NOT ALL CANES ARE CANDY

           Since my last visit to Huntington Memorial Hospital’s Surgical Unit for vascular bypass surgery in my right leg, I have been pushing myself to regain the use of that leg. I have made my way through the “walker” days and I am now onto using a cane.

            While the fashion options on the walker are non-existent, with the exception of with or without tennis balls on the bottom, I was surprised at the array of designs and colors available in the cane arena. The choice was tough, but I opted for a black and fatigue camouflage model. My hope was that it would be invisible or at least not as noticeable. I don’t exactly know what I was thinking, but I really need to talk to my surgeon about the meds he’s prescribing me. I think they are causing me to be a tad delusional. 

            In the last week or so, I have progressed to the point of being able to hobble around the house on my own.  At this rate, I think I should be able to walk “normally” by next week, just in time to have my left leg done and then I will be back to square one again. Yeah, I am so digging 2010. I wish it would just go on forever.

            When I venture out in public and have to walk any distance, like going to Sam’s Club for example, my little aluminum and rubber friend goes with me. It slows me down and is a pain in the ass for me to use, but the alternative, lying around doing nothing, is worse.

            My wife Stacey and I have ventured out a couple of times over the last couple of weeks and during one of our last trips she came up with the following epiphany, “People seem to treat you better when you are using a cane.”

            I hadn’t noticed. To be honest, at that point my focus was on just maneuvering, but she had planted the seed. On subsequent jaunts I started paying more attention and began to think that her assessment was right.

            I personally have always been one of those people who relinquish the right of way and hold open the door for others, regardless of the hardware they may or may not be sporting. I have never been the type that felt compelled to push and rush my way around people when out and about. My train of thought has always been that my time is not any more valuable than the next guy. Sadly, this sentiment is not universally shared.

            As a matter of fact, as the holidays have drawn closer, the shiny star at the top of the tree of courtesy towards the “poor guy” with the cane has tarnished. The need to get those presents as fast as possible took precedence over manners and my camouflaged cane achieved my delusional fantasy of being invisible.

            My vision of my fellow man, during what is supposed to be “the season of caring and good will towards man”, has blurred.  My irritation has me imagining different scenarios of how to use my cane as a weapon.  I want to punish the rude and obnoxious evil elves that are sucking out all of my holiday cheer. I even started composing a letter to Santa asking him for a new cane that had a sword or a dagger attached to the handle and concealed inside the body.

Then it struck me. Why should I sink to their level? I would not allow any group of people, especially the rude, to deprive me of my favorite time of year. My holiday spirit was too hard to reach this year to have it extinguished by people I wouldn’t give a broken ornament to.

Without knowing it, these holiday hooligans have given me a gift. They have inadvertently strengthened my resolve to make this holiday the best one yet. They did this despite the fact that all indications point to me waking up on Christmas morning in a hospital room instead of my own bed for the first time, and hopefully the last time, in my life.

If you haven’t already, I hope you too can find the joy of the season even if you have to do it one step at a time.  Happy Holidays to all!

SOME THINGS AREN'T PURRFECT

Whenever I am in need of an auto repair shop I always feel as though I am entering a carny shell game. You know, the game where you have to keep your eye on the little ball under the cup or shell that is being rapidly moved. If you lose sight of it, you might as well just hand over your wallet to the hustler running the game. The same logic applies to the auto repair  business.  Blink and you will be taken to the cleaners.

            I have learned that the first thing you need to keep in mind is that most places, that are of the chain variety, will price match their competitors.  So if you have the time to get a second price, do it. You will be one step closer to getting your car fixed without having to sell the kids.

            This was the scenario I was faced with recently and it truly helped. It also helps if you have a service associate or manager who is familiar with you and your vehicles. In the case of Pep Boys & Purrfect Auto I had, or thought I had, such a relationship. As we all know, in this world, the only constant is change.

            The first change came when calling Pep Boys to get a quote on my repair and my "go to guy" Jose, wasn't there and the price I was quoted seemed unusually high. Next I called Purrfect Auto and my "guy" Lloyd wasn’t there. In fact he was permanently not there as the place was under the dreaded “New Management” mantle. As I held my breath, I decided to give them a chance and asked them for a quote.

