I recently learned two truths: One, experiencing heart attack symptoms is profoundly frightening; and two, mouth guards float.
On March 25 at 12:15 a.m., I was suddenly awakened by the feeling that someone was sitting on my chest. I was also covered in a cold sweat, had difficulty breathing and felt like I was going to throw up. I went to the bathroom, lifted the toilet seat, bent over and watched my mouthguard fall into the bowl and float below me . . . smiling. Fortunately, I did not throw up. I then googled the hell out of my symptoms which all pointed to a heart attack. My father had had a very serious heart attack (not his first) when he was around 70 years old which required emergency quintuple bypass surgery. Two of my sisters had also struggled with heart issues.
Needless to say, I was scared shitless. I tried to calm down, but 45 minutes later, the tightness in my chest and shortness of breath had not subsided. I called Adrienne at 1:04. She said I didn’t sound well, so she rushed me to the closest hospital emergency room where I walked in bent over. A tech emerged from an area behind the front desk.
“I think I’m having a heart attack,” I said, breathlessly.
“Yeah?” the tech responded. (He might as well have said, “Whatever.”) He picked up a thermometer and — looking askance at his iPhone — told me my temperature was normal. “Guess we’re going to have to do this. Lift your shirt,” he sighed. He then somewhat haphazardly applied about a half dozen sensors around my chest, looked at some monitor, and told me to wait. A few minutes later, the nurse on duty told me to have a seat in the waiting room which immediately reminded me of a waiting room at a Greyhound Bus station. One apparently homeless man was wearing a white blanket over his head, another apparently homeless woman was wearing black underwear on the outside of her torn and filthy jeans. While judging silently, I noticed that in my hurry to get to the emergency room, I had grabbed a shirt that said, Be the abyss people stare into and socks that said, Well, this sucks. I fit in perfectly.
Eventually, I was escorted to the emergency room and poked and prodded by nurses, techs, and one helluva grumpy physician’s assistant who, despite wearing a medical cap imprinted with miniature tootsie rolls, possessed a bedside manner that convinced both Adrienne and me that she had been the inspiration behind the joke, “How many lesbians does it take to change a lightbulb? One, and it’s NOT funny.” About an hour later, a doctor informed me that I was going to be admitted to the hospital for “observation and further testing”. At 7:01 a.m., an attendant named Dakota who aspired to be a rapper because his mother was a poet, wheeled my bed into Room 372 where “Fox & Friends” was blaring on a TV suspended from the ceiling. I couldn’t believe that on top of everything else, I had to look UP to these clowns.
“Do you need anything?” asked Dakota.
“Where’s the TV remote?” I replied.
Over the next several hours, IVs were inserted into both arms, more blood was taken and “sequential compression devices” were applied to my legs. “Think of them as leg massagers,” said my nurse, whose name was Cardia which means, “lover of the heart.” Seriously. I was also given what will go down in my life story as the worst breakfast I’ve ever had, though my nutritionist was lovely. Her name was — wait for it — “Angel.”
After three rounds of vital-signs-taking and heart-enzyme-whatever, a doctor who looked like he had arrived at the hospital on a skateboard and whose name was Pouya Gharakldaghi (I had NO idea what his name meant; but I’m guessing, “snowflake” after googling “derogatory terms for millennials”), walked into my room carrying a backpack and a clipboard. The time was 11:52 a.m. Flipping authoritatively through several pages on the clipboard, Dr. Backpack announced that my bloodwork, lungs (a chest x-ray had been taken in the emergency room as well as a COVID nasal swab which tested negative) and heart were all normal. “You can go home in two hours as soon as I’m finished with the paperwork.” Recalling that my oldest sister suffered from periodic panic attacks, I wondered if I had had a panic attack. “I can’t tell you that officially,” he replied, “but if it was a panic attack, it was a severe one.”
Of course, I panicked. I got out of bed, sat on a chair and stared into my abyss.
