Hospitals, Doctors, and Mom, Oh My!

If you have not read the previous posts, please be sure to start with The Adventure Begins.  For the index to all posts in this series, please click here.


Lights were flying past.  Signs were blurring by.  I was zig-zagging in and out of traffic, driving much faster than was safe.

Beside me in the car was the limp form of a listless body.

"Is she dying?"

"Is it possible to kill a girl with just one kiss?  Was my breath that bad?"

I looked over at Rachael's prone form.

How did this happen?  I had just been standing at her door talking to her, looking into her eyes.  I had eventually put my hands on her waist as we talked.  She started to sound unintelligible, and her eyes became somewhat glossy.  The next thing I knew, she had just crumpled.  If I would not have caught her, she literally would have bounced off of the ground.  I lifted her up and placed her in the seat, ran to my side of the car, jumped in and sped off, making an Indy-500 drive to the hospital.

"Do NOT die on me!"

I began to pray in earnest.  "Dear God, please let her be OK.  Please let her be OK.  Please let her be OK."  It probably sounded more like a chant than a prayer, but that's about all I could manage.  I was in a bit of a panic.

After what seemed like an eternity, but was probably only a minute or two, Rachael began to slightly stir in the seat beside me.

Signs of life!

I still had no idea what was going on or what was wrong.  I just knew I needed to get her to the hospital as soon as possible.

She slowly came around.  She began to talk, or at least to make semi-recognizable mumbling sounds.  By the time we got to the hospital she was apparently fully recovered.  We went in so she could be examined. 

I had to make THE call.

The call you hope you never have to make.

How many guys have ever had to call their date's mom on their first date to let her know that her daughter was now in the emergency room at the hospital?

"Hi, Linda.  This is Travis.  I needed to let you know that I had to bring Rachael to the hospital and we're here now."

While I would never ever joke about something like this, I did have a practical-joke side to me, and her mom thought that this was a really bad joke.

"Travis, do not joke with me about something like this."

"I would not.  I am serious.  We are here at the hospital.  Rachael passed out and I brought her here as fast as I could and I thought you'd want to know."

Rachael's mom and younger brother, Matt made it to the hospital in record time.  I really didn't know if this was all my fault or not, but every time I looked at Rachael's mom, I felt like she was looking at me with very accusing eyes.  And that was before she knew that it was the kiss that caused it.

OK, OK, I don't know for sure if it was the kiss, and Rachael still denies it to this day, but how many guys do you know that can put a girl in the hospital with just one kiss? 

That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.


For Rachael's side of the story, be sure to click here.

Troubles of the Heart, Part 4

In the previous 3 posts, I described my heart arrhythmia, my hospital stay, Rachael's kung-fu prowess, and some amazing friends. If you haven't read those posts, you'll want to start on part 1 and work your way here.

After getting out of the hospital and spending Father's Day at Denny's with my wonderful friends, I thought many times in the next few weeks about what incredible friends I truly do have.

Meanwhile, my follow-up appointment was getting ever closer. Doctor Ash Jain had scheduled me to come in and take an echo-cardiogram, stress test, EKG. Kind of a 3 for 1 package. While we knew I had some issues with the electrical system in my heart, Dr. Jain wanted to be sure there were no other problems.

After some nervous anticipation, the big day arrived.

I was a little concerned, and not just about the results. I was also afraid I'd have to take my shirt off in public.

One should always remember to just check their modesty in at the door when visiting the doctor. I try to do that, but normally fail.

I should mention that I am not a guy that feels comfortable walking around with no shirt on. I'm one of those weirdos that even wears their shirt while swimming. This has been true ever since I gained more weight than I am comfortable displaying sans shirt. I don't think anyone other than my immediate family has seen me without a shirt in the last 5-10 years, or so.

Until this day.

The nurse comes in and tells me I'll need to take off my outer shirt and T-shirt. I was halfway expecting this, but still was not happy.

I became less so very shortly.

The nurse came in and told me we needed to go into another office. I guess they keep rooms segregated according to purpose, I don't know. Here we have the disrobing room, that one is the Waiting Nervously for Results Room, here's the Questions for the Doctor Room, and that room on the end with the padlock across it is the You Might Get To Regain Some of Your Pride and Dignity Room. Judging by the padlock, it didn't look like many people entered that one.

We were apparently going to leave The Disrobing Room, in search of The Treadmill Room.

She opens the door to an open (and empty) hallway. So far, so good. I'm thinking we're just going to sneak in unnoticed into one of the doors leading off of this hallway, the one right before the one with the padlocks.

Not a chance.

She leads me clear down the hallway. "Oh, hi there good-looking nurse. I'm sure glad you're the first one to see my bare belly."

I think when you see someone that has obviously attempted to stay in shape, it makes you even more conscious of your own lack of doing so.

We continue down the hallway. Before I know it, we are walking through the backside of the waiting room where approximately 2000 people are sitting. I am pretty sure every one of them stood up just to get a better view of the bare belly walking through the back of the office.

