A stressful day at the ER

 My stressful visit to the ER

After avoiding hospitals for 16 months, I found myself in an ambulance and on my way to the ER at the Tucson Medical Center yesterday. Another dehydration, and heart-related scare.

Nine inches of rain fell in July in my neighborhood and at the ball field where I normally play baseball three days a week, year in and year out. In fact, we had so many rainouts in July, my teammates, a bunch of old-timers between the age of 60 to 80, were starting to have withdrawals -- anxiety, if you will, with the possibility of being forced to learn how to play the game of baseball all over again.

Not to worry. It's like riding a bike. How can you forget the game when you've played America's Pastime for more than 70 years?

Of course, our first day back was Monday, August 2 -- a sticky morning and a tough day to breathe normally, especially if you have a medical history like mine. Did I mention the lack of enough water yet?

Well, after five innings on the field and three at-bats, I began to fade.

It wasn't long before I heard the sound of an ambulance heading my way.

Fast forward, to the ER and the fun began.

"Put him in 31!"

Up next: the IV.

Three bottles of fluids later, three blood withdrawals, and nine hours on my back with nothing to listen to but the turmoil outside of my room, I started humming the Animals' tune: "We got to get out of this place!"

Not so fast, I have a lot of reporting to do. I mean my door was always open, except for one precious moment. I'll get to that later. I felt so sorry for the doctors and the nurses. I wanted to hide under the bed. Of course, that was impossible. I was hooked up to the wall like a lamp!

Let's see: The poor old lady next to me was in the middle stages of Alzheimer's. Her son was trying to explain a recent trip she had with Charles Bonnet Syndrome (my mother dealt with that...not fun). Among other things, the eyes do tricks on you and you might see little people in the ceiling fan above you. In the entrance to the room to the right, the nurses were scurrying around tossing on extra protective gear. 

"Remember she just tested positive for Covid." The door slammed shut.

Getting back to my room, my temporary pad, if you will. It seemed like I was alone in my thoughts for hours at a time. After all, there were sicker people around me. I was just a 76-year-old baseball player who didn't have enough sense to stay out of the rain. I mean sun. I'm getting my days mixed up.

"Your potassium levels are abnormal. If we can't get them down, we may have to admit you."

"More oxygen please!"

It turns out I was having breathing problems. "We'd like to have you around 95 to 97."

"Okay. Let's do it."

The nurse then brings in a jug. I mean an elongated apparatus. "We want you to urinate into this as much as you can and then transfer a sample into this cup and seal it."

All while on my back of course with that troublesome IV in my left arm and my chest full of wires that looked more like the interstate system in downtown Los Angeles.

"Could you please close the door?"

Mission accomplished. I put the jug on the little nightstand next to me and grabbed a sip of water.

An hour later, I dropped my phone on the floor. I could barely reach it and needed a stick or something to move the phone over a foot or two. So, I grabbed the jug, made sure the cap was snug, and reached down and moved the phone just enough so I could grab it. Success. Life at the ER at its best.

By nightfall, the doctor arrived. "You're good to go. Here's your paperwork and be sure to make an appointment with your cardiologist."

At this point, my significant other, Susie Q, is afraid to enter the ER. I don't blame her. 

On my way out, I walked toward a couple who were holding hands and sitting on a bench near the entrance to the hospital.  They yelled out: "Don't come near us. We just tested positive for Covid."

Sue arrived. I looked up, tipped my mask toward the entrance of Tucson Medical Center, and said my goodbyes.

A million thanks to everyone who helped me return to normalcy.

Whatever normal is these days.