As daylight filters into the globe of the yurt on Saturday morning, the sky is heavy with clouds. Snuggled into our sleeping bag against the 52-degree chill, anxious thoughts flit though my mind. Is it going to rain today? How are we going to get out of here if it does? What about our plans for today? With my stomach all in a tizzy, we finally roll out. We can’t sleep anymore anyway. A quick visit to the car at 7 a.m. allows for listening to the weather forecast. It is the only way we have of knowing what is being predicted.
“Cloudy today,” says the announcer, “with a high of 65 and 90% chance of steady rain tomorrow, Sunday, with a high in the fifties.”
Ugh! That means today is probably going to be OK but what are we going to do about tomorrow. Will we be able to get out of here after it rains for a full day? Hubby and I make a decision to rearrange all of our belongings so that we are keeping only the bare essentials. The rest we will load in the car this evening and leave it at the beginning of this bumpy, rut and rock filled path so when it rains, we are not stranded in mud. I think I could probably mud my way out but don’t really want to do that to my car. What is left of our belongings we will hike the .5 mile with on Monday morning. As we begin reallocation of our belongings, it begins to rain. But it’s not supposed to rain today!! So should we go on our BWCA daytrip or forget it?
The plan for today has been to go pick up a Kevlar canoe from the yurt proprietor and haul it to the Duncan Lake BWCA entry put in site. Our car does not have a canoe rack, but our original plan was to pay the outfitter to haul it for us to the site entrance. But she was very hesitant when we requested this.
“You will have to help me lift the canoe and tie it on my car,” she said, “I don’t have any help this summer and my husband recently had a stroke.”
Feeling sorry for this lady and her unfortunate set of circumstances, our objective is to figure out a way to haul the canoe ourselves rather than burden her with our need. We wrack our brains for ideas. We have front to back bars on my Subaru but no crossbars to take the weight of the canoe. How do we prevent damage to the sunroof? By Friday evening, we still had no real good answer. Then after arriving back at the yurt on Friday, I glanced at the front tire on the driver’s side of the car. The tire appeared low. We do not need a flat tire out here in the middle of nowhere. I wondered if we have any kind of a spare. To calm my apprehensions, I decided to check the trunk to see if we had an acceptable spare should that become necessary. As I pulled up the carpet board covering the “trunk” and spare tire, I discovered a treasure. The “trunk” is fitted with three pieces of molded foam. Wow! Just what is needed to place on each side of the canoe and support it. We had brought along ratchet straps, so we are all set. It struck me as amazing how one potential problem has led to the solution to another.
By 9:30 a.m. on this Saturday, it has stopped raining and we set out for the home of the outfitter to pick up our canoe. Our devised plan for canoe transport works like a charm and by 10:30 a.m., we have set our canoe in the water at the Duncan and Daniel’s Lake entry portage. I have also come up with a plan to wear sandals for launching the canoe and then change to tennis shoes and socks for hiking and portaging. That way, I can wade out into the water without worrying about getting my shoes and socks wet. Getting into the canoe without capsizing is always the first struggle for Dave and I as we age. Canoes are notoriously tippy anyway and we are stiff and not very nimble anymore. Dave struggles to get his feet up and over the side when entering the canoe and even more so when exiting.
Finally, we make it safely into the canoe and we are off and paddling across Bearskin Lake toward the Duncan Lake BWCA entry point. The wind is steady making slightly rolling waves that are at an angle to our direction of travel. This makes for a vessel that wants to rock back and forth. Maybe it is the operators and not the conditions. It has been a long time since we last paddled a canoe. It is still cloudy but not an unpleasant day. The personal flotation devices add just the right amount of warmth to a mildly chilly day. Before we know it, we have paddled across the lake and glided into a shallow smooth rock-covered-bottom portage. There are quite a few people backed up at the portage, so we move our canoe off to the side to rest and catch our breath. Because of neck and back issues for Dave, we agree that I will carry the canoe and Dave will bring the rest of our gear. After a few minutes, Dave helps me hoist the 17.5-foot Kevlar canoe to my shoulders and I am off. The trail begins with a steep upward climb before heading back down onto a more level area. I am puffing with the exertion, but the load is easy to handle. Watching my stumbling feet is the challenge with roots and rocks and gullies to traverse. Slow and steady I trod the 81 rods or about ¼ mile. The last portion of the trail heads steeply downhill again to Duncan Lake. It is not that far of a distance, but it seems like miles. I need a breather and a drink before putting into the water again. Our final destination is Staircase Portage that leads to Rose Lake. Along this portage is a spectacular fall, Staircase Falls, that we wish to see.
