One minute there was I, empty rice pudding bowl in hand reaching for the top rack in the waiting Bosch.
Next moment (don’t really know how many minutes) there was I sprawled on the kitchen floor, opening my eyes on the bowl broken nearby, the bloody scrape on my right elbow and arm…and a smarting feeling on the right side of my head!
I had completely crashed!
Struggling back on wobbly feet with the help of a nearby kitchen chair, possibly the cause of my scraped skin, I sat down and (yes, tried to clear the proverbial cobwebs) and get a handle on reality of what had happened … and what would happen next.
I knew that I was in trouble!
Living alone in my condo, I also knew that I needed help.
My phone was the nearest source. But I got my daughter’s message service response, asked her to call me ASAP and waited ten or twelve minutes before I reached out to 911.
The West End Fire Co. Ambulance and Phoenixville Police cruiser arrived at about the same time seven or eight minutes later, took my body vitals, hitched me onto a gurney, hooked me up to an IV and off we flew: no team of reindeer in this scenario) only professional first responders speeding through the late January night to the nearest ED at Phoenixville Hospital.
During the short trip from condo to hospital my attending EMT was warily watching dials showing my BP, O-level and most important (I later learned) my plummeting heart rate while speaking on his phone with someone at the hospital as we neared the facility.
Bypassing the ER entrance, we headed directly into the bowels of the Cath lab to a waiting team of doctors, nurses and technicians that took my body handoff, and its attached paraphernalia, to diagnose my condition more definitely.
The diagnosis was unanimous: I had experienced a Stage 3 heart block!
There is no Stage 4.
I needed a pacemaker…ASAP!
“You’ve got to be kidding me “came my startled reply.” “What are my options?”
“Do nothing and wait for another crash, and…” a sober voice came from the assembled lab coats.
“That’s it?” I weakly asked. Lab coats’ nods filled the room.
‘I’ll sign the papers. Let’s do it,” I said.
At that time of the evening, (between 9:30 and 10), a “temporary” pacemaker was the best procedure to invoke (A temporary transvenous pacemaker placement is an invasive, lifesaving and emergency procedure to help manage unstable cardiac dysrhythmias {abnormal and irregular heartbeats}.
In layperson’s language, two wires were inserted into veins of my heart near my left collarbone.
Procedure complete and with daughter, her new husband-to-be and granddaughter now on the scene, we learned that the “real” pacemaker would be scheduled for insertion Wednesday morning.
The “temp” device would be “fine until then” we were assured.
But nobody mentioned the “gathering ghosts” that would be visiting “my space” in the meantime!
Those ghosts (some may call them hallucinations) appeared abruptly into my Cath lab surroundings.
While I was fully awake.
Eerie spirits, some somberly attired in black mourning robes, some festively adorned, one carrying a scythe, all with zombielike gazes were penetrating my perimeter.
Another apocryphal figure (sometimes a man, sometimes a woman) periodically sat at a desk across the hall in a glass enclosed office.
Primitive symbols hung over their heads. Often there was another grim apparition standing near the desk. Sometimes not.
A gaunt man- figure stood inside a glass-paneled door peering down the hall into my semi-closed curtained surroundings. Nobody ever spoke.
Bells were tolling a largo tempo “O, Holy Night” in the distance. Then everything was gone.
Several hours of fitful sleep gave way to a dawning of pre-op-prep and transport to a tomb-like lower level of the OR where the surgical team partially sedated me (typical for this type of procedure) placed a fibrous shroud over my head so that I couldn’t see. but hear, removed the temp wires from the veins and implanted a small Medtronic pacemaker to my heart at my left collar bone.
I answered a couple of questions and could hear the team talking to one another.
In fact, I could hear two teams talking. The ghosts had returned!
And they were speaking in Spanish!
Soon upon returning to my Cath lab ‘home,” I casually mentioned my auditory experience to a nurse who surprisingly responded, “wouldn’t surprise me if you did; lots of paranormal experiences seem to haunt this town.”
Wow!
For the next couple of days (and nights) in the hospital I clearly saw and heard those “otherworld sights and sounds” occur again and again.
Frankly, recovery from my real “near death” experience was almost taking second place to my growing obsession with (please forgive me, Rod Serling) my personal “Twilight Zone.”
Prior to transferring to rehab at Shannondell, I spoke with my discharge physician about my recurring “visions.”
In his best Marcus Welby, M.D. impression, he patted me on the shoulder and said “nothing to worry about. You’ll most likely leave them here.”
What’s that supposed to mean? I thought.
It didn’t take long to find out.
(To be continued next week.)
************
Finally, nobody asked, but it is difficult to disagree with Ralph Waldo Emerson when he said, “society is a hospital of incurables” and also “you can’t do a kindness too soon, for you never know how soon it will be too late.”
The Last Word: Good day, good luck, and good news tomorrow!
Ray invites your comments to mainlinebanter@verizon.net.
