After the Fall: What Happened Next

I live in a small town on the River Tay in Eastern Ontario. One day, I was exercising at the gym with my husband, Yogi.

I’d just finished my first leg-machine exercise. As I reached for the grungy logbook, the floor suddenly reeled out from under me.

Am I fainting? 

I lurched to sit down.

“It’s okay, I’m fine!” I assured those around me. But my sudden disorientation screamed that I was not.

I tried to drink from my water bottle, but bonked my face instead—twice. My next words came out delayed, slurred, consonants missing.

“WehafoogoEmerzh.…”

At seventy-three, I was healthy, except for a few scattered incidents and complaints. But in the hospital’s emergency-triage area, I felt scared and confused.

I smiled on demand, stuck out my tongue, spoke a sentence and lifted both arms for the triage nurse. I answered medical-history questions as clearly as I could. I awkwardly tapped first her outstretched finger and then my own nose with my index finger—both hands.

The nurse turned to her computer and typed. More maneuvers, more typing.

What can she possibly be writing? I thought. Maybe if she told me what she’s doing, it wouldn’t be so frightening!

Soon Yogi and I were ushered into the ER, where people in scrubs bustled about in the stark brightness. A nice nurse whose name tag said simply “Amanda” led us to the bed in the farthest corner. The oh-so-sexy hospital gown should be simple to put on; it confounded me.

Nurse Amanda wrapped a cozy heated blanket around me and asked all those questions again, repeated the same drill, wrapped a blood-pressure cuff around one arm and poked the other to attach a line to the IV. I cringed with embarrassment at having my ample body exposed as she plastered many sticky patches onto my chest and abdomen for an ECG.

A brisk young doctor hustled in and went through the interrogation and drill yet again. His name was Dr. Matthews, and his manner was friendly, but he was all business. He whacked my knee with his little rubber hammer, peered into my eyes, instructed me to close my eyes and touch my nose with my index finger.

“Do you know where you are?” He watched me intently. “Squeeze my fingers as hard as you can. Give me a big smile. Shortness of breath?”

He didn’t seem alarmed; patted my knee as he promised to be back after the ECG.

The BP cuff squeezed again. I hate these things—they always feel like they’re strangling my arm!

I stared at the pastel-colored checkered privacy curtains, wondering, Why would someone choose those for an emergency room? They look like they belong in an old people’s home!

When Dr. Matthews hurried back in, he said he didn’t think I’d had a stroke. “I’ve listened to people speak after a stroke,” he said. “Your speech isn’t slurred.”

I know it was coming out wrong before! I thought.

“I did a complete neurological exam,” he continued.

You did? Oh, yeah, that hand-squeezing and stuff. You call that complete?

“And the ECG looks okay. It may have been a TIA. I’m going to put you on an IV drip to hydrate you, feed you a couple of low-dose chewable aspirins and order a CT scan.”

A friend had had a transient ischemic attack (TIA), which she called a mini stroke. I had to look up what it meant. Transient simply means temporary. Ischemic has to do with blood flow to an organ being cut off—in this case, the brain. And Attack—well, when the brain doesn’t get oxygen, it starts to die, and though I didn’t experience violence, it did feel like an assault.

My drip was still dripping when Nurse Amanda announced that an opening had come up for the CT scan at the sister hospital—could Yogi drive me there right now? After shuffling to the car, we sped away.

Worn stickers on the floor led us through the bowels of the other building to a small, stark space with few chairs. Not a soul was around.

This is surreal! I thought. Nobody knows we’re here.

My mind drifted to other waiting rooms, other hospitals, other crises. Yogi and I didn’t want to talk about them, so we talked about nothing. I was beginning to think maybe we should just go home so I could sleep. I was exhausted to my bones.

I’d never had a CT scan before. The idea was to look for signs of a stroke in my brain. The image of a close friend who’d suffered a stroke and never recovered haunted me.

After an impossibly long fifteen minutes, a friendly young technician labelled Terri greeted us and patiently walked with me down a lengthy and dismal hallway. In the dim X-ray room, I shivered as I gaped at the hard, high-tech sci-fi bed. A huge, round superstructure at one end looked like it could swallow my head.

“You wear this very attractive hairnet, lie on your back, and your head will go into the ‘Donut’ three times, for about ten seconds each,” explained Terri, helping me onto the bed. “Close your eyes—there will be a bright light—keep your chin down and lie still.”

I felt strangely adrift as the bed moved; with my eyes closed, I couldn’t sense which direction I was going. The monster Donut blinked and whirred and blinked and whirred. Then silence—for what seemed like an eternity.

Have I been deserted? I thought, opening my eyes: I was stopped outside the Donut. My pulse throbbed, and I was chilling down again. I felt utterly abandoned.

Finally Terri reappeared. “Sorry for the wait—computer glitch.”

Oh. Very reassuring, I thought. Now a broken computer. On the verge of panic, I was ferried into the Donut one last time.

Back down the lonely hallway, back out into the cold in my fashionable hospital gown with my parka bundled over it, back to the first hospital ER, to “my” bed in the corner and my pastel checkered curtains and IV drip and BP torture cuff. Yogi sat quietly, his hand resting on mine.

Dr. Matthews rushed in and perched on the side of my bed. With a reassuring smile, he told me he couldn’t find anything wrong. I tried to smile back, but now I felt even more frightened, not knowing what had happened to me.

He ordered bloodwork, a daily aspirin and a carotid Doppler—an ultrasound of the neck. A blocked carotid artery can increase the likelihood of a stroke. He also ordered a two-week Holter monitor to check the action of my heart more thoroughly. I would be booked for an appointment at the vascular risk prevention clinic.

Nurse Amanda disconnected my IV, informing me with a chuckle that I could keep the sticky ECG things adorning my skin as a souvenir. Outside, a blast of fresh air kissed my face.

Back in my own bed, the cats cuddled in with me for a nap. Yogi kissed me lightly, saying he’d be back in a few minutes, and mounted his trusty steed to buy me some ice cream.

As he was leaving, I called after him:

“It’s okay, I’m fine!”

This time—at long last—it felt true.

Seventeen days later, at the clinic, I was told, “I think we should treat this as a TIA.” I was prescribed medication to control my blood pressure and cholesterol and sent home with encouraging words: “Go ahead and get on with your life as normal.”

So I did.

A year later, my bloodwork showed no surprises. I accept the need to take medication for rest of my life, knowing that I’m worth it. After all, I’m grateful that my life story has not ended. It is to be continued….