It’s 3:00 a.m. and the night sky is obsidian black. The frosty mountain air that fills my lungs feels urgent. I gulp it in. I’m lying on a gurney, escorted down our gravel drive by two strong paramedics who navigate our way to my waiting chariot. This is my first ride in an ambulance, and I’m surprised by the sense of coziness inside the soft-lighted patient cabin. Secured to the gurney and covered in a warm blanket, a young paramedic sits by my side providing needed comfort and medical care.
Moments before, my blood pressure had spiked to 170/105. I couldn’t catch my breath. Worry overwhelmed me. I’ve already had three mini strokes (TIAs), but was afraid to take the new medication I was given to lower my blood pressure because it had caused it to plummet to terrifying lows. Dizziness, fatigue, and a throbbing headache kept me in bed. Thankfully, my husband took control and dialed 911.
The medic in the cabin jabs a needle in my tiny, uncooperative vein and hooks me up to an IV. Two tabs of nitroglycerin are placed under my tongue. I’m still woozy, but that might be due to riding in the back of the ambulance facing backwards while traveling down winding mountain roads. Our drive to the hospital takes about forty minutes. Eventually I relax, calmed by the soft voices of the paramedics and some Ativan. When I’m instantly blinded by fluorescent lights, I know we’ve reached our destination.
In the emergency room, I’m given the same tests I had two weeks prior when my blood pressure began spiking—a stroke evaluation, an EKG, CT scan, and an echocardiogram. My already yellowish-blue bruised arms are poked repeatedly for blood draws. Again I will stay overnight for observation and more testing. After waiting on a gurney in the hectic emergency wing, I’m moved to my hospital room in the late afternoon. The floor smells like lemon polish. Loud beeps are heard across the hall. Out the window, I can see that the early morning darkness has turned to a soft-grey. My side of the room is by the hallway door. I pull the worn-thin curtain around my bed area for a bit of privacy, but I can see my roommate in the reflection of the wide mirror across the room. She looks to be close to my age—late sixties or early seventies. She’s still pretty with streaks of grey covering her dark hair underneath. When she speaks to the nurses, she’s kind, thanking them for their help, but I hear distress in her voice as she speaks to the patient advocate.
“We have found a nice room for you in a small skilled nursing facility,” the advocate says.
Oh my God, I think. She’s so young. Most-likely younger than my 71 years. Her voice is clear. Her words, articulate.
“What type of rehabilitation do they have?” my neighbor asks.
The advocate is pushing to seal the deal. “They have different rehabilitation activities each day, and you can choose which ones work best for you. It’s a small facility, but you often get more attention and care in a smaller setting. Plus, it’s in Sacramento. You’ll be close to your daughters.”
I can hear the hesitation in my roommates voice—“Do I have to make the decision now?” “Are there other options?” She looks down at the brochures scattered on her lap.
The advocate states the reality. “It’s difficult to find an opening in these facilities. We don’t have much choice.”
As the advocate leaves, she opens our separation curtains a bit. There’s quiet. I know my neighbor is struggling. I see it in the way she places her head down in her good hand. I notice her other hand and arm are bandaged in a green wrap. Maybe she was in a horrible accident, I muse.
My neighbor turns towards me. “It’s so hard to watch your control slip away.”
“That must be really difficult,” I say. “I’m so sorry.”
She responds with a shy smile. “Thank you,” she says.
About an hour later, the nurse comes in to help my roommate change her clothes for her journey. She can’t use her bandaged arm or hand, so the nurse helps her put her shirt over her head and pulls it down. When it comes to putting on clean dress pants, my neighbor lays down. I turn away but hear the nurse give instructions on how to pull up the pants with her working arm and hand.
After she’s dressed, two tall, dark-haired men come into the room with a traveling gurney. They will drive my roommate to her future home. My neighbor asks the nurse if she could change her incontinence briefs before the long ride.
I’m stunned. What had happened to this lovely woman? The men walk out the door to give her privacy. A few minutes later when the men return, they attempt to get her on the gurney, prompting her to use her bandaged arm.
“It doesn’t work,” she says. “Since my stroke, it only flops around.”
My hear sinks. That could be me. I’m in the hospital because of continuing mini strokes. It doesn’t matter that I look healthy and able bodied; I am a candidate for a massive stroke. My roommate and I are more similar than I imagined. In an instant, my life could mirror hers. Empathy floods me. I send her well wishes as she’s wheeled away.
After my neighbor leaves, I look out the window. A bit of sun has poked through the clouds. I long to be home where the forest nurtures me, and I’m lulled by trickling creeks and the chattering of birds. The doctor says maybe tomorrow. I’m hopeful, yet understand that one tiny turn could change that chance.
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