All of the portage landings today have been what I call “nice” landings. They all have a fairly shallow water level with a rock or hard sand base. There is no need to worry about disappearing into the mud or drowning if one falls in.
Paddling is a little tricky in Duncan Lake but once we adjust our direction to face the swells, the canoe is more stable. Methodically we make our way over the lake. Three or four canoes are ahead of us making it easy to spot the portage opening. As we glide into the small cove leading to the portage, two swans glide silently along just a few feet from us. Paddling behind the leading swan are two little signets. They seem unperturbed by our presence. I count four or five canoes stacked side by side at various locations around the portage opening. We plan to do the same thing as all these other people – leave our canoe and hike the portage only to see the falls.
We decide to first spread out the lunch we have brought along on a large rock. We will relax and eat until some of the people return to lessen the congestion in the area at the falls. Bread, a salmon spread, chips and trail mix make up our luncheon while we wait.
It is a fairly short trek to the falls once we get started. Staircase Falls tumbles and turns several times on its way to Rose Lake. We descend a set of fifty or so steps to the base of the main falls and then decide to explore the portage a little further. Soon we come to another set of steps that disappears into the foliage on its way down to the lake shore. It is time to turn back. I can see why one would not want to portage this particular crossing. It looks like the portage from hell especially carrying a canoe.
After spending fifteen minutes or so photographing this hidden beauty and enjoying its splendor of cascading water, it is time to head back. By now, it is around 2:30 in the afternoon and the sun has appeared to add its warmth to the day. We wonder aloud if this trek might be our last canoe adventure into the BWCAW. Our stiffness and waning balance have become a safety hazard. Not only that, rowing and portaging is physical torture for these aging bodies.
“It starts to get more fun,” declares Dave, “after I have forgotten all the pain.”
“What should we do to celebrate our wedding anniversary?” questions my husband.
“We can’t go to a movie, eat out, or visit any museums with all the restrictions from Covid,” I reply.
“How about if we go to a different State Park that we haven’t been to before in the southeastern part of the state?
That sounds good to me so the evening before our planned adventure, Gordon researches the various state parks in Southeastern Minnesota and decides upon Beaver Creek Valley State Park close to Caledonia. Neither one has ever heard of it before and we definitely have not visited it before. He prints off some Google directions to help with our navigating.
We decide to take Claire, our puppy, with us for the day. I am beginning to think that we should have a diaper bag ready to take along just like for a baby. We need a water bottle, bowl to drink from, harness, leash, a towel to clean feet, and last but not least, doggie poop bags. By 8 a.m., we have all our supplies gathered and are ready for our conquest.
Deviating from our printed Google directions, we drive to Plainview for our usual Kwik Trip breakfast. Travel continues down Hwy 42 to Kellogg, then south on Hwy 61. We make a stop on Garvin Heights in Winona to give Claire a break. Of course, she instantly leaves her calling card after getting out of the car. Time to use those extra plastic grocery bags.
Not really knowing where we are going, we finally plug the address for Beaver Creek Valley State Park into the GPS. Oh no! Its first command directs us to Interstate 90 and insists that we get on it. No ma’am. We do not want to travel the interstate. We want to take back country roads, so we just keep driving on right over the interstate. The sign says this is County 19. The road travels along I90 for a while then turns south. Soon we find ourselves on a back-country gravel road. The landscape is rolling. Steep bluffs are contrasted with farms nestled in the valley. The trees are just starting to turn color. We wind around the sides of hills, through valleys, and along meadows with herds of beef cattle. Surprisingly, the direction goddess is silent. Now this is more like it. This twisting trailing path we are on takes us almost exactly to the state park after a sidetrack down what looks like a minimally maintained road.
It has been a densely foggy morning. A damp coolness still hangs in the air as we start our stroll across a well-crafted five-foot-wide wooden bridge. The creek gurgles lazily beneath our feet. The blacktop path transitions into a well-worn dirt track. It has rained recently so there are widely spaced mud puddles. Claire is excited and she leans into the body harness dragging me after her. It is all I can do to hold back her thirty pounds powered by four-wheel drive. Us old people behind the dog are much slower. Gordon has been struggling with plantar fasciitis making for a painful hobble at times. Still he is determined to hike and take photos today.
