The Day I Got Old

I had a birthday recently, but that is not the Day I Got Old.

It reminded me of it, though.

The Day I Got Old was a little over a year ago. It had started out as a normal Thursday--out of bed around 4:00, heading to the gym with a suitcase and two carryons to tide me over until my long day as a state employee in Utah ended.

A normal day except that I was a little bit stupid in the morning. Which worried me later, when I had to wonder if I was having a stroke. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

It was the first day that fall cool enough to wear my jacket to the gym, which threw everything off. Instead of making sure I had four things--gym membership card, keys, baggie with a Clorox wipe, and locker lock--in my hands before locking my car, I assumed I had it all in my pockets and accidentally locked my keys in my car. I took my glasses--which I do not need at the gym--in with me instead.

I had been sick earlier in the week with a sinus infection and had missed a workout, and I was trying to make up those 900 calories a little at a time. So, instead of burning 900 calories on the elliptical machine, I burned 1000. This should not have been a big deal, because I had done that intense of a workout many times before. I had been on antibiotics for a couple of days already.

However, after I showered and had discovered I did not have my keys, had called a coworker to pick me up and was on my way home to borrow my sleeping husband's--after my pulse and respiration had calmed down, that is, I realized that my vision was not normal.

Around the outside of my vision was a flashing border continuously going around in a rectangle like some kind of marquee. And, the middle of my vision was pixilated. When I finally got to work and was talking with a woman, if I looked right at her, parts of her face were missing, like jigsaw puzzle pieces. I didn't want to believe that, so I looked at her straight on a few times to see. . .and it was really true.

But I felt fine. I felt strong. I wasn't numb anywhere or weak on one side or anything like that. I wanted to believe I was fine.

After talking with a couple of people about it, including a woman who had had some small strokes, my husband, and the university stroke center, I went to my supervisor, who was copying papers for a meeting.

"I need to go to the ER," I blurted. "Can you drive me?"

"Sure," she said. "Just let me finish copying this."

I went to the bathroom, called my husband, packed my lunch back up, and went to my supervisor, who was still at the copier. "You know what?" I said, less than graciously, "I need to leave right now, so I'll just drive myself."

"Okay," she said. I couldn't believe it. But that's what she said. (She later apologized.) And I had to take accountability that I had not been as straightforward as I should have been, so I got in my car and drove--pixilated vision and all--to the stroke center.

I didn't know how or when I had gotten hurt, but I was worried about the three-hour window for most successfully treating strokes, as it was well over two hours since I had stopped working out. The traffic up to the university is unbelievable in the mornings. I tried to avoid it by getting into the left lane, planning to turn left and go along a less busy street the rest of the way. Only, when I finally crawled to that intersection, there was a no left-turn sign.

Everything in front of me was stopped for blocks ahead. I didn't have that kind of time left. I decided it was a good thing I had pixilated vision and couldn't see everything in front of me (like signs) and made the turn. The traffic was still slow, but not as bad. I passed up another hospital's ER, which was a tough decision, but I wanted to get to the place that had the best reputation for dealing with strokes.

Finally, finally, with just minutes left (I thought), I pulled up to the ER, left my car keys in the hands of a valet, and went in. I told the person at the counter that I had been experiencing stroke-like symptoms. He had me squeeze his hands. "You didn't have a stroke," he told me.

I told him about my vision--only the funny thing was that that symptom had almost completely disappeared, so I started to doubt myself again. I felt fine, and now had no symptoms. If I hadn't had a stroke, what on earth was I doing there, about to hand over a huge ER copayment?

"Well, I'm an EMT, and I can tell you you did not have a stroke," he said.

My tears started falling onto the counter. That was not what I needed to hear in order to stay. I didn't know what to do. He told me that if I had a problem with my vision, that should definitely get checked. "But not at an ER," I said, feeling stupid.

"I'm just trying to comfort you," he said.

"It's not working."

My symptom was gone. I nervously munched some almonds. I was taken back into a private part of the ER. My husband and youngest child came in.

Another person asked me to squeeze her hands, touch my nose, push against her hands with my feet, look at the light, raise my arms, lower my arms. I complied, knowing none of this would tell her anything. A nurse came in and asked me to squeeze her hands, touch my nose, push against her hands with my feet, look at the light, raise my arms, lower my arms, balance on one foot. A doctor came in and asked me to squeeze her hands, touch my nose, push against her hands with my feet, look at the light, raise my arms, lower my arms, balance on one foot, walk a line on the floor. I complied, knowing it wouldn't tell her anything, and feeling more stupid each time.

A nurse came in to hook me up to an IV. I asked why. I wavered. I really wondered what I was doing there. My symptoms had been gone for hours. I was fine. I didn't want to pay the copayment if there was nothing wrong with me. My husband gently--maybe too gently--suggested I might as well go along with it and try to find out why my vision had been pixilated.

I complied, then took a break to have a hacking cough fit.

The day waned on. I did Sudoku puzzles and wondered what I was doing there.

A neurologist came in and asked me to squeeze her hands, touch my nose, push against her hands with my feet, look at the light, raise my arms, lower my arms, balance on one foot, walk a line on the floor. I complied. A second neurologist came in and asked me to squeeze her hands, touch my nose, push against her hands with my feet, look at the light, raise my arms, lower my arms, balance on one foot, walk a line on the floor. I complied.

She mentioned to the first neurologist that one of my pupils was not the same size as another one. Then, I had a CT scan, and the IV came in handy instead of just being a nuisance.

My husband had left. He had taken the baby to a neighbor's and had gone to pick up the other kids from school.

A completely new doctor walked in and said, "You have a dissection in your carotid artery. We're admitting you and putting you on a Heparin drip. You're at risk for a stroke." I felt my world shift beneath me. As I scrambled to regain my psychological footing, he continued. "No working out for at least a month (by which he really meant 14.5 weeks). You'll be on blood thinners. You're not going home tonight." Then, the clincher. "We'll refer you to a pulmonologist--you are not allowed to cough like that ever again."

That is what I mean by the Day I Got Old. I had a problem that was a real, serious problem. Not just sinus infections, or acne, a cavity, or thinning hair. Something that could kill me, or alter my life so badly I could wish it had killed me. Something I would have to watch out for, take precautions about. FOR. EV. ER.

So, feeling as strong as I ever had, I spent twenty-four hours in the hospital. I underwent an MRI, then several more CT scans. I learned how to give myself shots in the stomach, paying $250 for that privilege alone. I met with a pulmonologist, then a new ENT. I accrued a team of neurologists, participated in a genetic study, endured almost-daily finger pricks. Eleven pounds from my weight goal, I had to put it on a shelf. I went to the gym every day and just walked, which I found took more discipline to my regular workouts. I felt the pounds pack on around my hips as the holidays came and went. And--forget the ER copayment--I had to make arrangements to pay off a hospital bill. And I felt old for the first time.

But I fought my way back through those extra pounds and got even closer to my goal. I can run farther and lift more than I could before. I'm here, and I'm looking forward to getting older and older and older.