We just said goodbye to February - designated as the American Heart Month by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) and Million Hearts®–a national effort to prevent 1 million heart attacks and strokes in the United States by 2017. Often during this month, I was reminded of the night of December 22, 2010, when I had a heart attack - one of roughly 500,000 people who suffer a heart attack for the first time each year in USA. Here are my reminiscences of what transpired.
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1:58 AM.
As I
groggily check the luminescent readout of the bed-side alarm clock, the growing
heaviness in my chest begins to sink in.
There is a feeling of burning, and of pressure.
My mind tries to focus.
Heart
attack?
I try breathing deeply.
There is no shortness of breath.
I check my forehead.
There is no sweating.
I pinch my arms.
There is no loss of feeling.
Could
it be heartburn?
I get up, walk to
the kitchen, drink some water and come back to bed.
Let me
try to sleep it off, I think and climb back under the duvet.
Underneath the cozy comforter,
sleep is hard to come by. The heaviness
in my chest refuses to subside. Slowly,
a feeling of nausea begins to creep in.
I pad over to the bathroom sink, and try throwing up. It is an ordeal. The chest feels no less constricted even
after the heaving stops. I decide to
call for reinforcements.
Snigdha, wake up, I say, gently shaking my wife. My
chest hurts. She sits up,
immediately alert, hearing the dreaded words.
Where? For how
long? I tell her about my symptoms,
and my suspicion that it is heartburn.
Another wave of nausea sweeps over me, and the chest pain kicks up a
notch, as I run to the sink. Snigdha
quickly scans her first aid book. Call 911, I say.
She comes over, and massages my
back. Looks like a bad case of heartburn.
Let me take you to the emergency.
But first, take some antacid and
drink some more water. That should help. I do all that, but with little effect. As I walk around the kitchen island,
massaging my chest, and hoping for relief that continues to evade me, Snigdha
gently takes my arm. Let’s get dressed and go to the emergency. I follow her, sensing that time is of the
essence.
My subconscious mind recalls a
similar incident 7-8 years ago, when a childhood chum complained of chest
pains, was taken to the emergency, and had a heart attack during the ER
triage. That is what saved me, I
remember him saying over and over again, as I quickly change and put on my
jacket. The garage feels bitterly cold
as I get into the car. Pulling out of
the garage, Snigdha pats my hand. We’ll be there in no time. Don’t worry.
2:39 A.M, the clock on the
dashboard says.
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Christmas is only a few days away. The night is crisp and clear. The blackness of the sky is in sharp contrast
with the brilliance of the snow on the ground.
It is an eerie feeling for recent transplants like us from Texas. Snigdha begins telling me about her trip to
the doctor yesterday, when she got lost and found herself at the entrance to
the emergency. I know exactly where it is, she keeps assuring me. I listen, partly to get distracted, as I keep
massaging my chest.
The roads are completely deserted,
and we get to the emergency in a few minutes.
I get out of the car, and quickly walk across to the reception
desk. The lobby is deserted, save the
nurse in charge of check-in. May I help you, she says. I am
having chest pains, I say. It hurts. She rushes out, gets me seated on a wheel
chair, mumbles chest pain .. chest pain … to her headset, and wheels
me right in. A team of nurses runs
towards us. Room 22, one of them says. It is set up for cardiac patients. We enter the room, and the ER protocol
rapidly kicks in.
Take off street clothes … put on hospital gown … what is your social
security number … let me shave your chest to attach the EKG leads …. are you
allergic to any medication ….we are going to do an IV …. how would you rate
your chest pain …
Four or five nurses are bustling
all around me, setting up the EKG, the IV, the blood draw, etc. He is diabetic and also on blood pressure
medication, Snigdha keep telling them, as she gives out details about my
insurance. A petite lady wearing scrubs
comes in and shakes my hand. I am Dr. Alexander, she says. Let’s
see what we have here. The EKG
readout is beginning to emerge, and I suddenly wince, as the pain
intensifies. Taking a deep breath, I
look at the doctor, silently asking for a diagnosis. You are
having a heart attack, she says, as if reading my mind.
The doctor’s words take time to
sink in. I feel detached from my body,
almost like a ghost hovering over the room, watching the ER team continue its
drill. There is a sense of unreal, as if
the whole experience belongs to someone else.