We soon arrive at the first creek crossing. A free-standing bridge is balanced over the water. There are no handrails, just a few wooden slats securely fastened together. Clair eagerly tugs on the leash in her hurry to investigate the flowing water. She has never been near open water before and as part Golden Retriever, Gordon and I suspect she might like water. Soon she wades into the green lilies along the shoreline. What reappears is a dog with four very muddy feet and legs. Ah! This is fun! She must be thinking. Before I can stop her, she rolls upside down in the shallow mud. No…o…o…! Now our cream-colored dog is brown on her back and top of her head. Well there is not much I can do about it right now. Maybe, I will throw her all the way in later. She pads around in the shallower areas of the flowing water until it is time to move on.
The hiking trail runs parallel to the river. Gordon and I stroll slowly along taking in the beauty of the day. Some of the trees are starting to change color. Gordon stops occasionally to take photos. Claire pulls me along with enthusiasm. I am not moving fast enough for her. She finds every small trail that divvies off to the river and turns to try make her way there. After several turns like this, she looks a sight. There are green and brown seed pods clinging to her face, her legs, and her body. What a distressing mess! Claire’s hair is wavy and about two inches long and these, what I call, prickers seem to become well enmeshed deep into the soft, thick layers.
The path we have chosen to walk is about a three-mile round trip. There are two separate loops within the greater circle. We decide to trace both loops. The day warms as the sun burns away the fog and climbs higher. Off comes my coat and then, the sweater. Gordon begins to have pain between his shoulder blades which is not uncommon, so I offer to carry the camera bag and the tripod. Both of us are starting to feel our weariness as we reach the furthest most point in our trek and turn back towards the beginning.
Claire barks robustly and loudly at every person we meet. This is unacceptable. We seem to be able to mitigate this by stopping to sit and be quiet when humans come by. It is harder to bark and lunge while seated on one’s butt. Our stops become more frequent as the number of hikers increases with the passing of the day. She also wades into the gushing water with every creek crossing of which there are many. Finally, there is a splash as she gets brave enough to jump in from one of the bridge crossings. She has lost none of her energy and continues to pull actively, trying to drag me along. The same cannot be said for us. We are moving slower and slower.
As we make our way back to the parking lot, I mark off in my head each segment of the trail as we come to a signpost. We are almost there. Finally, we come to a river crossing that does not seem to have a bridge across it.
“I don’t remember ever crossing open water,” Gordon comments.
“I don’t either,” I agree, “This must not be the right place.”
As we continue along the path, I step on a protruding rock in the path. Without warning, my left ankle turns over and I pitch forward. Claire, who I have been leaning back on trying to slow her forward motion, continues her dive forward. I have no way to stop the forward pitch. I slam into the ground with my right knee first followed by my right arm. The leash handle clatters along the ground before Claire stops and looks questioningly back at me. I lay there stunned. I want to cry. My knee hurts. My arm hurts. The camera bag and the tripod have clobbered me from behind. Gordon rescues me from the extra load. We can hear people coming so I stumble to my feet. I am glad no one saw my ridiculous spill onto the ground. Everything seems intact so we start out on our hike again. We haven’t gone more than a few hundred feet until we meet a lone older gentleman who throws a question our way, “Are you going around again?”
“No,” I reply, “Just trying to get back to the parking lot.”
The man does not say any more but as he moves on, Gordon and I look at each other.
“That’s a strange question. Are we going the wrong way? Did we miss the turn back to the parking lot?”
Now we are totally confused. “I don’t know if we are going the right way.”
“Well, let’s go back to that last crossing again and see if we missed something.”
Disheartened, we turn and trudge back the other direction. Within a few hundred feet, we arrive again at the crossing we had discussed earlier. The bridge we could not see coming from the other direction is now clearly visible off to the right.
“This must be the path back to the car.”
A few hundred more feet and it is evident that we are now going the right way. If we hadn’t met that man who asked a strange question, we would have walked another mile before realizing that we were totally turned around. It reminds me a little of life’s journey. There are others along our walk of life who try to point us in the right way. Sometimes, we don’t pay any attention to the wisdom they are offering us and end up way off course – a difficulty we could have avoided if we had been tuned in.
By now, it is pushing three o’clock in the afternoon and we are thirsty and hungry. Claire has had all the water needed from the river, but we did not remember a water bottle for ourselves.
“Where should we eat?” is the next question of the day.
