Epiphanies from the ER on July 4th

That time
I thought I could not
go any closer to grief
without dying

I went closer,
and I did not die.
Surely God
had his hand in this,

Excerpt from Heavy by Mary Oliver

The view from my hospital gurney in the ER on July 4th

*name within story changed for privacy

On July 4th I spent eight hours in the Emergency Room. For the previous four days I’d experienced chest pains, rapid heartbeat, shortness of breath, blurred vision, and occasional shocks that pierced my heart and head. I tried to calm myself with rest and mediation but the pain and irregular heartbeat stayed. It was hard to sleep. I felt like I was suffocating. I was also anxious about the upcoming two year anniversary of my son Charlie’s death.

My father died of a stroke at the age of 58 and I have plenty of heart disease in my family but it usually doesn’t make an appearance until we are 90 years old or so. I thought I had at least 30 more years of good health until I woke up on July 4th concerned that something was really wrong.

My plans for July 4th were to spend the evening watching fireworks with my grandchildren, Sunny and Ray, and their mother, Harley. When I woke up that day and still felt bad, I finally called my doctor’s office who listened and then advised me to go to the closest ER. “It could just be grief,” I said. “Could two years of grief cause these symptoms?”

“We advise that you go to the ER immediately. Do you have a ride?” the nurse asked. I lied and said, “Yes.” Charlie would have been the one to call for the ride, but he was dead.

I rarely go to doctors and I’ve never been to the ER in my life. I practice holistic medicine and go to acupuncture and consult BodyIntuitive doctors when needed. If something aches or makes me anxious, I swear by CBD from Cinc Sciences. For a long time I didn’t even have health insurance because I’ve always been healthy and didn’t think I needed it. Also, health insurance is expensive and for someone like me, who never went to doctors, it seemed like a waste of money. The only time in my life when I went to regular doctor appointments was when I was pregnant and delivering babies in my twenties and thirties. When I moved to California six years ago, the state requires you to have health insurance or pay a penalty on your taxes so I signed up for medical insurance. What I’m trying to tell you is that for me to ask for help meant it felt like I was dying.

I arrived at the ER at 8 am and there were less than ten people in the waiting room. Because a doctor had called ahead about my potential heart issue, I was hurried in and within five minutes was strapped to EKG monitors and having bloodwork taken and thinking maybe I overreacted. Then the doctor walked in and I almost lost what breath was left because he looked like a movie star. It’s not what you expect in the ER on July 4th. The doctor reminded me of an old boyfriend who actually is on TV and in movies. He introduced himself with his long official doctor name and then said, “You can call me *Nick.”

I blurted out, “My son died two years ago this month. Maybe all these symptoms are impact of heavy grief. ” Nick knelt down next to the chair I was sitting in so we were face to face. “I’m sorry about your son.” He paused and we both took a breath. “Let’s make sure it’s not more. We need to look at the results of your tests. I’m going to keep checking on you.”

I was led to the ER triage area and offered a bed in the hallway next to the nurses station. I leaned against the bed as they hooked me up to machine thinking this would be brief.

“You might want to sit or lie down in the bed,” the nurse said. “It’s going to be awhile.” Then he added, “On a scale of 1 to 10 what is the pain level in your heart?”

“Seven,” I said as I wiggled myself onto the hospital gurney. “But maybe the pain is from grief. My son died two years ago this month. And it’s his birthday next week. He would have been twenty-nine.”

The nurse stopped what he was doing, gave me his full attention and said, “I’m so sorry about your son.” Then added, “Take these baby aspirin and let me know if the pain gets worse.”

For the next few hours, I sat in the hallway watching as the rooms around me and each bed filled up with people who were sick or injured. I wished for a separate room for grieving mothers who were trying to survive with a broken heart. Every time a new nurse checked on my vitals, I said, “Maybe it’s just grief. My son died.”

I began to feel like I didn't belong in the ER. I also felt like I didn’t belong in the real world either. It had been 708 days since Charlie died. How do you celebrate the 4th of July or live through any other day with a shattered heart? I just needed someone to tell me it was going to get better.

Most of the blood tests came back normal. One came back higher with indications for blood clots. The EKG showed an abnormal heartbeat. More tests were order. By now it was 1pm and the tightness around my chest had loosened and I could take a deep breath without pain. I wanted to go home.

Nick appeared and moved closer to talk in the crowded ER hallway. “Your EKG and one test is concerning so I’m ordering more blood tests. And we may need you to see a cardiologist.”

I could tell he really was committed to fixing me. That’s what doctors do, they diagnose the issue and make a plan to help us get better.

“Maybe it’s just the impact of grief,” I said again. Grief is an inside scar. I’m not sure there was anything western medicine could heal.

Nick offered a gentle smile. “Let’s make sure it’s not something else.”

It was now 3pm. No one in my family knew I was in the ER but I finally texted Harley to let her know that I might not be home for the fireworks. The triage area was now full. The sicker patients were being admitted to the hospital. Nick passed by again and said, “Your second test for blood clots was good but I want to admit you and have you take a stress test tomorrow. Your EKG indicates possible anterolateral ischemia.”

“I just want to go home,” I said. “I promise I’ll follow up with my doctor and schedule the stress test.”

“I don’t advise you to check-out but I can’t keep you here against your will,” he said.

“I understand,” I replied.

I drove myself home with a new appreciation for the nurses and doctors who work in ER. I also wanted to keep myself as healthy as possible so I never have to go there again.

It turns out that grief and sadness can impact the heart in many ways including feeling like you are having a heart attack. I think I just needed a hug. As much as I wish I hadn’t gone to the ER, the tests that day found a few important health issues to follow-up on so maybe it was worth it.

Rather than holding on, sometimes the best healing comes from letting your heart break and then slowly joining it back together. ~ Gauranga Das

I live in Auburn, a small town in northern California. My health insurance doesn’t cover a hospital here so the one I went to was in a bigger city that was 25 minutes away. A week later, I drove to a grocery store that I rarely go to in Auburn. It’s in the opposite direction of the hospital that I went to. on July 4th. The grocery store was out-of-the-way for me but it had a sushi salad that I was craving. After checking out, I walked to my car and noticed a man walk by me. I did a double take.

“Nick?” I said. “It’s Betsy….ER…July 4th…”

“Oh, hey. Are you feeling better?”

“Not really,” I said. “But thanks for your good care.”

We both stared at each other.

“It’s going to get better,” he said.

And I believed him.

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