“There are things known, and there are things unknown, and in between are the doors of perception” Aldous Huxley

As I lay in my bed this morning, the first light of dawn streams through my window. The orange and red hues expand over the horizon with gray pillowy clouds. I smile as one, in particular, reminds me of our dog Aragon when he did his morning stretch with his bum in the air, and his paws stretched in front of him. I revel in being warm and cozy in my bed. My window is open; I fill my lungs with the fresh, cool, crisp air. I am thankful to be in my bedroom, surrounded by all that is familiar; I feel safe.
It was only a year ago I was in this same bed, resentful and fearful at the agony I was still in after my knee surgery. It had been six weeks at that point, and the pain still challenged me. This same bed seemed like a prison. Today, these same walls create such a sense of peace and safety. It was another story a year ago.

Yesterday, I had another chance to experience different perspectives once again.

It’s one am, and I am suddenly trying to take in a full breath as my heart feels like it is flipping over, but I can’t. I sit up, ahhhh, that’s better. My body seems shaky. I settle back down and fall asleep. Again, I am startled awake by the same thing. What the hell? It’s 5 am. I get up and do some housework. Our house has a second viewing this afternoon, so it has to shine; I do not have time for heart palpitations. I vacuum, wash dishes, mop the floors, clean the bathrooms, and make my bed. I suddenly feel dizzy, and my chest feels a bit tight again. I got to push through. I will finish these few more things and then drive to outpatients. Now I feel a bit nauseous and am full-on dizzy, and my chest is tight.
Ok, time for plan B. I call our son to drive.

I am rushed into triage and asked the usual questions. I am clutching my MSI card so tight that it is indented in my hand; I hear my voice yammering fast about nothing. The nurse chastises me for lingering so long this morning before coming in. She asks me another question, which confuses me. She looks slightly annoyed and repeats.
“What about radiation?”
My mind still does not register, “Radiation?”
and again, she repeats it in a different way
“Does the pain radiate up your arm”? “
“Oh, ah no.”
My mind is racing, filling with all kinds of things: OMG, Christmas is a month away, Bernie is away, Our son and his wife are about to have child number 5, and I cannot be having a heart attack now! I am still very dizzy; my chest is tight, and short of breath.
Curtains are whisked around me for privacy, my shirt and bra are off, and a jonney shirt is on. At a quick pace, my breasts are lifted as the nurse connects me to a monitor and oxygen meter and then inserts an IV needle. I am also acutely aware that there are several emergencies that these nurses are attending to all at once.
Silently I think
“This is just a virus. I have to go home soon; too much to do!”
Our son comes in and sits with me for a couple of hours when I am settled. I feel his fear as we wait. We joke a bit to break the tension.

The other beds are filling up with frightened, primarily older adults with serious health issues. The nurses are run ragged. The gentleman across from me is mostly deaf. I feel his frustration as the nurses shout questions, hoping to get him to hear. The woman on the other side of him has fallen and broken her hip and silently lies in pain. They wait for her to be taken to Kentville for surgery as her son advocates for her. On the other side of the curtain, an ambulance has brought an older woman who is critical. Her lungs are filling up, and her heart is weak. She is apologizing for her incontinence. Her voice is sweet and very polite, but she is audibly terrified, embarrassed and in pain. She is coughing and struggling to breathe as the nurses quickly clean her, put in her IV, and ask her a myriad of important questions, all the while reassuring her as much as possible. She is so confused about all the things they are doing for her. I hear them telling her.
“We are putting a catheter in. Lift your leg a bit more, almost done, just a bit more.”
She whimpers in pain; my heart goes out to her
“Why are you doing this?” she asks
They finally have time to explain, but only when the procedures are all done.
“The doctor has ordered a medication that will help rid of the fluid in your lungs and will help you breathe better, but it will make you pee constantly.”
“Oh, I understand now.”
Her voice was quiet but was more steady. Doctors come and go while the nurses are steadfast with her care; they are kind and attentive.
Her son came in to be with her by her bedside.

Mixed with mine, the fear in this room feels palpable. We all wanted to be anywhere, but here, it is such a helpless feeling for both the patients and the family members.
After 3 hours, the doctor comes around the curtain,
“I am ordering aspirin and nitroglycerine spray.”
and walks away.
Wait what? I think, did I have a heart attack? What did the tests say? I feel rattled again, and now I am frustrated. When the nurse comes in with aspirins and nitro, I am annoyed by the lack of time the Doc stayed and how he left me hanging. I asked her questions she could not answer and asked if she would ask the Doc to return for just a minute. I could not understand why I was taking the aspirin and nitro. About 1/2 hour later, the Doc, visibly annoyed, quickly explained that the tests all came back negative, but they had to give me the aspirin and nitro, take another blood test in three hours to rule out a heart attack and then quickly left.

On the other side of the curtain next to me, another doctor is talking to the sweet woman and her son about DNR requests. Asking her in a firm but kind voice about what her wishes are. She is clear with her responses and her understanding. I feel both at the same time in her voice sadness and relief at her choice of being ready to go if she died.

Three hours later, my blood work came back negative for a heart attack. The doctor says they would not rule out other heart problems yet and has ordered a stress test for me next week by the cardiologist. Tired and overwhelmed by my day in emergency, our dear son drives me home.
Later, I called my friend, a naturopathic doctor, to complain about the aspirin and nitro, only to be humbled by her response.
“I am so glad, Joyce, this is the standard protocol when they suspect a heart attack,”
and then explained why.

We all have our own life stories. Most of us have been in emergency for ourselves or for loved ones. A polarity of emotions fills our hearts with each life event. Fear does strange things to our psyche. When it comes to our or our loved one’s health crisis, fear can be paralyzing and helpless to feel. From this state, the perspective is often distorted and self-centred.

Now, feeling safe and peaceful in my bed, I have time to reflect on a different perspective. The nurses and doctors in the ER do not have time for our fear when dealing with multiple emergencies; they are doing their best to treat many people and their symptoms simultaneously to save lives. They must act fast on instinct to do what is necessary. There must be a certain amount of trust for them to do their job. There are so many moving parts for each person, and they do not always have time to explain everything they are doing to everyone. Patients are all being cared for to the best of their ability. That sweet older woman whose life was on the edge of a precipice was getting the care and full attention she needed, even if it was confusing and scary.

Thank goodness this is one stressful profession some people take on as their life’s work. All too often, we expect nurses and doctors to be superhuman at times. We forget they are human. I’m sure they are often home with their families, tired and worn out. The next time I wait for 8-12 hours in an emergency, I will remember this.

With a bit of time, it is constructive when I have gone through something like this to reflect on it from a holistic perspective, and more often than not, I am once again humbled. This time was no different.

Although I did end up showing some moderate calcification in the heart, it is in a part that is not as dangerous, but I still had shortness of breath and a tight chest for 3 more weeks. After another full day in the ER three weeks later, on boxing day, unable to breathe well, I was diagnosed with a lung infection that had also inflamed the lining of my lungs. Full recovery expected.

“To change our ourselves effectively, we first have to change our perceptions” Steven Covey