explain the defibrillator life vest to me. She opens a 6-sided color brochure featuring a contraption I’m supposed to wear 24-7 for six weeks.

It’s like a fabric sports bra with metal paddles in the back that will shock my heart if I should have a heart attack while wearing it! It’s full of sensors to monitor everything about my heart and transmit to a far location via modem.

This is a Sunday so I won’t get the real thing till Monday.

The dietician lady wears red scrubs and is really sweet. She launches into long explanations of what I should be eating for the rest of my life.

I’m especially intrigued with her visual of my salt intake. “Just make a little mound about the size of a dime in the palm of your hand” that’s how much salt you can have in a day. Not from the salt shaker but from everything.”

She proceeds to teach me how to read labels.

I promise to read it all and drift off into sleep. I hear my husband and doctor talking about “ejection fraction” numbers.

EF is the amount of blood leaving the heart when it contracts My ”EF” is at a low 15 with a normal heart putting out 35 to 55 EF. I really need that defibrillator life vest.

I ordered heart-healthy chicken soup for dinner, but it tastes like dishwater—yuck, and there is no salt. I ate the saltines, and I wanted to go home.

I doze off again and hear the clicking of heels come in my room, I open my eyes and see my best friend bearing a vase of flowers. “Happy birthday”, says Diana. “I told you not to come!” I blurt.

“I had to see you with my own eyes to make sure you’re ok,” she says. I start to cry. I didn’t want anyone to see me so debilitated, oxygen tube, catheter bag, tubes and needles in both arms, bruises on every visible surface.

I want to tell her I almost died and how scared I am. But I can’t get any more words out, because my breathing is so labored. We hug.

Finally, its Monday morning and there’s flurry of activity – a young man in gray scrubs goes through my discharge papers – one by one he reads and tells me what they say so I can sign them.

Most importantly is the long list of drugs, their names, dosage and what they are for. Do this, do that, make an appointment for this doctor or that blood test.
I want to concentrate.

A perky lady dressed in brown corduroy comes in with my very own life vest. She shows me how to put it all together inserting the paddles into the slots and the round sensors with their skinny black cords. A two and half pound battery pack attaches with a cord on the side.

I’m ready to put it on and get out of there! But no, I have to prove to her I can put it together just like she did.

She disconnects everything she did and makes me do it while she watches. It’s complicated and there’s a long list of things to do every day.

The battery must be removed and replaced while putting the spare on a charger, each sensor (there are eight) must be touching my body through the thin fabric. There’s no slacking off allowed – this is serious!

The kid comes to walk me again, this time I make it farther than before, I want to jump for joy but my arm won’t let go of his.

MY FIRST NIGHT AT HOME.

We decide I should sleep in the guest room with the walker nearby because I have to get up in the night to go to the bathroom and I’m not strong enough to make it on my own.

I have a nightmare, wake with a start, I begin to hyperventilate! I’m terrified my breath won’t come. I make my way out to the family room, where there’s a recliner; I get in it and cover up with the afghan – I breathe better because I’m sitting up.

I had a long talk with God, thanking Him for sparing my life and asking Him to help me breathe better right now! I asked God what I did to deserve this and what I could do to repay Him for saving me.

I fall asleep mid-prayer.