It was 10 o’clock, June 14, 2021. Anne
and I were watching TV. I got up to fetch a snack from the kitchen. As I was
collecting my treat, I noticed that my hand wouldn’t reach out in the time sequence
with the commands that my mind was issuing for it. My hand seemed to just hover
near the plate. That’s odd.
I got goodies gathered and I began my walk back
to the TV room. My gait might have had the appearance of someone returning late
from an outing at the pub. I was aware of my bipedal instability. When I
reached the two-steps, which lead to the TV room, I carefully raised a foot to
the first step. As I transitioned lifting energy to the foot, I lost my
balance. I fell backward onto the living room carpet.
Things clattered, but I was uninjured. Try as I
may, I could not make my body roll over. I was trying to get to my knees so
that I could rise to the sofa. Anne rushed to my side. I explained to her what
had happened. She encouraged me not to try to move.
Whoa! Play what I had just said back again. I
doubt that I could mimic the vocal chaos that had been spewed out as normal Rob
dialog. My ears had heard it all. It had been the sounds of what a parent would
hear when the infant first slobbers its tongue around while making noises.
Naturally, one parent will say to the other, “Oh, listen to what our baby is
trying to say. Isn’t that adorable?”
Anne kept trying to keep me down. I kept trying
to get to my knees. She had called Chris to the house. During the next several
minutes, I succeeded. I sat on the couch, where I could watch the loving concern
being spent over what had just happened.
Within a few minutes, I was able to stand and
to walk. My speech had returned to normal. We buckled into the Honda, and Chris
drove us to the Rogue Regency Hospital, Asante, ER. The tale of my episode was told
two or three times to different ER staff members. I eventually was admitted. I
was wheel-chaired to ER Room 5.
My first instruction was to strip down, and to
slip into an open back gown. Then, I was helped onto the gurney, aka bed, and I
was made comfortable. One cannot be in a hospital ER unless he is attached to electronic
machinery. A technician wheeled a cart into the room. From the cart, he collected
a handful of black tags. Each tag had a peel-off sticker. The technician stuck
tags all over my chest. The tags were connected to different colored wires.
These wires fed a large plug that was drawn out
through a hole in the front of the gown. Hanging off the wall near the head of
the gurney was a video monitor. An array of button, and knob cluttered small pieces
of hardware shared space with the monitor. A cable came from this cluster. The
cable mated with my chest-fed plug. A lone wire came from the cluster. This one
held the finger clip, oxygen level monitor. Things started beeping. Much of my
main bodily functions were now being displayed and tracked.
I was told that I was on the waiting list for
the use of the CT scan (Cat Scan). The wait would be a couple of hours. Chris
and Anne returned home. The room light was turned off, the front drapes were
drawn across the large glass sliding door, and the door was shut. Gentle
beeping from the monitor was a constant background noise. As was the cacophony created
by the large ER staff that worked outside my room.
Anne had recommended that I bring along my iPad.
I could use the pad while I waited for things to get done. The pad was on the sideboard.
I occupied some time with the app called Word Calm.
I suppose that most visitors to the ER are
either in a state of significant pain, or they are unconscious. In neither case
are they in an ER room trying to get some sleep. I soon discovered that I, too,
was not there to get some sleep-time. What seemed like every 15 to 20 minutes,
the door would slide open, the light would be switched on, and I would be asked
to extend my arm. The nurse would then wrap my bicep with a pressure cuff. Pumped
to a point of low pain, my arm would pulse with each beat of my heart. Slowly,
the pressure would reduce. I would be returned to my wondering about how much
longer I was going to be waiting for my turn with the scan.
Some time in the wee morning, my turn came. I
was wheeled on the gurney down the ER hall. I was able to view into many of the
rooms that were like my Room 5, all were occupied. Down more hallways, and
through several sets of electronically opened double doors, I rolled into the
Cat Scan room.
After being transferred to the scanner bed, I
had an IV stuck into my left arm. I was told that this capped intrusion would
be used to inject Iodine into my blood stream. I wasn’t informed of the reason
for the need of the Iodine, but I was advised that when the Iodine was injected,
that I would feel a significant body warming surge.
Securely affixed to the scanner bed, I was fed
a short way into the tube. The machine whirred, and my body felt several
moments when the temperature seemed to quickly rise. Then I was finished, and I
was unceremoniously wheeled back to my room. I asked how the scan turned out. I
was told that the doctor would be studying the results within the next couple
of hours.
A short while later a young technician wheeled
a cart into the room. The cart was dedicated for use for Doppler Echocardiography.
Doppler echocardiography is a procedure that uses
Doppler ultrasonography to examine the heart. An echocardiogram uses high
frequency sound waves to create an image of the heart while the use of Doppler
technology allows determination of the speed and direction of blood flow by
utilizing the Doppler effect. This is the same ultrasound technology used to
examine the status of a fetus, within a pregnant woman.