At 4:03, I was still in my room, wondering why in the hell I had left my home without any reading material or a pen or my journal. Also, I was worried that the crap on afternoon TV was going to trigger an actual heart attack. At some point, Cardia told me that Dr. Skateboard could have been delayed by “talking with colleagues in the hallway.”
Uh-huh.
Adrienne picked me up at 5:15.
It’s taken me a couple of days to unfreeze my body from significant trauma caused by: never before being in an emergency room (outside of escorting friends), never before being admitted to a hospital as a patient, never before having IVs inserted in both arms at the same time, never before having my legs massaged by a machine, and never before having to wear a hospital gown that did not match my underwear.
I have a follow-up visit with my GP at 11:15 today to determine next steps with him and most likely my psychiatrist. I still haven’t decided what pair of socks I’m going to wear.
It took a while to be able to put words down on paper about this traumatic experience. My glib tone may seem to belie the seriousness of this scare, but it’s one way I’m processing it. Another way is that I AM following up with professionals. Such events should never be taken lightly.
Two lessons relearned: One, I have the best friends and sisters in the world; and two, Adrienne is a once-in-a-lifetime find.
Love to all.
Definitely the F U socks!
Thanks for the advice, John, my wonderful next-door neighbor who mows my front lawn and whose adopted dog, Lucy (a terrier, chihuahua and dachshund mix), has become one of my closest confidants. I’ll let you know my final socks decision.
By the way, I love your avatar.
As a reminder to be kind and gentle to yourself, I would bag your sock choices and opt for your Mister Rogers’ socks. Thank you, Adrienne, for being there for Sharie. 💜💜💜
Merrie Lee — not to worry, I tend to wear those socks as a way of being in solidarity with you when you are physically, mentally and spiritually challenged. Also, it’s kind of cool that my friends are a composite of Mr. Rogers, no? xoxo
I was shocked when I heard from my younger sister as to what had occurred. Sharon–Sharon–a heart attack!!!! Whether a heart attack or panic attack, the experience is still horrific!! Sharon has such inner strength–once connected she can pull through anything. The blog made me scream and laugh out loud. Your humor is more than something to hide behind–your humor is one of your healing strengths. Much Love to you.
Thanks for commenting, Dawna. This episode was a shock to me, too. At times, it still is.
Thanks, too, for reminding me of my inner strength which I most often believe is just sheer stubbornness — we are, after all, our mother’s daughters, no?
Earlier this morning, a beloved who reads Spark and Spitfire sent me a very thoughtful response to this post. She gave me permission to share it here:
I chuckled a lot in concert with your observations (not your experiences) and am sending big, big hugs. If it was Doctor’s Hospital, was there in October and GET IT.
As for the circumstances that got you through those glass doors of the ER, hope that is resolved soon, soon, soon.
The unknown is so … fear inducing. Naming “it” however ugly it may be, gives a sense of order over the unknown. I think that is why writing is therapeutic. For me, it helps direct my unrulies into some semblance of clarity and on the off chance it happens, into some sense of sanity.
During cancer, it was helpful for me to take on the posture of investigative journaling as in … hmph, this is an interesting fear that surfaced; aha, I didn’t know that about myself. Good gracious, I am far more scared than I thought, or amen and amen! I really do believe in God.
I find the unknown a wild ride which draws out of dormancies I otherwise would not know were sleeping within. Whatever reason your body cried out, I am praying it is leading you toward healing you didn’t know you needed.
I am going to pray for the most attentive and generous hearted people to attend to you today … that the very best of their hearts conspire to love you well and that you get the answers (and solutions?) which bring you peace.
Thanks for sharing.
Yes, frightening all around. But in typical Sharon fashion, I had to convince her that we should go to the ER. I don’t think anyone should second guess themselves when it comes to figuring out whether the symptoms are heart-attack or panic-attack or otherwise. Imagine if we “guessed” incorrectly.
