Freaky Friday

Friday morning, I woke up as I do every morning with a major stiffy. Only this time, it was more than stiff, it was petrified. Pain radiated from my upper back all the way over the top of my head, with special emphasis on my injured neck from last year's car wreck. I rolled out of bed and trudged to the shower, where I spent a long time just standing under the hot stream as it loosened up my muscles, relieved the soreness, and gave me hope that I might salvage this day with a little more self-doctoring. Got out the muscle stim and BioFreeze, and two hours later, made it into work.

Fifteen minutes at my desk, and Freaky Friday kicked into high gear. My chest felt tight and my upper stomach cramped. I felt clammy, lightheaded, and short of breath. The pain worsened until I wanted to double over. I managed to find two Tums and an aspirin, while deliberately pooh-poohing the worst-case scenario. I mean, I'm not old enough for a myocardial infarction. Besides it's just rude. "Pardon me, did you just have a myocardial infarction?" "Oops, 'scuse me." Of course, I'm not old enough to be a grandma either, but as they say, facts is facts.

So my co-workers called 911. Within 30 seconds, sirens wailed toward our building and suddenly the penthouse was crawling with six hotties in EMT gear. Six? For little ol' me? Why, I do declare, I'm just like Scarlett at the barbecue. And those supposed gentlemen were even trying to get me to loosen my bra and unbutton my shirt! Great balls of fire, Mammy! I don't mind sayin' I was mighty thankful they gave me oxygen after that, cuz I was swooning!

Anyway, we talked about possibilities, including something called "referring pain" from other parts of the body, like the neck. Still, after assessing my symptoms and the ECG tapes revealed I was not in imminent danger, they left it up to me about going to the hospital. Cap'n Butler -- I mean, the muscley EMT in uniform, with long sideburns and an armful of tattoos, highly recommended it. I did NOT want to go. But I finally agreed, so the stretcher was brought in and I was loaded upon it. My coworkers gathered around and wished me well, waving at me like I was on a cruise ship. Bon vogage! Bring back souvenirs! Don't eat too much!

Safely delivered to the ER, all my EMT suitors abandoned me (Fiddle-dee-dee), and the nurses got busy sticking me with needles. It took them three tries to not go through the veins in my arms so they could install the IV thingamajig. Then came the pasties, those sticky ECG pads for the leads, even on my legs, which had not been shaved for an eternity. (You'd think with all that time I spent in the shower that morning, I could have found a razor.) Soon wires were shooting out of me everywhere. I looked like the Borg Queen.

Meanwhile, I was the lucky recipient of drugs (totally better than bloggy awards - sorry my lovelies). I drank something green and yummy and nummy for my tummy (blecgk!), and an Ativan of unknown dosage. I must say. I do like Ativan. It made me relax and nod off and make statements like, "What a pretty butterfly up there on the ceiling." And "Did I just say that?" And to my daughter who simply appeared in the chair across from me, "Hey what are you doing here? What a nice surprise."

In La-la-land for most of the afternoon, Freaky Friday went by really fast. Things I don't remember: many blood draws, some kind of scan, and even a lone trip to the ladies' room. I hope I flushed and washed my hands. Hell, I hope I wiped!

Hours into the experience, I actually saw the doc, whom I'd earlier thought was some orderly out at the nurses' desk. He'd been on and off the phone yacking it up, so I was surprised to know that he was suddenly my cardiologist. Honestly, as soon as he opened his mouth I thought I was talking to Bob Marley sans dreads, as he had that "island" accent. He also bobbed a little bit, as if some reggae tune kept playing in his head. If he'd had a little ganga in his back pocket, I wouldn't have been surprised. Anyway, Dr. Bob assured me that in all likelihood it was not my heart, but he ordered a stress test for next Tuesday to be sure. Then he released me to my daughter's care and a trip home to Tara -- I mean, Buda.

Hey, wait. My daughter? When did she get there?
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Update: I just remembered that laying on the hospital bed, I was talking to a handsome 40-50-ish guy from Cuba. I was mesmerized, but he was the chaplain and he gave me some sprinkles of God-light or something I was surely lacking. I thought I had dreamed the whole encounter, but apparently not. He was all flirty with me too. Or maybe that was the part I dreamed . . .

My daughter asked me today, "Did you think he was good looking?" I said, "Oh yeah!" Then she made a face. So apparently, I embarrassed her. But I was on drugs -- and potentially my death bed -- so I'm excused, right?

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