Just returned home from a three-day hospital stay following an exacerbation of COPD symptoms. Seems it was triggered by a recent fire in my area and then the ongoing wafting of smoke from the Canadian wildfires. I did all the things. Went to Urgent Care and the doc there put me back on my every four hours a day nebulizer treatment and an anti-biotic, since the mucus I was retching up was discolored. (No such thing as TMI among friends, huh?)
After a week of no improvement, I went to see my PA, who is always helpful. She suggested an OP chest x-ray since there were rails when I breathed. That night, it got worse, and I did something uncharacteristic for me. I called 911. This is the woman who on June 12, 2014, drove herself to the ER in the midst of a heart attack. Not my wisest moment. My son met me there and was a steadfast support throughout.
Something happened on the ride over and when I arrived. I had a panic attack, feeling like I was going to die. I am a career psychotherapist who has many clients who experience that frightening state. I couldn’t stop hyperventilating. I calmed myself by asking the EMT questions about his life. When they wheeled me into the ER cubicle it felt like I had limited lung capacity, as my belly was bloated with fluid (as I found out later) and was pushing upward. There were four people around me, hooking me up to an IV and monitors, encouraging slow easy breathing, assuring me, “We got you. You’re going to be okay.” Whew. Even as I’m typing these words, I can remember clear as day.
Over the next few days, they got the symptoms under control with steroids (which I’m not thrilled with since I have diabetes,) and it shot my blood sugar up higher than it’s ever been, so, to balance it, they gave me a dose of insulin. More breathing treatments, tessalon perles to help with the yucky mucus, reduced fluid intake, since the doc determined that I now have CHF on top of it all. My ankles, feet and calves were majorly swollen. My mother died of CHF in 2010, so I want to nip this in the bud while I can. Had an echocardiogram and blessedly, there was no new damage to my heart. Ejection fraction was between 45-50 which is what it was when I had the heart attack 12 years ago. Another whew moment.
Sleep came randomly since hospitals are not restful places. Two nights, roommates were admitted in the wee hours and of course, the caring nurses and techs wake you up to make sure you’re still alive, take vital signs and administer treatments. I wore a heart monitor for the duration, which meant needing to do body wipe baths (another no such thing as TMI moment here) until yesterday morning. Oh, the simple pleasures of a shower.
I was sent home with serious instructions. Carefully managed low sodium diet, much lower fluid intake than I am used to. As someone with diabetes, who works out, I was drinking at least 64 ounces of water and tea a day. They want me to bring it down to 48 ounces. I need to weigh myself daily to see if there is dramatic weight loss or gain over a few day period which could indicate an uptick in CHF. The doc wants me to wait to go back to the gym until I’m cleared by a pulmonologist. I’m going to see if my insurance will pay for pulmonary rehab. As much as I resist being monitored and told what to do, cardiac rehab was helpful 12 years ago.
I don’t like feeling fragile. After all, “I am woman, hear me roar!” I work full time as a therapist, am a minister who officiates at life events, a journalist, speaker and PR and marketing professional so I have responsibilities. As emotionally challenging as it was, I needed to cancel with a full load of clients this week as well as a workshop I was scheduled to facilitate last night. I also help take care of my two young grandchildren. My son reminded me that I need to take this seriously since he wants me to watch them grow up. Healer, heal thyself, is good guidance since I can’t do any of those things if I’m incapacitated or dead.
I took note of my patterns when I was in the hospital. Since I was not ‘on’ as a therapist, I found myself being curious about roommates and staff and what inspired them. We had all sorts of fascinating conversations, some about what drew them to their profession. A nurse who had been there for a few years told me that he ‘had the heart to take care of people’. Clearly he did. I got to know about roommates’ lives and we spoke about relationships, religion, (I deliberately didn’t bring up politics.) being of service, life choices, our fears and frustrations, as well as our intentions for healing. A chaplain came in at my request and we ‘talked shop’. I had told her that I was raised Jewish but became an interfaith minister. Before she left, she asked if she could pray for me. I always welcome prayer. At the end, she invoked Jesus. I thanked her for the prayer but reminded her that unless a patient tells her clearly that they are Christian, it would be a good idea to leave that part out. She took it well. I had applied for a hospice chaplain job many years ago and I think I would have been good at it, but someone else, who I know, got the position and I am sure she served folks well.
As I am writing this, I am engaging in my favorite weekend morning ritual of listening to Sleepy Hollow on WXPN feeling grateful for a solid night sleep in bed and not the recliner where I have nodded off for the week or so prior, no coughing, no need for a nebulizer treatment. Woke up feeling refreshed and started my new med regimen. Later today, I will go food shopping, taking my time, meandering the aisles, instead of rushing through the experience, so I can make better dietary choices. I will pick up a scale which makes me grimace. I don’t know too many women who enjoy daily weigh ins but it too is now a necessary part of my health care.
I am immensely grateful for loving and wonderful family and friends who visited, called, messaged and checked up on me. I am blessed with those relationships, some cultivated over many decades and some newly formed through the phenom of Facebook. Thank you to the staff of Doylestown Hospital for your exquisite care and the Point Pleasant, PA ambulance squad for your professional and personable way of getting me to ER with my safety and sanity intact.
As I have learned, at 67, getting old is not for sissies.
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