I grab the local Minnesota county map book that I keep under the car seat. I quickly peruse it. “If we keep going just a few miles south on this road, we should arrive in Caledonia,” I announce, “Let’s see if we can find some fast food there.”
Caledonia turns out to be a good size town with many businesses and several franchise eating joints. We grab some Subway sandwiches and cool refreshing pop and take our treasures back to a city park that I had spied on our way into town. There we have a quiet lunch in the shade of a few trees. It is time to head for home. Our last stop at Dairy Queen in Chatfield is the “icing on the cake” as the saying goes. Time to begin year thirty in our married walk of life.
Beep! Beep! Beep! I roll over and hit the alarm for the third time. It is Friday morning and my day off. I am looking forward to a day of home activities. In the darkness of early morning, I slide out of bed and throw the covers back over the bed. As I pull open the bedroom door, I am hit by a sudden overwhelming curtain of silence followed by wooziness. That was weird. As I take that first step down the hall, my right leg wobbles and I reach out for the wall. My right arm also seems somewhat uncoordinated and I need to think about where I place them as I traverse the morning route to the bathroom in the dark. I shake my head several times trying to clear the cobwebs from my brain. It is not unusual for me to experience vertigo at times, but it usually passes in thirty seconds or so. This does not want to go away. I peer at my face in the mirror. All facial movements seem symmetrical. I console myself that it is probably not a stroke. I conclude that this must be an escalation of my normal vestibular (ear) problem. Afterall, I have been sick for most of the last week with the common cold. Maybe it has moved to my ears.
“Are you OK?”
It is the voice of my husband.
“No, I am
not OK.” I stand there trying to clear my head. “I would go downstairs to the
bathroom, but I don’t think I can make it that far.”
He offers me
the commode as a seat, and I plunk down on it. I sense the watering in my mouth
that precedes an upchuck. Oh dear!
“Do you need
to throw up?” he asks.
coming. I don’t know what is wrong, but I think we need to go somewhere. I
don’t know where to go at the clinic so maybe we should just go to the ER. Can
you help me get dressed and then you should go plow first?”
been a day of receiving three to four inches of snow followed by high winds and
significantly subzero windchills. As I had driven home from work at the
hospital at 7 p.m. the prior evening, I struggled to see the road in places. I
would find myself on the wrong side of the road, disoriented, and with the need
to get myself back where I belonged. As I finally drove up the drive, the
wind-driven snow hit me smack in the front. The drifts were piling up in the
yard and in the driveway. I didn’t know if we could get out without plowing.
I sit and
contemplate my situation as Hubby makes his way downstairs and out the door.
Because of the weather and the prediction of below zero temperatures, as well
as an injured right arm from a fall on the ice on Wednesday, he has already
decided to take the day off from work. If one has to be sick, I guess the
timing could not be better. Hubby is home and neither of us are trying to get
attempting to throw up, the ever determined me decides to comb my hair. I have
to look respectable. I plant my feet wide apart for stabilization at the sink
and with a little thought into directing my arm, I am able to accomplish this
task. Now to get downstairs. I grasp the rail as I put one foot ahead of the
other. As long as I think about what my right foot is doing and grasp the rail
to stabilize the spinning room, I do quite well. I collapse in the recliner in
the living room. Uh Oh! Almost immediately, I can feel that premonition in my
mouth. I am going to throw up again. There is no way I am going to make it to
the bathroom. What am I going to do?
I don’t really want to throw up on the carpet. I drop to the floor and crawl the
six feet on my hands and knees to the laminated flooring just in time to heave
over and over. Exhausted, I crawl back to the chair.
appears at the kitchen door. “I can’t get the plow truck to start but I think
we can get out without plowing.”
go then.” I grab my basin.
glisten with frost covered needles and branches. The sun shines brightly. It is
flanked by the colored pillars of sundogs. The car thermometer displays 12
degrees below zero. On any other morning, this would be a beautiful scene to
absorb and photograph. It is still a beautiful scene but not really enjoyable
with one’s head in a barf bucket.
A lady with
a wheelchair is waiting for us just outside the emergency room. I could not be
more thankful as I don’t think I can walk anywhere at this point. We are
whisked into a room and soon introduced to a medical student. I was expecting
hours of waiting to be seen but when one is really in trouble, the most
efficient means of obtaining medical care is the emergency room. I suppose it
was that telling them that my right arm and leg didn’t work right. That
triggers a different response than just throwing up or some such thing.
your partner?” asks the nurse who takes my vital signs.
the guy I picked up in the ditch along the way,” I intone.
lost her humor.”
