Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.

Isaiah 41:10 ESV

Sleeping helped the two-hour ride in the back of the ambulance pass quickly.  The paramedic told me we were about twenty minutes away from the hospital.  The fog of sleep lifted from my brain.  The hospital…but I’m feeling okay right now…perhaps I don’t really need to go?  I went from relaxed to growing anxiousness in a matter of seconds.  Someone stop the train.  I want to get off.  This was not supposed to be the conclusion of our vacation, our grand hiking adventure in the Tetons.

As the weeks of heartburn-like pain persisted and evolved, I could no longer deny its link to the increased heart rate that came from exertion.  I hoped and prayed for it to go away; that it was some sort of temporary, innocuous problem brought on by life’s common and predictable stressors.  Anything beyond that didn’t make sense to me.  I was healthy, I was active, and at 58, too young for this.  But it didn’t matter.  The night before, my heart screamed for me to listen as it contracted tightly and gripped me in fear.  I’m going to the hospital because I need to, because my heart needs me to.  My swirling mind calmed a bit with the salve of knowing I would finally get the help I needed.  But I needed to get beyond my stubborn resistance and be willing to accept whatever treatment was prescribed.  I’m scared, but I also knew God was with me.  I said a quick, on-the-fly prayer to be less frightened and more cooperative.  I needed all the help I could get.

I felt the ambulance sway as it negotiated urban traffic lights and turns until it finally came to a stop under the portico at the Eastern Idaho Regional Medical Center (EIRMC).  The back doors opened, scrub-attired personnel pulled the gurney from its secure clamps, and I was whisked through the doors into a large trauma room.  A swarm of doctors and nurses surrounded me, and the orchestrated chaos began anew.  Questions came in rapid fire succession.  Someone grabbed my arm and drew blood from the IV port.  A nurse and I fought over control of the gown covering me as she tried to attach a handful of leads to my chest for an EKG.  Having my chest uncovered made her task easier, but I wasn’t about to give up my modesty while I was conscious.  Though silent on the matter, she seemed annoyed at my persistence.  Monitors were brought in close and doctors analyzed their screens.  There was sound all around me, but I couldn’t discern what was happening from all of the simultaneous conversations.

Gradually, the initial atmosphere of rapid response and assessment calmed.  The action involving me stopped.  The doctors determined the next steps in my treatment, and for them, my immediate crisis was over.  Doctors and nurses now came and went from the room with no particular urgency.  I lay there on the gurney, interacting with no one for several minutes.  It was almost as if I wasn’t there, a prop on the stage while the actors moved about me, delivering their lines to each other.  I watched the activity out in the hall beyond the trauma room.  People were nearby, but I felt oddly isolated and alone.  My identity suddenly transformed from an independent individual to a patient.  I felt a loss of autonomy and control over my destiny.  I gave it up, with much reluctance, to these medical professionals.  My mind rapidly reviewed how I got here and concluded it was a prudent choice to get past my resistance to help.  I needed to trust that these people with expertise and God held the future of my life in hand.  Somehow, I prayed, they would protect and restore my health.

I was transferred to a hospital room on another floor.  A nurse came in and we went through the litany of questions again.  With at least a dozen wires were attached to my chest, an IV in one arm, a blood pressure cuff on the other, and a nasal cannula pumping oxygen into my nose, I looked like someone with a serious health issue. Yet I felt I could get up out of the bed and walk out of the hospital if I wanted to – and I did want to.  As I sat in the hospital bed, I was the picture of vulnerability.  None of this fit with who I knew myself to be.  As I was contemplating my wishful escape, Marty was ushered into the room by a nurse, ending those thoughts.  It took him longer to travel the distance from Jackson while pulling the trailer.  I didn’t have much new information to share with him, as no one told me what was going to happen next.  We were both in a state of shock, of disbelief.  It was one thing to suggest seeing a doctor about a problem, it was quite another to be immersed in the reality of it.  An emergency room visit, an ambulance ride, then another emergency room, and now admitted to a hospital more than 2 hours from our original location.  Our vacation that was intended to last another 3 weeks now had an uncertain future.  Marty asked me who I wanted him to call about my being in the hospital.  “No one,” I told him adamantly.  I didn’t want anyone to know.  There wasn’t anything definitive to tell yet, and I saw no value in upsetting family members at this point.  When there was something to tell, I’d consider it.