            To my surprise, not only was their price lower, it was substantially lower. So off to Purrfect to meet Jesse, the new management. Once I got there I soon found out that the hurdles I had cleared with Lloyd in the past were back in place with Jesse. With Jesse, and from what I have found out since about the entire Purrfect Auto family of franchises, nothing is ever simple. The words “sell up” are tattooed on every person who works there.

            Shortly after dropping my car off to them I got a call from Jesse. It wasn’t just the one thing. No, it was numerous things that needed to be addressed. If not repaired immediately automotive Armageddon was headed my way.

 Purrfect is really into scare tactics. Especially if they think you are a first timer. Unfortunately for Jesse this wasn’t my first time at their circus. “Please just fix what I brought it in for” I instructed him.

            When I picked up my car my invoice listed all of the scary things he told me I needed to do, with even scarier prices to go along with them. I didn’t drive the car again for a few days, but when I did, Jesse’s prophecy came true. Armageddon came with a vengeance. How could I have been so foolish not to believe him?

            When my AAA tow truck driver, Paul, arrived to take me back to Jesse’s lair my hood was up. He took a quick look and immediately noticed missing parts. Parts, which in his estimation were partly to blame for the recent catastrophe. He being a mechanic as well as a tow truck driver, I took his word for it and changed my destination from Purrfect to Pep Boys.

            I tried to call my guy Jose at Pep Boys, but again he was off. Jesus, I want his hours. I did get Roland on the line and discovered he was cut of the same cloth as Jose. They both understood the value of repeat, long time customers and how hard it is to keep them. One glance at his computer told him how much money I had spent at their joint.

            Roland listened to my tale of woe and welcomed me with open arms. I felt like a cheating husband being welcomed back home by a forgiving wife. Once there I showed him the scary receipt with the costs from Purrfect. He did his best to keep his eyes from popping out of his head and said that while the initial service was less than they usually charge, the rest of the prices for the apocalyptic repairs were way out of line.

Roland gave it his best shot but the problem persisted. The next day my boy Jose was back at work and he and his crew dove in and tried to solve the mystery, but the following day, on my way to work, the problem returned and back I went.

Next up to bat was the service manager Charles. Now to be honest, when Charles first came on board at my Pep Boys over on Rosemead Blvd & Broadway in Temple City, we butted heads. I’m sure he didn’t remember, but it was after we had our little altercation that I ended up at Purrfect for the first time. I didn't have the luxury of waiting for my "go to guys" to return. This was a desperate time and it called for desperate measures. I decided to play nice and see if Charles would do the same.

Fortunately for me this time Charles stepped up and he and his mechanic Edward found the true root of the problem and my automotive nightmare came to an end. It took a village to solve the mystery, but the boys at Pep didn’t give up until the job was done. They also did it, despite the extra parts and labor needed to do the job right, for far less than Purrfect Auto wanted.

I guess it’s my fault for taking my car to a place that can’t even spell perfect in the first place.

ABOUT THE FIVE COLUMNS LISTED BELOW

       The dates on the five (5) columns listed below, that comprise the "Serious As A Heart Attack" series, do not have the actual dates of the original publication, aside from Part 1. They are set up the way they are so that they can be read in order.
.....Bill

SERIOUS AS A HEART ATTACK

PART 1
      “SHOULD I STAY OR SHOULD I GO?”

On June 15^th at about 12:15 a.m., I woke up after about an hour’s worth of sleep with a bad case of heartburn. Well, what I believed was a bad case of heartburn. After taking the usual two Tums, I attempted to go back to sleep. A half an hour later the heartburn had increased and as I sat on the edge of my bed my wife, Stacey, was asking if we should go to the emergency room or call 911.

This being one of her favorite suggestions whenever I am not feeling well, of course, fell deaf on my stubborn ears. I waved her off with visions of massive medical bills dancing around my head. I had heard news reports of the skyrocketing cost of a paramedic ride. The ticket for this little ride is now topping $1,000.00 to take. 

With the pressure in my chest increasing by the minute, the suggestion of going to the emergency room started sounding like a pretty good idea. So, as we were making our way to the car and heading for the emergency room it struck us, which emergency room?