We then go out into a PUBLIC hallway that connects this office with another one. I'm still walking with no shirt on. I walk by many people. Many being defined by at least 4. We finally get to The Treadmill Room and I try to duck in as soon as I can, only to be confronted with the fact that I am now alone in the room, with my shirt off, with 3 women. Not one. Not two. Three.

Ahh, but it gets better.

The reason there are three women in the room is because one has to monitor the equipment. Typically, the other nurse attaches the electrodes to approximately 48 locations on your chest and belly. Not today.

Today, (lucky me) the 3rd nurse is in training. What this means to me is that she puts one on wrong, the other nurse has to look at it, it has to be pulled off, and then redone. Additionally, when the Nurse-In-Training is completely finished, the training nurse has to step over and they both scrutinize every square inch of my upper body. Oh, the joy!

It's finally time to get on the treadmill. Weirdly enough, I'm actually looking forward to it, just so I won't be under such close scrutiny.

I ask if I can wear my shirt while on the treadmill.

Stupid question.

I begin.

Within about 30 seconds the nurse over on the equipment makes her first observation. While she says this in a totally detached nurse voice, it still doesn't make me feel better.

"Guess you don't work out much, huh?"

"No, I have to sit behind a desk all day, and only have time to walk about a half hour each night after work."

"Yeah, well you really should make it a point to find a way to work out more."

I tried to answer, but by this time I was breathing so hard I couldn't talk much more if I even wanted to hope to persevere on the test.

The treadmill I was on would increase the incline and the speed every minute or so. Within no time, I was jogging.

Until the nurse on the controls came over and told me that I really didn't need to jog, as it was still on walking speed.

"Oh."

About this time, I could see the other two nurses talking quietly. I'm not sure, but I think they were making bets concerning whether my heart or lungs would explode first.

The nurse on the gadgets saved either of them from having to pay up. By this time, my heart rate was around 130 or so and my blood pressure was over 200.

She told me I could go lay down on the bed.

Now, when you get an echo-cardiogram EKG stress test, you are being monitored the entire time, while exercising. However, as soon as you're done exercising, they want to use the echo-cardiogram machine to look at pictures of your heart, kind of like an ultra-sound for a pregnant lady.

To accomplish this, you have to run from the treadmill to the bed.

I did as requested.

She looked at my heart rhythms and told me that my heart was beating irregularly again. However, she said that is not too unusual with the exercise I'd just completed. I told her about the irregular beating that had originally brought me in and how I'd went 28 hours in that condition before it converted back to a normal pattern.

"Well, you were lucky. Most people that happens to never convert."

"Really? What do they do?"

"We can usually give them medication to keep their heart rate down, but they learn to live with it, many of them for the rest of their life."

I thought that was the bad news.

Fortunately, my heart began beating normally again. I received the even worse news after I got dressed and went down to talk to my Doctor, who'd already had a chance to look at the results and was in The Waiting Nervously For Results Room.

"We've got a potential problem here. The one test came out fine, but the one that's typically the most reliable shows evidence that you may have blockage in your arteries. I'm going to have to schedule you an angiogram."

"That sounds like fun."

"It is, but we have to do it."

In all honesty, I had no idea what an angiogram was. I knew 'angio' had to do with the heart, and 'gram' had to do with conveying a message (like telegram), so I figured it would be something that they used to take a picture of my heart.

It was.

But it was a little more involved than I originally thought it would be.

For the fifth, (and I believe the final) post on this, be sure to check back tomorrow.

I Used To Hate Camping!

This is my memory of Rachael's post Nursing Under Cover.



I can remember it now, just as clearly as if it had happened yesterday.

We're sitting in a nice restaurant. Everyone is hungry. Everyone is talking. Everyone looks like what you would expect to see when a family goes out to dinner.

Except Rachael.

The waiter comes over close to our tables, but always seems to hesitate and then head the other direction at the last minute. You can tell that he's just not quite sure of what to make of the spectacle now sitting before his eyes.

He looks around the room just to be sure that he's still in his restaurant.

Not at Yosemite.
Not at Yellowstone.
Not in the Great Outdoors.

And yet there is a tent sitting at his table waiting to be served. He looks around as if to say, 'Where did this tent come from? I'm pretty sure it wasn't here when I just walked out of the room to the kitchen."

It takes him a few minutes, but he finally realizes that the tent waiting to eat is actually a human being sitting at the table with a blanket pulled completely over their head. Kind of like an advanced form of whatever it was that Linus from Peanuts had.

And when I say advanced, I am speaking more in the sense that a horrible disease is called 'advanced' right before it debilitates you.


It's the first time he's ever met my wife, Rachael.


He tentatively approaches and hesitates before speaking to me.

"Is everything OK sir?"

At this point I can tell that he is considering the options for what is going on at his table. It appears that he has narrowed it down to three possibilities:

1. The person under the blanket is very, very afraid of food and the mere sight of it may make her scream.
2. The person under the blanket has some very raunchy breath and wants to ensure no one else has to suffer through their halitosis.
3. The person under the blanket is clearly clinically insane, and their insanity is quite advanced.