Of course, keeping the humor going during this experience helped. Kudos to Sharon for treating everyone with respect and trying to find their human side. In some cases, it was like melting an iceberg, but she did it.
And speaking of melting, only on Monday did I begin to see Sharon’s personality emerge again and unfreeze.
Thanks all for your support.
Hey all — just got back from seeing my GP and because the story of this event included so many of the classic symptoms of a heart attack, he referred me to a cardiologist for further testing. However, after I detailed possible outside factors what could have contributed to my stress, he agreed that this event could very well have been a panic attack, but that we needed to ensure that my cardiovascular system had not weakened in any way, etc. He was very nice. He’s always nice.
I wore the “F.U” socks and the receptionist wants a pair.
Thank you for writing, Sharie! What a terribly scary situation to awaken to! I imagine they did blood work? No elevation of troponin? I am SO thankful Adrienne got you to a hospital…exactly the right thing to do…though perhaps, if you ever visit again, try a different one? I’m glad you’ve seen your doc & a plan in process. I hope you are back home recovering now!! Love from linden, Elaine
Thanks, Elaine. I am still recovering, but feeling more myself each day. Love from Greenbelt.
Dear Sharon,
You and Adrienne together were a lot smarter in responding to the events of that night than I was some years back when I awoke with chest pain. I decided it must just be heartburn, so I took a couple of Tums, and after thinking it over, also took a couple of aspirin, just in case. Found out, a couple of years later, that it had been a “silent” (do they ever really make noise) heart attack that left me a set of scars. I know the ER – and hospital admission – can be scary, but I am really happy that you went. Follow you doctor’s advice, and please take good care of yourself. And give Adrienne a BIG hug for me. Love, David
Thank you for re-living this whole experience–for yourself and for us, your beloved friends/family. So traumatic. Grateful you had a good visit with your GP today, and grateful there will be some follow-up testing. Hard to believe the casual attitudes of the doctors you had at the hospital. Sure, for them this is routine, but do they have no sense of how un-routine it is for their patients? Sad.
Carol — it was an education, to be sure . . . not one I want to experience again any time soon.
Well, if you didn’t actually have a heart attack, that breakfast looks like an attempt to give you one! Ick!
I don’t know whether to be immensely proud or somewhat embarrassed to know that I have gifted you at least three pairs of the socks pictured in this post. Considering that my socks today say “Busy Making a F*cking Difference,” I am just proud to know you are actually wearing yours and that you have enough pairs of “statement” socks to cause you to stop and consider which pair to wear!
Take good care, my friend.
Beth — you also gave me a pair of the socks you are wearing today. I have an appointment with a cardiologist this Friday afternoon. Perhaps I shall wear MY pair of “Busy Making a F#cking Difference” to that appointment in solidarity with you, though with your work with Moms Demand Action, you truly ARE making a f#cking difference. xoxo
As always, I am so grateful to you for sharing searing and intricate details of your experiences. I can feel how traumatic this was for you and Adrienne. I am so sorry. As a therapist, may I recommend socks with little burritos and avocados all over them that say, “Let’s Taco About Me.”
Kelly — what if I’m nacho type?
[Oh dear, a terrible pun. I must be feeling better . . .]
Sorry to be late to the party. Giving profound thanks that you are able to write about this whole experience. Writing is so grounding for you–as is your humor. The panic attack deserves to be listened to–clearly SOMETHING wants your attention so much that it is willing to wake you in the night to get you to listen. Yes, of course, follow up and also please listen. xoxoxo
Dr. Backpack. Priceless. Hey, Sharon…when the health shitstorm slows down, go have a stress test just to make SURE you don’t have any heart issues. At least you can put that worry to bed (hopefully you have a perfect heart!). I got a full work up done on my heart in my 30s (after some weird things happened) precisely because my father had a massive, fatal heart attack at age 41. Turns out, my ticker is just fine (his issue was congenital) and it’s been a load off my mind ever since. Love ya, lady.