Soon, I am performing all kinds of neurological tests. “Squeeze both hands. Follow my finger with your eyes. Pick up your left leg. Pick up your right leg. Push down on the gas pedal. Pull back towards your nose.” I perform most of these with ease. I only stumble on two of them. “Touch your nose, then my finger with your right hand as fast as you can.” My finger has a hard time hitting my nose and it takes complete concentration to hit the doc’s finger. “Slide your right heel up and down your left shin.” To this command, I find my heel weaving down the shin bone. I just can’t make it go straight.
you might have vestibular neuritis (a viral infection that affects the nerve of
the ear) but because of difficulty with those two tests, we are going to send
you for a CT scan.”
I grab my
trusty barf basin and off we go. By this point, I am throwing up every fifteen
to thirty minutes. If I keep my eyes open, the world has some semblance of
stability. If I shut my eyes, the world goes around and around. When I sit up
to transfer to the CT table, I sway back and forth like a branch in the wind.
“I think we should just slide you over,” is the conclusion of the CT techs.
I make it
back to the ER just in time to throw up again. I have given up waiting for them
to bring me the promised medicine for nausea. I hit the nurse call button. “Can
I have some nausea medicine?”
think there is anything ordered,” states the nurse who responds. Really? There
have been two different doctors who have promised this. I am ready to collapse
into a sobbing heap as I just keep heaving and heaving. I have lost track of
the number of times now. Soon she is back with the treasured medication.
student squeezes her body though the slightly open door, “The CT shows a small
cerebellar stroke, so we are going to put through a neurological consult.”
Shock would be my reaction. Why would I have a stroke? I don’t have high blood pressure. I don’t have diabetes. I am not particularly overweight. I have never had a blood clot. I do not have atrial fibrillation. I am only sixty-one years old, exercise regularly, and I take a full aspirin every day. All I can think of is my father who had a major stroke at eighty-two years of age from which he never recovered. He could not write or talk or communicate for the next seven years before he died. I would rather die than be like that.
Within a few minutes, the neurology resident appears, and we go through the same battery of neurology tests again. “I am going to send you for an MRI to evaluate the arteries in your head and then we are going to admit you to the hospital.”
By this time, I no longer care. I just want relief from the nausea. I want to sleep but every time I close my eyes, the world spins and renews my discomfort. By the time escort comes to take me to the MRI scan, I have received some Compazine for the nausea, but I still do not trust myself. The nauseous feeling lies just below the surface.
“What am I going to do if I have to throw up in the MRI scanner?” I clutch my emesis basin close to myself as if it were my security blanket as we set off again for another test. No one seems particularly concerned but me. I try to calm my rising panic as they strap me onto the MRI table and snap the head piece into place. I am somewhat claustrophobic anyway. So I talk to myself. Just take deep breaths and close your eyes. Then you can’t see how tight the tunnel is. I clutch my call ball and shut my eyes. At least the world has stopped spinning. The air blowing into the tunnel is cold and I shiver. By this point, all I want to do is sleep anyway so I doze off and on and soon the test is done. I am so glad the medicine is working.
I sway back and forth as I sit up after being transferred from the cart to my hospital bed. I close my eyes and go to sleep. This whole situation is beyond comprehension. My hubby settles down in the chair next to my bed. His face is lined with worry.
My assigned nurse comes by to introduce herself. She holds up the ridiculous yellow band that says, “Fall Risk.” They put them on everyone who admits to having a fall in the last year. Everyone in Minnesota in the winter is a fall risk and I have always told my colleagues if they ever put one of those things on me, I would cut it off. I stare at it and sigh. I guess I really am a fall risk. I soon discover when I try to sit up on the edge of the bed that a loud obnoxious noise also emits from the bed!
Sleep seems to be the only thing I am capable of doing without supervision. Before long, I am awakened again. A transport cart is parked by my bed. “You are going for a CT scan with contrast.” How many scans can I possibly go for? I just had a CT and an MRI and now we are going to do another CT – this time with contrast! So off we go again. I try to keep my eyes open to prevent the dizzying spinning.
