| Tech Edge
By John M. Williams
It was 9:00 a.m. on Saturday. I was working in my office. Suddenly, I felt my body become sapped of strength. I told my wife Lisa, I was going to bed for an hour. She assured me that she and Brandon, our youngest son, would not wake me up.
Three hours later, I did wake up. My left hand was as stiff as a corpse. This was not totally unfamiliar to me. The stiffness and weakness had been occurring and then disappearing for about five months. For about five months, I also had trouble walking on my left side. I was dragging my left leg which was also fatiguing. This time, my left hand was not moving. It was cemented still. I was frightened. I decided to go for a walk to see if it would have any therapeutic effect, as it had in the past.
Ten minutes later, I returned to my house. I walked into the kitchen and said to Lisa, “You are going to have to take me to the hospital; I think I am having a heart attack.”
Immediately my wife called one of my doctors who told her to get me to a hospital in Fairfax, Virginia. I told my wife, I did not need an ambulance.
Thirty minutes later I was at the hospital.
The first person who saw me asked, “Do you have health insurance?”
When I showed her I did, she immediately called a nurse in the rooms behind her. A nurse immediately came out and wheeled me into the medical area. Lisa accompanied me.
A nurse sitting behind a desk asked for my name and symptoms.
I gave her my name and said, “I can’t move my left hand.”
She looked at my hand, then checked my blood pressure, temperature and other vital signs. She called for assistance and I was wheeled into a room where I was placed on a bed. A couple of nurses saw me, followed by a procession of doctors. They were all of the opinion that I was having a series of mini-strokes. I was rushed to the stroke victim’s unit where I stayed for four days.
During that time, I was given an MRI, MRA, sonogram, numerous X-rays, multiple blood tests, an EKG at 4:00 a.m., and a sonogram. I was also put on a bland diet—the worst tasting and worst cooked meals I have ever eaten. I wanted to leave just so I would not be continuously tortured by the food! My family had to bring me eats from the outside. My roommate, other patients on the floor and I constantly complained about the terrible food, being served to us. The complaints did not help.
During my stay in the hospital, I was constantly monitored. I saw a dietician, cardiologist, neurologist, a hospital appointed doctor, two physical therapists, two occupational therapists.
Despite all this attention, a hospital administrator told me that I was being treated as an outpatient and would be released from the hospital right away unless a medical emergency occurred.
You might recall an argument against the public option (“socialized medicine,” they called it) during the healthcare reform debate last year is that it would lead to rationing of healthcare in this country. “Lead to rationing?” Have those who made that charge not been to a private hospital lately? There’s already plenty of rationing going on!
The doctors and nurses had me nearly convinced that I had suffered a series of mini-strokes that could lead to a major fatal stroke. I was told that when I left the hospital my life style would have to change. I would have to watch what I eat, exercise daily, rest more, work less and maybe sell my house and move into a one floor condo. My life had been laid out for me. My obituary had nearly been written. I was depressed.
I would have been 100% convinced that I had a series of mini-strokes if my speech, memory and vision had been affected. They had not. My roommate had a series of mini-strokes, and his speech, memory and vision were affected.
Also, my sonogram showed my heart, arteries and valves leading to my heart were crystal clear. The X-rays and EKG and blood tests were negative. Other tests were negative. Finally, the results of the MRI revealed I had never, ever had a stroke. In my doctor’s words, “Your brain is as clear as the clearest blue sky.”
Also, most of the time my blood pressure was taken it was 110/80.
Pleased but confused, I asked, “What’s wrong with me?”
“You have a neuromuscular disorder of undetermined origin. See your neurologist and family physician for treatment.”
Suddenly, I felt cold, despaired and frightened. This is the fi rst of two articles. The next covers “Coping with Neuromuscular Diagnosis.”
John M. Williams can be reached at jwilliams@atechnews.com. His web site is www.atechnews.com.