In the past, it was always a no brainer. Geographically and traffic wise Arcadia Methodist was always our first choice, but in the last couple of years a couple of things had changed in our local medical landscape to help complicate our decision.

First, was the fact that Arcadia Methodist and Anthem Blue Cross could not play nice with one another anymore and of course Blue Cross is our current medical provider. Second, was the fact that my sister had passed away while in the "care" of Arcadia Methodist. My family and I were of the opinion that she received substandard care while there. So with these things in mind the choice was made and off to San Gabriel Valley Medical Center we went.

As the blood was draining from my face I was glad that the streets were empty as we made good time to SGVMC. Along with my pale complexion my head was getting light and the pain in my chest was increasing. By the time we made it to the doors of the ER it was all I could do to find the nearest chair while my wife made it to the counter to find someone to admit us. 

Unfortunately, early Tuesday mornings were apparently not the best time to come to the ER as there was nobody behind the counter or anywhere in sight. Well let me revise that. There was the security guard on duty who was asking questions like “Should I get a wheelchair?” as I sat there clutching my chest in agony.

As I slipped closer to unconsciousness less and less of what was being said around me was making any sense. All I remember is that someone finally got me in a wheelchair and took me about 15 feet to where there was obviously employees that had some sort of medical knowledge and weren’t part of the security detail.

Eventually I was hooked up to an EKG and asked thousands of questions as the pain continued. Then came the first morphine shot. At that point I began to realize the level of pain I had achieved. The shot did absolutely nothing. The pain continued and after about 45 minutes a doctor finally made his presence known to me.

According to him, after his diagnosis of the EKG, the pain in my chest and numbness in my left arm was not a heart attack. More tests would be needed. I may have pneumonia or some other ailment.

            About this time my son Alex got to the hospital and as you can imagine was completely freaked out.  He was followed in by the doctor checking to see if the pain had subsided, as if it would magically go away. When I told him no he quickly ordered up a second shot of morphine and fled the room I’m guessing to consult his crystal ball.

            The second shot of morphine was hitting the spot and instead of the pain and pressure in my chest a numb feeling began to creep in across my body and a drugged out haze began to take over my brain.

            As testimony to my drugged out state, Stacey and Alex told me that at one point, as my eyes were scanning the ceiling, I spewed forth the following quote: “Boy, there are a lot of purple states. There goes Wyoming!”  My daughter who found this extremely funny felt compelled to post it on Facebook. Thanks Rachel.

            After what seemed like a few minutes, but was actually another hour, the doctor returned with the following news after a second EKG, “Well Mr. Dunn it appears that you are having a heart attack after all. Oh and we can’t give you the proper treatment here, we are going to have to send you over to Arcadia Methodist.”

            When I mentioned the insurance issue he replied, “They are going to have to take you because of the emergency nature of this case.”

            “So how am I going to get there?”

            “Oh we have already called 911. The paramedics are on their way.”

            This of course means we are batting 1000 in the doing what we didn’t want to do department. Not only was I going to be getting the ambulance ride I didn’t want, I was also going to the hospital that I was trying to avoid going to. Oh Lord just take me now.

            Thank God for that second shot of morphine. Whoa, there goes Wyoming again…….        

SERIOUS AS A HEART ATTACK

                                                    PART 2
                                       “MAGIC CARPET RIDE”

            I have always been a staunch supporter of the fire departments and emergency response teams in my area. I have written many times in this column about the unenviable job they have chosen, especially when it comes to navigating our streets around the throngs of drivers who haven’t got a clue what to do when they hear a siren.

            That said, just as not all drivers are bad, although it would be hard to come to that conclusion driving in the San Gabriel Valley, sadly not all paramedics are good.

            I came to this epiphany as I was being prepared for transport from San Gabriel Valley Medical Center to Arcadia Methodist Hospital. Just a reminder to those of you who missed Part 1, and shame on you for that and you know who you are, I was in the midst of having a heart attack. I was also at SGVMC because I didn’t want to go to Arcadia Methodist. I also didn’t want to go on a ride with the paramedics.  But here I was and there I was about to go.

            My first clue as to the subpar abilities of my ambulance crew was apparent once they tried to put me on the gurney from my ER bed. It was obvious that it was going to be such a major production for them,  that I finally said “Look, I’ll just slide over onto it”, which I did. I didn’t want to die waiting for them to get me out of one hospital on the way to the next.