Later that afternoon, the neurology resident comes by the room. “None of the scans show any evidence of vertebral artery tears, plague in the arteries, or a bleed. Since we do not find anything in your head, we need to look at your heart. I am scheduling a TEE (transesophageal echo) for tomorrow.” Gads! How many tests can they come up with? By this time, I am starting to feel significantly better and am returning to my normal personality. I ask to visit the bathroom and am trilled that I can ambulate fairly well. I still cannot pass a roadside DWI test but with the compensation of a wide-stance gait and a tightly clutched gait belt by the nurse, I can walk. Bored with being in bed, I sit up in the chair for a couple hours. I attempt to find and write down a few phone numbers for calling my supervisors, but my hand produces mostly an illegible scrawl. I can text if I take my time. After notifications to some family members of my state of affairs, I crawl into bed and sleep some more.
Steam rises from the chimneys of the city outside my window on Saturday morning. My immediate view is that of the hospital chapel, its door surrounded by frost. My life feels a little bit like it is surrounded by frost too. I was not planning to be here today. I have life to live.
Not being inclined to be an invalid, I situate myself in the chair. I just need to be careful about not doing any spins or dance moves. Reassured that I am fine and won’t do anything stupid, the nurses have turned off the bed alarm and I have reverted to being the patient+. This means I maneuver my own IV pole, my bedside table, and IV pump the best that I can. The lab gal comes to draw my blood and I ask her to use my left arm because the right antecubital area is all black and blue. “But someone has to come and turn off the IV,” she declares.
“No problem. I’ll take care of that.” And I do.
Soon there is a knock on the door and a lady from occupational therapy enters. “How are you doing? My job is to evaluate you from an occupational standpoint and determine if you need therapy. Can we go for a walk?”
I sign heavily. I am fine but I am happy to go for a walk in the hall. She slips on the dreaded gait belt and off we go. The IV pole provides all the stability that I need. I am convinced that if I stumbled or started falling, this lady would not be able to help me. She seems more unsteady and feebler than me. My being as good as I am, I reflect, has nothing to do with my own abilities but to the grace of God and his goodness in allowing me full return of my faculties. This facade of independence, competence, and strength that we all present to the world is just that, a façade that can be crashed at any moment.
I have not eaten any breakfast as I am not to eat in preparation for the planned TEE.
Imagine my surprise when the escort shows up with the transport cart around ten am. “I am here to take you to your MRI with contrast.”
“My MRI??” I question incredulously. “I thought I was going to have a TEE today?”
“The directions say we are going to an MRI,” repeats the escort gentleman.
I just love the communication around here. No one talks to me. They just change plans out of the blue. I guess we are going to an MRI. I think I will have met my medical deductible with two CTs and two MRIs. This time I am more prepared and feel physically better. I open my eyes in the MRI scanner and look around the best that I can while being in a head vise. Above me is a mirror that reflects the head frame back at me. It gives the illusion of more space than there really is. I can’t actually see the bore that surrounds me. That’s interesting. I wonder if they can see me from the control room.
Back in my room, I get up to the bathroom. My legs and my upper arms are covered with red spots intermingled with white splotches and they are starting to itch. Great! I must be allergic to the MRI contrast used. The MRI tech told me that no one is allergic to the MRI contrast. There is always a first. The only time I have ever seen this on me before was after several mosquito bites in the same area and that rash lasted for weeks. The only thing that was helpful was to grit my teeth and not scratch.
The resident comes by later in the afternoon to inform me that this MRI did not show anything abnormal either. “I thought I was to have a TEE today. How come we went for MRI instead?”
“We can’t do the TEE on the weekend unless it is an emergency, so we have to wait until Monday. We wanted to definitively confirm that nothing is going on in your head anyway, so we decided to do the MRI instead.” I am beginning to wonder if there is anything at all in my head. Maybe they are just trying to find a brain.
I sigh. I am already bored and feeling over tested. I have so many things I could do at home. “Can I go home today then?”
She gazes at me and smiles. “You do look quite well. I guess we could let you go home and come back for the other tests we want to do as an outpatient. I will order a 48-hour Holter monitor for you and once you have the device on, you can go home. We will order the TEE for Monday as an outpatient.”
“Versed and Fentanyl medications do not work for me so I would really like one of my colleagues to use propofol for me.”
“Just tell them when you get there,” she brushes my request off.
“That isn’t going to work,” I impress upon her, “If you do not order it as anesthesia, no one is going to honor my request. I know how this works around here.” I can tell by her face that she has no intention of following my request.
