heart attack!

Heart attacks
“If you go around running marathons at your age,” announced my neighbour, “you will have a heart attack.”
“Why? “ I asked, “I train fairly regularly.”
She was a microbiologist as opposed to me a paediatrician.
“I read an article, athletes die a sudden death. Something is wrong with their hearts. It is better not to run.”
I checked. The article said this occurred only to young and elite athletes . Being neither, I was not too concerned--- that is until I developed chest pain in the middle of the night. It shot up into my head and produced tingling in my left arm.
“Get up,” I said to my husband, “I think I am having a heart attack.”
“Um” he said, “we will see in the morning.”
“I will be dead by then get up!”
Reluctantly, he opened his eyes, “Lets go to hospital.”
Remember, this is India. We have no 911 facilities. Relatives and bystanders have to get you to hospital in available transportation.
I started out of bed. “I need by clothes. They are in the cupboard.”
Further silence from husband. Then he announced, “The cupboard is locked.”
“The keys are on the table.”
After an eternity, he said” there are no keys here. Come in your nightdress.”
I could not face the thought of turning up in the chest pain unit attired in my nightdress. My husband had been teaching in the medical college for so many years that the doctors on call were very likely to be his students and people I knew.
I struggled, sat upright and searched unsuccessfully for the keys. “Perhaps I left them in the car.”
My husband opened the front door. Out bounded my 40 kg black labrador, unable to withstand the temptation of unexpected freedom.
“Catch the dog,” I shouted.
Husband disappeared behind the dog. I went back upstairs and lay down. Perhaps this was my destiny—to die of a heart attack inside a medical college campus.
Morning dawned—I was still alive, the pain had disappeared, the dog had been found and all was well with the world. As for the keys – they had been under my pillow all along!
I read an article recently—about how 50% of the women die with their first heart attack before they receive emergency care. I am not surprised. Men are taken to casualty wrapped in a towel, but women—they all have to dress first!

help I'm being treated

The caterwauling could be heard in the corridor long before the young adult male was carried in on a plank of wood. His head was lolling from side to side, a red trickle of blood oozed from the corner of his mouth. His checked shirt was discolored and stained.
Evaluation was difficult.
I had to push past an old woman beating her chest and a young one (wife?) throwing herself at his feet and hanging on for dear life.
Haemetemisis perhaps? Whatever. Anyway, emergency treatment had to be given. Perhaps if I started an IV line, pushed in a stomach tube and washed out the stomach with ice water, the bleeding would stop long enough for me to send him to the nearest hospital. The sooner the better. The accompanying crowd can get very nasty if there is a death. I did not really want by premises destroyed or the publicity.
He was conscious, oriented and passive when I inserted the needle.
The stomach tube was another story altogether. He gagged, fought and sat up. Determined to succeed (Robert Bruce – try and try again) I held him down and tried harder.
Suddenly, he pulled out the IV line. (This made blood drip on the floor as well). He pushed me to one side, fell to the floor and clutched my feet.
“Save me!” He shouted.
“ I am trying to, but unless you cooperate what can I do?”
“I want to be saved from you,” he shouted, “you are killing me!”
“Nonsense! I am trying to save your life.”
“Ayoo! I am not vomiting blood. I just swallowed a brick dissolved in water to frighten my family. Let me go. If I stay here any longer, you WILL kill me.”
Gathering his clothes he ran out of the room followed closely by disbelieving relatives.
“ A miracle!” shouted one of them, “I told you this doctor has lucky hands. She just has to touch you and you will recover.”
Well, a little community goodwill doesn’t hurt , And, in the final analysis, “All’s well that end’s well!”

hooks in my nose

My grandson finally had to go into day care twice a week. We had put it off as long as possible, but now he was six and vocal. We thought he would be safe.
He did not really appreciate being sent there. The “aunty” asked what the rules were.
“No TV, has to do home work and finish his snack.”
He was there for only two hours so this seemed tolerable.
He was however used to being left with his great grandfather earlier.
That meant the old man snoozed and he spent the entire two hours watching “Kick Buttowsky” “Phineas and Ferb” and other strange creatures on television.
“She is very mean” he announced, “she makes me eat my food and do my homework.”
“Too bad,” said my daughter” unless she puts hooks in your nose and hangs you from the ceiling you have to go there.”
Grandson was very silent. A few days later he announced, “she took out two hooks today.”
There was a shocked silence in the room. Feebly, convinced my worst nightmares were confirmed, I said ,“ what did she do with the hooks?”
Grandson looked around the still and silent room room. Lowering his eyes he said, “ she hung a curtain.”