Once at the mouth of my emergency vehicle things once again came to a halt. I was getting the drift that I was not in the hands of the “A” team here. There were more questions being asked by more than one of this crew and all the answers seemed to be coming from the same guy. It finally struck me, in my heavily morphined state, that three quarters of this four man crew were trainees. Oh Goody, could this night get any better?

After the last volley of questions were answered I waved goodbye to my wife and the back doors were secured and my little shuttle appeared to be ready for takeoff. As I watched and listened to the conversation going back and forth between the occupants I began to stress out even more.

My chest started tightening again even worse than before. I truly believe it was due to the fact that my little flight crew here wasn’t giving me the warm and fuzzies as far as their abilities were concerned. Only one guy seemed to have any answers and he didn’t seem to be giving them up very quickly or clearly.

Once on our way I expected this to be one quick little trip. Having grown up in this valley I could drive from where we were to Arcadia Methodist with my eyes closed. Unfortunately the ambulance driver could not. As we drove, I could see where we were going in reverse as there were large windows in the rear.

As the man with all the answers prepared to give me my third shot of morphine I started to recognize where they were driving. I asked “Are you guys driving up Rosemead Boulevard?”

“Gee I don’t know” the man answered.

He in turn asked the driver the same question and before his answer could come I said “Yeah you are and as a matter of fact you should be coming up on Huntington Drive right about now.”

The driver then answers “Yes we are on Rosemead”.

This response came just as I watched the Trader Joes sign pass by me in reverse. For those of you not familiar with this area Trader Joes is at the corner of Rosemead and Huntington Drive. Again, for those of you not familiar with the area this is where the ambulance should have made a right turn in order to get to Arcadia Methodist.

“You do know you were supposed to turn right on Huntington?”

“Oh no we are going to take a faster route”

“Oh really? Like what?”

“We are heading for the 210 freeway. It’s much faster!”

 “I don’t want to be a back gurney driver, but you guys do know that there is major construction on Rosemead Boulevard North of Huntington?”  

At this moment all conversation stopped for a moment and the siren on the ambulance was turned on. The third shot of morphine was quickly administered, the driver hit the gas and the oxygen mask was quickly slapped on. Personally, I think this was a ploy to get me to shut the hell up, but that morphine really jumps right on top of you so I can only speculate.

 The man with all the answers moved up closer to the driver where I couldn’t make out what was being said. He quickly came back to my side and said “He has another route in mind” at which point the ambulance made a quick right turn.

I looked out the back and said “He’s going down Colorado Boulevard?”

“Yep”

“Then he’s going to take that over to Colorado Street and come around the back of the Hospital?”

“Yep”

“Well that beats the freeway by a few minutes, but it is still taking the long way around the horn”

As we pulled up to the hospital my wife was there and had been there for a good ten minutes. I should have gone with her. At least she knew how to get there. As they pushed me through the back door of the emergency room at Arcadia Methodist I thought of one thing.

If I make it through this and they try sending me a $1,000.00 bill for this trip I am going to go buy them a GPS and send them that instead. It may help save the next rider’s life.

SERIOUS AS A HEART ATTACK

PART 3
“OVER THE RAINBOW”

For the first time in the night that seemed to go on forever, it finally began to look like somebody knew what they were doing. Once my EMT crew, the gang that couldn’t drive straight, got to Arcadia Methodist Hospital, it was as though they had awakened and had to get their act together.
            Once they thrust my gurney through the emergency room’s doors everyone involved seemed to be moving much quicker than the somnambulistic group at San Gabriel Valley Medical Center. At this point I was assuming that my initial apprehension at coming here was misplaced. Compared to the first hospital of the night, this was more what I  have come to imagine an ER was like, at least based on the fantasy world of television.
            It may have been my imagination, but I could have sworn that when we came bursting through those doors I heard the sound of a cash register go off. Maybe it was because all of their animated actions were causing my adrenaline to surge through the morphine induced dream state I had been in for the last three hours. Who knows for sure at this point, but I’m sure I will find out later.
            The flurry that followed was basically a repeat of the same questions that I had been asked multiple times during the course of the night. I remember thinking, after being asked the same couple of questions for what felt like the tenth time, isn’t somebody writing this crap down? And why do you keep asking the sick guy when he has family nearby? No wonder so many mistakes are made inside of hospital walls.
            Then a calm fell over me and my surroundings. The number of people dwindled as though there was a shift change happening. I was suddenly in the care of a couple of guys, I think one of them was named Marcus, but I can’t be sure. Sorry guys for forgetting your names. You were the one calming factor during this entire nightmare.