Taking a shower is the next item on the agenda if I am going to have stickies all over me for 48 hours. With meticulous care and deliberate moves, I gather all the supplies necessary and bask in the warm shower. I am still somewhat like a waving reed but if I take my time I can compensate for any remaining deficiencies. This could have been so much worse. How does one wake up one morning and five minutes later, the world has been turned upside down? It hits me that we are not prepared for something to happen to me. I have always planned that my hubby would go before me. After all, his parents died in their early seventies and mine were both 89 at their time of death. The urgency of remedying this situation floods over me.
Once my shower is done, the Holter Monitor tech comes to hook me up. The last order of business is to read the discharge instructions. I notice that they changed my cholesterol medication without telling me and that the resident has marked sedation instead of anesthesia on the TEE order. She comes back to see me one more time at my request and I point out to her that there is a box to check anesthesia. “Alright, I will see what I can do,” she finally concedes.
How am I going to know when the TEE is planned for on Monday is my question? The resident has given me the phone number for the floor at the clinic where they do these, but I do not have a time. I am told that they will probably call me to let me know but no one really knows.
Monday morning, I anxiously wait by the phone. I check the on-line portal for patients. It tells me that there is a TEE scheduled for “undetermined time.” That is helpful! Finally, after hearing nothing by 8:30 a.m., I make a phone call to the clinic. “You are scheduled at 2:30pm in the cath lab at the hospital,” she tells me, “We don’t usually do them there for outpatients.”
She transfers my call to the cath lab. They clarify that I am on their list, but the nurse then hesitates, “Are you on an anticoagulant now?”
“Nooo… not more than aspirin and Plavix. And I got three heparin shots in the hospital.”
“That’s all gone by now. So that’s not enough. You have to be fully anti-coagulated before we can do this. I need to make a phone call to the doctor and then I will call you back.”
I do not know what to say. I am confused. This seems rather excessive. But then, I don’t do TEEs every day, so I have to assume he knows what he is talking about. I wish they had thought of this on Saturday. Maybe I should just have stayed in the hospital.
Finally, around 10 a.m., he calls me back. “My mistake,” he says, “We should be good. I thought you were having a cardioversion. We don’t need full anti-coagulation for just the transesophageal echo.”
The light bulb goes on in my head. Now I know what has happened. I have totally messed up the system and confused everyone. In order to meet my request for anesthesia-controlled sedation instead of nurse sedation, they needed to schedule my procedure in a place where anesthesia is available. And in doing so, the nurse there assumed that I was having the procedure commonly done there. It always amazes me how confused the system can get by changing just one aspect of the standard practice.
But I am delighted to find that one of my colleagues, a Certified Registered Nurse Anesthetist, is there to administer that special drug, propofol, that I handle so adeptly every day. I drift off into a blissful sleep to wake up feeling comfortable and secure at the completion of the procedure. Finally, I am able to reap a benefit of my career.
In spite of all these tests, no clots, or artery tears, or cholesterol plagues are ever found to explain why this happened to me. It leaves me wondering. Is there another time bomb waiting to go off some day? Only time will tell. And I think I like being on the provider side much better than on the patient side.
It is a strange sport that only the hearty young wrangler tries – exclusively a farming sport. I often wonder what draws a young man to attempt to sit upon a bucking, jumping bull with the strategy of staying there for 8 seconds. Flying through the air and landing with a thud on the ground cannot possibly feel that good. After all, there is no other way to get off whether the rider makes the 8 seconds or not. And then, he has to get up and run for his life in case the bull wishes to finish him off with his head. I don’t think I have ever seen a young lady try this so it must have something to do with the daring, impulsivity of young men.
I have never been to a live bull riding event before so when I saw the recent event in Rochester advertised in the paper, my hubby and I decided to do something different and put ourselves in the bleachers. There must be something wrong with me too as I can really get into watching these dare devils attempt their rides. I cheer for them when they make it and I cringe when they land on their heads. After all, it’s kind of bad for their spines. I can understand why the first responders have a backboard ready for use.
The stands are already almost full when we arrive an hour before start time so apparently, I am not the only one who enjoys watching the challenge. A little entertainment by the clown, a cowboy with ropes, and some Mexican poker add to the entertainment of the evening. I had never heard of Mexican poker before. What a strange concept. Four people are seated at a card table in the middle of the arena. Interestingly, they are fitted with protective vests. I don’t think they got much card playing done before a bull was released. The object is to be the last one seated when the bull comes visiting. OK. That is not something that you would ever get me to do. The bull was turning the table upside down before the last man took off running. He leaped over the side gate like a pole vaulter as the bull snorted behind him.