I visited with the sonographer while he worked. He had done his study at
Oregon Institute of Technology (OIT), in Klamath Falls. The Asante Hospital in
Medford hosts a staff of over 20 cardiologists. This young man was offered a
position, immediately upon graduation.
When the sonographer was finished, I asked him how everything looked. He
said that interpretation of the results was done by a cardiologist. I suggested
that someone with his level of training certainly would be able to summarize
the logged output. He smiled, and he winked as he pushed his domain to the
sliding door.
The corridor outside my room had become quieter as the morning wore on. I
was told that the results of the CT scan had shown no abnormalities of the
brain. The CT scan, however, produces inferior results, when compared to the
output of a Magnetic Resonance Imaging (MRI). The advantages of MRI
over CT scan can be significant. A CT scan uses X rays to shape up a picture.
MRI uses a magnetic field to do the same, and it has no known side effects
associated to radiation exposure. MRI provides advanced detail in soft tissues.
The greatest advantage of MRI is the capability to alter the contrast of
the images.
I awaited my
turn at the MRI. This instrument would provide clear images of the results of
any past brain injury, or trauma. Once again, I was wheeled down corridors and
past doors. I was backed into a freight elevator and taken to the basement
level of the hospital. Down a couple of long corridors, and around a few corners,
I was then parked in the MRI waiting area.
A nurse arrived.
She wheeled my gurney into the MRI room. My initial impression of the room was
that it was a stadium. The volume was large. There were many nurse/technicians
in active roles. I was moved from the gurney to the MRI trolly bed. My head was
placed in a device that held it rigid. I had been asked if I suffered from
claustrophobia.
Any fear of
close enclosures would not have mattered. The MRI trolly carried me into the
cylindrical cave. I was given a headset to wear while inside. One of the nurses
asked what genre of music I would prefer. I suggested Country & Western. Over
the headset speaker, an operator told me to remain still. I was then cautioned
that I would be hearing some loud noises.
An unbelievably
bad song began to play. As I analyzed what I disliked about the tune, all hell
seemed to break loose inside my tunnel. The lousy song was instantly unavailable
to my ears. The MRI was banging and clanging and whirring. It was like being
inside an empty coffee tin while it was being beat on. I wondered if the
technicians knew that some of their magnets may have fallen loose, and that
they were now tumbling inside the tube.
The noise
stopped. I was drawn from within the tube. After the headset had been removed,
I was asked how I had enjoyed the experience. That nurse really shouldn’t have
gone there.
While visiting
the MRI, my room had been given over to a more needy visitor. Under normal ER
conditions, a patient isn’t held overnight in an ER room. He is assigned a room
elsewhere. COVID 19 prevailed. The house was booked. My gurney was jockeyed
backwards into what felt like a hallway closet.
Anne joined me
in the closet. We were visited by a nurse who said that she was beginning my
release procedures. A physician, whose name I could not pronounce, would arrive
soon. He would give us a full briefing of the test results.
This wait wasn’t
long. A doctor arrived. He introduced himself, and then he dedicated his time
standing in front of the computer cart. While he typed on the keyboard, and
while he moused over displays presented to him, he told us what the tests had
revealed.
I had suffered a
Transient Ischemic Attack, or TIA. This is a brief stroke-like attack wherein symptoms resolve within 24
hours. It can cause paralysis in face, arm or leg, usually on one side of the
body, together with slurred speech. It occurs because of a buildup of
cholesterol in the artery supplying blood and nutrients to the brain. Treatment
involves medication, and surgery, if necessary.
The doctor
verified which pharmacy I used. He then sent them a prescription for a 90-day
supply of Plavix, generic drug name clopidogrel. Clopidogrel is used to prevent
heart attacks and strokes, in persons with heart disease, recent stroke, or
blood circulation disease. It is also used with aspirin to keep blood vessels
open and prevent blood clots after certain procedures.
The doctor had
made an immediate follow-up appointment with my personal physician, Neil Olsen.
He also passed along his referral to a Cardiovascular Surgeon. I was then
discharged. So, it is called slurred speech.
“Wow, Rob. Couldn’t you have just
told us that you had experienced a mini-stroke?” Yes, I could have. But then
you would have missed all the tedium and tests that I got to experience. I
enjoy sharing drivel.
The true reason that I am giving you all the background information, is
because I have been scheduled to undergo a carotid endarterectomy on July 9th.
This is a procedure to treat carotid artery disease. This buildup of plaque (atherosclerosis) has restricted blood
flow to my brain. Removing plaque that is causing the narrowing in the artery
can improve blood flow in my carotid artery. This will in turn reduce my risk
of a future stroke.
Surgery for any reason brings risks. Carotid
endarterectomy is no exception. The opportunity for a serious negative side
effect is quite minimal. However, it does exist. My wish is that post-recovery
I will be able to give you all a big hug, and that I will be able to pass along
my Love in non-slurred speech. The next time you see me stagger, it will be
because of a long overdue visit to the pub. Cheers, Rob.