They were taking me to the surgical lair of one Douglas Yun M.D.  On this early morning he was in my eyes cardiologist wizard extraordinaire. He was about to make an addition to my heart and vocabulary with one fell swoop.

            That addition took the form of what is known as a stint or stent, depending on whom you ask or which web searches you use. To keep its description brief, it is a small wire that is inserted into your blocked artery to open it up and keep it open. If you are looking for a more definitive explanation consult your doctor or conduct your own web search.

Dr. Yun and his crew gave me the brief lowdown as to what was going to happen next. I was going to be given a local anesthetic and I would be aware of what was happening. Being the enormous baby that I am I did voice my concern about being awake, but I was gently assured that I wouldn’t feel a thing after the initial prick.

I got the distinct impression that the time for discussions and debates on my part were over. This crew was on the move and it was obvious this wasn’t their first time at the rodeo. All I could do was settle in, take the ride, and hope for the best.

The operating room was very sci-fi. To my left, if my memory is correct, there was a bank of six high tech video panels that were going to be displaying my blocked arterial highway for Dr. Yun. He would be inserting the stent through my groin and snake that little bad boy up to the blocked portion of my artery and let it do its thing.

Now, when I was told that I was going to be awake for this procedure, I assumed that this meant that I would be able to see and speak. I soon found out that this was incorrect. I could hear what was going on, but try as I might, I could not open my eyes or mouth.

Trust me, I did try. Especially when I heard Dr. Yun utter those words that no surgical patient wants to hear during a procedure, “Uh oh, I didn’t want to go there.” Despite how hard I tried to move my lips they wouldn’t budge. They were as frozen shut as the Tin Man’s after standing in the rain.

Luckily, shortly after he said “Ah, there we go” with an inflection denoting that whatever his correction was it was victorious, whatever his misstep had been.

A few moments later someone in the room was calling my name. Kind of like Auntie Em calling to Dorothy in an effort to bring her back from OZ. As my eyes opened I was staring at the bank of monitors that were displaying the road map to my chest cavity innards.

Dr. Yun pointed out two of the screens. One screen showed before the stent and the other one after. The primary difference being that the after shot of the area distinctly showed two arteries instead of just one.

My first words to the wizard should have been thank you. Instead they were “Can I get a picture of those?” We all like to have a little souvenir when we take a trip don’t we?

Unfortunately the trip wasn’t over. In fact it was about to take an ugly turn. That would be to the right and down the hall to the dreaded land of Intensive Care South.

I definitely was not in OZ any more.

SERIOUS AS A HEART ATTACK

                                                   PART 4
                                 “ROCK & ROLL HOSPITAL”

            Limp and drugged, I was being wheeled from Doctor Yun’s surgical lair to points unknown. At that moment in time, I can honestly say I could have cared less where I was going. I was just wishing we would get there and get there soon. This night and morning had gone on far too long and I just wanted it to end. Well, like the old saying goes, be careful of what you wish for.

             Just in case you missed the last chapter in this little saga, the “hospital” I ended up at was Arcadia Methodist and to put it as diplomatically as I can, it was not my first choice. Not that my first choice of the evening, San Gabriel Valley Medical Center, was any better.

Then again, I only went there because of insurance issues and it was geographically closest, but I have covered all this so let’s move on. Let’s just say next time I’m going to Huntington Memorial if I have any choice in the matter and hope that they are not as inept as these two turned out to be.

            Where I ended up was one of the Intensive Care Units. When I woke up…. let me rephrase that. When I was awakened for the first time after the surgery, I was in the ICU, or at least that’s what I was told. It certainly wasn’t the same ICU my sister Sue was in a couple of years ago. While she was in the “A” unit, I was in one somewhere a little further down the alphabet. It was a throwback to another time referred to as ICU South.