We’d been sitting there for a while, discussing what might happen next when a doctor came in and introduced himself as a cardiologist.  He would need to do an angiogram in order to see what was going on inside my heart.  He would insert a fine catheter into an artery, most likely the radial artery at my wrist, and the catheter would follow the artery into my heart.  With the injection of a contrast dye visible using x-ray imaging, he would be able to see any blockages in the vessels, and if needed, expand the vessels or insert small mesh tubes, called stents, to hold the vessels open.  I would be anesthetized enough that I wouldn’t feel anything, but still awake during the procedure.  The angiogram was scheduled for first thing in the morning.  The description of the procedure was familiar to me.  My father went through it at just 50 years of age, after he’d experienced chest pain at the finish line of a 5K race.  Thirty-six years later, my father is still alive.  The procedure was unquestionably successful for him.  I hoped and prayed it would be for me as well.

Marty sat with me in my room through the evening.  We reviewed the events of the day.  God’s shaping of my circumstances was already obvious to me.  The night before, I prayed for a sign to help me discern the seriousness of my situation, and whether I should see a doctor or go backpacking.  In hindsight I could see the absurdity of this question given the consistent and progressive pattern of my symptoms.  But I also knew that historically, the medical profession had not taken women’s chest pain complaints as seriously as those of men, even though heart attacks are the leading cause of death for women.  I was fearful of having my concerns dismissed.  My fears were reinforced when I reached the Jackson emergency room and overheard discussions amongst some of the staff that my chest pain was likely a result of the altitude.  But God had this concern covered.  When someone has a heart attack, the heart muscle releases an enzyme called troponin into the blood.  A blood test can detect this, and prove that a patient has experienced a cardiac event.  While my EKG appeared normal, the test of my blood proved that I’d had a heart attack.  If I’d gone to see a doctor the day before, this objective evidence would not have been present.  My few symptoms alone, paired with my appearing healthy otherwise, might not have been enough to warrant more evaluation. The heart attack forced action – it was an unquestionable sign for me to get help, and provided undeniable evidence to the doctors that I needed advanced medical care.  I prayed for God’s help in discernment, and received just enough of a cardiac event to compel the appropriate actions in both me and others. 

Eventually Marty was chased out by a nurse.  He managed to stay well past the visiting hours, which helped me feel calmer and safer.  Fortunately, EIRMC set aside a few spaces in their parking lot specifically for RVs.  Apparently, the designers of the hospital complex anticipated patients that might arrive from out of town or in the midst of vacation travels.  It was helpful to know he was just a few steps away.  Still, when he left, I felt isolated and alone again.  I’d never been in a hospital overnight.  My intellectual understanding of the procedure to come was of little value in allaying gut-level anxiety.  It was an exhausting day, with many first-time experiences.  First heart attack.  First ambulance ride as a patient.  First overnight stay in a hospital.  I didn’t want any of these experiences, but there was relief in knowing the pressure of assessing my situation shifted from my perpetual denial to medical professionals with the requisite expertise.  I would no longer be trying to make decisions about my health in the absence of concrete information.

As my body began to relax and I could feel the need for sleep pulling me in, I had another conversation with God.  Thank you for getting me to this place.  Thank you for putting up with my stubborn resistance, and for giving me just enough of a heart attack to get me where I need to be.  Thank you for preserving my life.  I’m scared of what is coming, but I know you’ve got this, so I don’t have to.  I am grateful for all the ways you’ve blessed my life… and at some point, the need for sleep overwhelmed my attempt to recount a long list, and I let it take me.