That whole scene brought back my own escape from a bull a long time ago. My father had always run a bull with the lower producing group of cows for clean-up purposes. Most of our cows were bred by artificial insemination, but there were always some cows that were very difficult to get pregnant. They eventually ended up in this group with the bull, in the hope that he could do naturally what we could not seem to accomplish the artificial way.
I had glanced around the barn to determine the bull’s whereabouts before I swung open the center gate to allow cows into the holding area. I did not want to meet him face to face. He was at the far end of the barn, so I thought that I should be safe. The center gate that divided the groups was a steel, twenty-four-foot telescoping structure. Because of its heavy weight, it was suspended by a cable from a roof truss of the barn. I pushed the gate all the way open against the end wall. Then I turned to walk back through the group of cows that were making their way into the holding area. Suddenly, I stopped and stepped back. Mr. Bull was making his way around as well. But instead of going on by, he advanced toward me. Frantically, I tried to decide what to do. I was pretty sure I couldn’t outrun him. Behind me was the wall. There was nowhere to go. Then it came to me. Climb the gate. I scrambled up, grabbing the supporting cable with my hands just in time to realize that my feet were being knocked out from under me by his huge, swinging head.
“Help! Help! Help!” I screamed over and over. I knew no one was going to hear me. What was I going to do? I couldn’t dangle from this cable forever. My screams did attract the attention of the meandering cows, though. Curious creatures that they were and are, they all gathered around to see what the commotion was all about. Sixty sets of shining eyes looked up at me. And by their response, they distracted Mr. Bull. He wandered away to sniff for a more interesting scent. I didn’t think I had ever been so thankful for a bunch of cows before.
So I don’t think that I will ever sign up to play Mexican poker.
At Mayo, we often have patients who come through the operating area who have little arm bands on them that say, “Fall Risk.” I am not sure what the criteria are for qualifying for one of these arm bands as I see them on young fairly healthy people as well as elderly frail people. If you slipped and fell on the icy sidewalk outside the hospital, you definitely get one. I am thinking that I maybe should be sporting one of those based on the last few weeks.
Just a couple of weeks ago, I was pumping gas at the local gas station when I decided to step over the gas hose to get back into the car while the tank filled. I didn’t get my left foot quite high enough and the next thing I knew, my body was moving on but my foot wasn’t. I landed on my hip, then elbow, then shoulder. First, I lay there trying to figure out if anything hurt bad enough to be considered broken and then I looked all around to see who had seen me. It was dark and no one was around so I picked myself back up and went on my way with no major damage done except to my pride.
Today, I decided to go for my walk with Bella as I still try to do if the weather is cooperative. It was 30 degrees when I set out, the perfect temperature to not freeze to death while, at the same time, not overheat and just cold enough to obliterate the mud that has been constantly with us most of the winter so far. I have been working on increasing my jogging distance over the summer. I think I can do ¼ of a mile now, certainly nothing compared to the distances done by marathon runners, but a distance I am proud of none-the-less.
Needless to say, I was jogging along nicely. There was no ice to slip on and the footing seemed secure. All of a sudden, my right ankle did a “turn-over.” As intense pain shot through my right extremity, I attempted to throw the weight back onto my left foot. Of course, while I was doing this foot dancing, my upper body was continuing with its forward momentum. I made a few running steps in an effort to regain balance but in my mind, I realized it was a lost cause. With a sense of impending disaster, my life flashed before my eyes. With the road coming up fast, I needed to decide how best to crash land. I did a kind of “hit knees, then hands, arms, chest” in a flat out sprawl. As I lay there, all I could think was, “I’m supposed to work tomorrow,” “It’s almost Christmas,” and “How am I going to get back to the house?” After a few minutes of stunned reflection, I realized nothing really hurt too badly. “Maybe, I can get up and hobble home.” And so began my slow trek back to the house.
Of course, I couldn’t just let my exercising go for the day so I went to the basement to lift weights. My stomach muscles followed by my left rib cage muscles soon informed me that I had already overtaxed them. Uh! Everything hurts. Not to mention the slowly swelling ankle.
If I get one of those “Fall Risk” armbands, I wonder if someone will watch me closely so that I don’t keep falling flat on my face.