            I remember going to see Sue when she was in her ICU, and where I was didn’t appear to be built in the same decade. Change that, the same century. The beds, TV’s, and the buzzers were so antiquated that they didn’t work properly. As a matter of fact, the air conditioning didn’t function properly, before and after the repairman decided to show up.

I was rousted from my slumber because it was time for me to make the first of what would be many blood donations. I don’t know if you have ever been unfortunate enough to be an overnight guest at a “health care facility”, but if you have you will understand what I am about to say.

            I don’t know who puts together the schedules for the nurses, but they should be forced to spend a week at the mercy of the mandatory schedule the patients are subjected to. It might give them a new perspective when putting together their next nurses schedule.

            It is one of those twisted little annoyances that make you crazy at a time when you are supposed to be relaxed and stress free. It is almost like they have it planned. As soon as you are lucky enough to drift off to sleep, that is the time they decide that you need to have your temperature taken or your blood drawn.

If it isn’t sleep that is being interrupted, then it is when you are about to choke down the pitiful excuse of what they call food. You would think if they can come up with the miraculous procedure that Dr. Yun performed on my heart, that they could come up with food that doesn’t taste like plastic and won’t redamage your heart. The bland food that they force you to consume makes the cardboard they serve at McDonalds seem like a culinary wonderland.

Luckily my time being ignored in the ICU came to an end and I was moved upstairs in the Tower of Terror. At first I was a little surprised that I was going to have a roommate, but it had to be better than the dilapidated version of an ICU I was just in. Well you know what they say about assuming?

My roommate was there for elective surgery. He was having some stent work done in his legs, something that I believe is going to be coming up in my future, but that’s another column for another day. Aside from his nonstop need to have a conversation with me, he suffered from one other malady. He was under the delusion that a hospital was the same as a restaurant and that the nurses were his waitresses.

This fruitcake was hitting his nurse call button every 15 minutes asking for food, sodas, coffee, and pain killers. It was as though he thought he was the only patient on our floor and the nurses were there for his amusement. His actions were not only annoying to me, but the expression on the nurses' faces spoke volumes as to how frustrated they were. If I was supposed to be resting, as I was told I should be, they definitely had me in the wrong room.

The one calming influence during my time there was the presence and consultation given to me by Dr. Alisa Rock. She was the yin to Dr. Yun’s yang. She was the one who came in to consult with me on which drugs I would be taking while I was there and in the future. She also explained, in terms I could understand, what I needed to do once I left. It was nice to have someone who honestly seemed to be concerned with my well being and my feelings. She was also a little mystified that they had put me in a semi private room, especially after she got a load of my roommate.

There were a couple of other nurses who did a good job while I was there, but for the most part I felt as though I was just another room number on the floor. Just another faceless name on the white plastic rotation board at the nurse’s station. I was hopefully that the next round of tests would give me the green light to go home in the next day or two as I had been told. So I figured all I needed to do was rest and bide my time until then.

That was until mid morning the next day when my phone rang. It was Victoria from the hospital financial office. She was calling me to discuss my insurance and the terms of my payment. At first I thought I was being punked, but I don't know anyone sick enough to try and give me another heart attack so soon after just having one.

After listening to her for a couple minutes, the words of one of our great maritime leaders came to mind, “That’s all I can stands and I can’t stands no more!” I told her to mail me a bill like every other patient and hung up. Thank you Popeye for the strength.

I picked up my nurse call buzzer for the first time since I’d been there. When the nurse arrived I told her two things. First, that I would be checking out that day and second I wanted to see Dr. Rock immediately.

Next I called my wife Stacey and told her what was going on and that I would keep her posted. Dr. Rock came in and could see how upset I was. As soon as she heard why, there is no way to describe the look of horror that crept across her face. Apparently this isn't the first time the finance department committed this egregious error.

I guess doctors frown on the finance department calling their convalescing heart patients and upsetting them. Dr. Rock shot out of my room to, well, go rock somebody's world. The nurse returned and said that Dr. Yun would have to approve my leaving and that they would let me know as soon as they spoke to him.

Things started moving rather quickly from this point forward. Dr. Rock had been busy shaking up the people in the administration and finance offices. I know this because within the next hour I had representatives from both of those departments in my room apologizing and asking questions to make sure this error never happens again. Unfortunately too little, too late.