Call for the pharmacist …. give him some heparin … we don’t have a cath
lab here … we’ll have you air lifted to the heart hospital midtown … check his
BP … are you allergic to any medication …. how would you rate your chest pain
…. are you cold ….here are some blankets ….
The med flight team arrives, and
takes charge. A new gurney is called for
and I am gently slid onto it. The doctor
comes over and touches my shoulder. You are going to be all right. We have you stabilized and Dr. Silver is
waiting for you at the heart hospital.
Good luck. Snigdha is standing
by the door, holding my clothes. She
pats my forehead, and gives me a wan smile.
I am coming to the hospital, don’t
worry, she says, as the med flight team wheels me away.
3:23 AM, reads the clock over the
doorway.
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We move quickly through a long and empty corridor and step
out of the building into an open ramp.
My body goes into shock at the sudden drop in temperature. The med flight crew races towards the waiting
helicopter and quickly directs my gurney into the chopper’s belly. I feel like being trapped inside a metal
coffin. The gurney is strapped on, and a
pair of headphones is put over my ears. Relax, the disembodied voice of one of
the crew says, we’ll be taking off in
just a minute. I can barely turn my
head around.
The helicopter engines whine and
rev higher as we take off.
Claustrophobia begins to battle the pain in my chest. I close my eyes and reach for my chest. Om
tryambakam yajamahe, I start chanting silently, willing away any sense of
panic. It will be OK, I tell myself, everytime I reach the end of the mantra,
mryutyor mukhshiya mamrutat, before starting
all over again.
We land, and the med flight team rushes
me through the parking lot and a maze of corridors into the brightly lit cath
lab. Everyone is in scrubs looking
bright eyed and alert. The doctor steps
in and introduces himself. He is completely
bald, with a peaked nose, and a serious demeanor. I am
Dr. Silver, he says, shaking my hand.
You had a heart attack. We are going to inject some dye into you and
find out where the arterial blockage occurred. Then
we’ll take care of it.
They slide me from the med flight
gurney onto the operating table and start some more medication through the
IV. A local anesthetic is applied to my
groin area. It is wet and cold, and my
teeth begin to chatter. I am swaddled
with more blankets. The relaxant begins
to take over. I can barely hear Dr
Silver’s voice telling me about the catheter, the wire, the dye, the balloon,
the stent, as my heavy eye lids begin to close of their own volition.
3:55 AM, is the last thing I
remember as I drift away.
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My eyes gradually focus on Dr. Silver’s glistening forehead
as I come out of anasthesia. How are you feeling, he asks.
OK, I mumble, slurring my
words. You did great, he says. One of your arteries was almost completely
blocked. I removed the blockage and put
a stent. Another artery also has some serious
blockage. I need you to come back in a
month so that we can fix it. He
stops to watch me digest the news. You got lucky, he says after a long pause. We caught
the heart attack just in time.
There is another flurry of
activity to get me ready for the move to the cardiac ICU. I keep mulling over the fact that I just had
a heart attack. Or was it somebody
else? Denial takes over, until we come
out of the cath lab and I see Snigdha’s smiling face mirroring a huge sense of
relief. Realization follows – something
serious did happen to me.
A bubbly nurse takes charge of
transporting me to the ICU. Snigdha
holds my hand as we navigate a maze of corridors and finally check into my ICU
cabin. I am partially immobilized from
all the attachments to my body. The
nurse gets me settled, introduces me to the ICU crew, wishes me luck, and
leaves. I close my eyes and doze off for
a bit.
When I open my eyes, I see Snigdha
sitting in the lone visitor’s chair, sleep weary, sipping a cup of water and
looking in my direction. I wave at
her. She comes over and gently strokes
my face. How are you feeling? she asks. Not
bad, just a little bit of pain in the
chest, I say. I am so glad, she says. Let me go home and check on the children. I nod in agreement. You
rest now, she says. I will be back in a couple of hours.
She gives my hand a final squeeze,
gathers her purse and coat and steps outside. Thank you for giving me my life back, I silently mouth after
her. She stops at the door to look back
at me. Reassurance is writ large on her
face, a calamity averted. A smile flits
across her face, as if to say, You’re
welcome.
5:43 AM, the ICU clock reads.
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