Dr. Rock returned to tell me I would be home to see the Lakers playoff game and that they were putting my paperwork in order. Dr. Yun would be coming by to give me some final instructions soon. I called Stacey to tell her to come and get me and I packed up my belongings. As soon as these things came to pass, this part of the party was over and I was ready to roll.

Soon Stacey and I were leaving the hospital in our dust. I was heading back home where it all began and where the changes in my life were truly about to begin.

SERIOUS AS A HEART ATTACK

                                                        PART 5
                               "THE LONG AND WINDING ROAD"

Since my escape from the Tower of Terror, aka Arcadia Methodist Hospital, the battle raging in and pertaining to my heart has not seen a dull moment. I have been on a medical roller coaster ride for the last three months and I am more than ready to get off.

            After trying to get things back to normal since what I have been referring to as “The Incident” my cardiologist extraordinaire, Dr. Douglas Yun, had other ideas. Apparently in his exploration of my heart and arteries he found that there was much more blockage and it needed to be addressed.

            And address it he did. By the end of August, I was back in the hospital to unblock the demon artery in question and add some reinforcement to the one that was opened up during “The Incident.” This time I was the guest of a different medical venue, Huntington Memorial in Pasadena. I have to say, my interaction with their staff was great, and the best of the three hospitals I have had to deal with in as many months.

            Huntington was far more organized and caring than San Gabriel Valley Medical Center or Arcadia Methodist. Both of those, while claiming to be nonprofit organizations, seem to only be in it for the money, as Frank Zappa used to say.

The staff at Huntington, both surgical and nursing, seemed to genuinely care that (a) I was there and (b) that I was comfortable from the time I checked in until the second I checked out. No mention of money was ever discussed other than to confirm my insurance upon entry.

I have to say the stent surgery this time around was even more surreal even though it was done sans the morphine. There is just something completely bizarre about being completely awake for the entire procedure. Watching what Dr. Yun and his crack heart staff were doing inside my chest on the big video screens to my left was like some kind of weird out of body experience.  For those of you who are keeping score, I now have four stents in my heart collection.

Since “The Incident” I have had time to reflect on the entire situation and what led me to it. To those of you who know me, you can immediately point to my smoking and diet as two of the culprits that got me there. But they weren’t alone.

You see, like many of you, I avoided going to the doctor and having checkups. I was eventually motivated to go see a doctor after experiencing pain in my legs about five years ago. While my doctor focused on everything but my legs, he didn’t detect the problem with my heart despite numerous EKG’s and prescribing me a ton of different medications that made me feel like crap. After three years of that nonsense, I stopped going. The pain in my legs was still there.

Then about a year ago I had some pain in my chest and it motivated me to make a return visit to the same doctor, not wanting to seek out a new one. Over the next few months I was again given numerous EKG’s, and because I continued to complain about my legs, I was given what I was told was a full ultrasound of my legs. This doctor said that all my tests had come back clear and he told that nothing showed up that was unusual.

Well, given that “The Incident” happened within a couple of months after these tests, you can guess that I am not going to that doctor anymore.

The decision to dispense with this doctor was reinforced when on a follow up appointment with Dr. Yun he asked me, just as an aside, if I was aware of the total blockage in the main artery of my right leg. Huh?

 He also said that if there was that much blockage in the right one that there is a pretty good possibility that the left one had blockage as well. Oh great.  He discovered this after a brief glance at a mini ultrasound done to check the incision for the first stent entry. Now that the heart issue is mostly under control we have begun addressing this issue. When will the fun ever stop?

The whole point of me chronicling this experience is to give you all a window into what was a mystery for me prior to the axe falling.  I consider myself lucky to still be here. I have quite a few friends that aren’t here for the same reason. They either waited too long to go to the hospital or put too much faith in a bad doctor that they trusted.

If it doesn’t feel right, pull the trigger. Don’t think, like I did, that “I just had an EKG and my doctor said my heart is fine” especially if you are alone when it happens. Not everybody is lucky enough to have someone like Stacey, my wife, standing by to talk you into calling 911 or taking you to the hospital.

Sometimes you have to trust what you feel, not what you’re told.