As I look into his eyes, I quickly realize he has opted for option number 3.


I try to ease his mind.


"It's OK. She's fine. She's just nursing."

The transition is quite fascinating to behold.

The waiter first appears to be relieved that he is not going to be attacked by a clinically insane, halitosis wielding mad-man that is afraid of food.

Then he realizes what he just heard.

"She's just nursing?"

He says this as if it is the first time in his life he has ever seen someone set up their own tent just so they could nurse their baby at a restaurant.

Really! He needs to get out more.
Meanwhile, I'm left to fend for myself as everyone in close proximity is slowly sliding away from me at the table.

Apparently, my fire-red embarrassed face is throwing off more heat than the air conditioning can handle.

At this point, I'm tempted to crawl into the tent with Rachael, just so I won't have to show my face. The only thing that stops me is thinking about the reaction of the waiter when he comes out to our table the next time and finds me missing. Of course, he will have his manager in tow:

"Um, sir, this is what I was telling you about. Uh Oh, it looks like we lost another one. I sincerely recommend that we remove this tent from the inside of our restaurant before it swallows any more of our patrons."


OK, OK, so that is probably not what would happen, but I have a hard time thinking when my head is on fire and beet red!

So, I do the one thing that I have tried hard to learn to do well.
I simply try my best to pretend that everything is fine.....


And then I start talking to a tent.


**If you enjoyed this post, be sure to click the 'follow' tab and check out the other stories for other family-friendly humorous material.  Hope you enjoy!   Click the 'share' button to share with your friends. Thanks! -The Poor Husband**

Intro and The Chevron Check

So, I fully realize that I will never be able to match the incredible wit and humor of my wife. No, I'm not even going to try. I only like to attempt something I know I can win. That being said, there's often additional information that I know you would be interested in. Feel free to check in here to get the behind-the-scenes information that Rachael does not post on her blog. Sometimes she's too scared, too embarrassed, or maybe just forgot. I don't know. But I think you should. :-)

Take today for instance.

Many of you posted comments on FaceBook asking her what happened with Chevron today. She's a little embarassed about the whole incident and told me that she's not going to talk about it.

But that doesn't stop me.

Rachael is in the room with me and I just told her that I'm telling the story. Her response was an exaggerated groan and a plea for mercy. But that's OK. I'm sure she'll get over it.

So...

I'm sitting at my desk today working diligently to accomplish my tasks. An email pops into Outlook. It's from a friend of ours. She says that she has a great idea for Rachael's next blog topic. She suggested that Rachael write an entry about how she posted a picture of the check she paid to Chevron on her blog.

This check has all of our contact information on it. No big deal. Most everyone knows where we live anyway. Plus, we love company.

Most of you now know where we live. Stop by and say hi sometime. We'd love to have you over. Maybe Rachael will fire up her world-famous chocolate fountain and make you some chocolate-covered strawberries or something.

Oh, yeah, I almost forgot. The check also has our Bank routing number on it. And our checking account number. And the check number. And her signature. Basically, pretty much everything needed to make a check forger's dream come true. I mean, usually a criminal has to work a LITTLE bit to get this kind of information. He may have to toss a few garbage cans, climb in the trash at the dump, you know- something like that.

Now that he's met Rachael, he'll never have to worry about that again. Life just got a whole lot easier.

So, I received the email from our friend (thanks Jenny!) and called Rachael immediately. I asked her if she had posted her Chevron pictures on her blog. She cautiously asserted that she had. At this point she knew something was up, but was not sure what. I asked if she had also placed a picture of the check she paid Chevron with. She said yes.

I had not actually seen the blog yet, as I don't make a habit of using paid company time to check on personal issues. So I had to ask:

"Did you leave the bank routing number, our checking account number, and the check number all there for the whole world to see?"

There was a bit of a pause.

And then a miserable response.

"yes."

To her credit, Rachael got off the phone and immediately took the steps necessary to correct the problem.

Within about 10 minutes, I received a follow-up phone call.

She told me that the problem was all taken care of. I was very happy to hear this. I asked her what she had done. She told me that she'd put a stop payment on the check.

I paused, thinking this over.

"So, if I were wanting to forge this check, I'm thinking that I would most likely not use the exact same check number as I know has already been used. Or, if I were going to pay for something check-by-phone, I'm pretty sure, I'd just add 10 to the check number and call it good."

Rachael did not sound happy.

In truth, I do not see how stopping payment on the check helped accomplish anything other than ensuring Rachael gets to visit her favorite gas station in the whole world tomorrow to give them another check. That, and I'm sure the Chevron employee is becoming more and more impressed with her.

But then Rachael went on, and I quickly realized that this whole escapade was going to work out just fine.

Apparently, the bank teller she talked to thought this whole thing was so funny that she told Rachael she would waive the stop-payment fee and get this....



She said, "Oh, I have to read this now." She wants to join the fun at Rachael's blog.

Rachael then gave her the name of her blog. She cracked up laughing. I'm not sure, but I think she was laughing at me. I know it wasn't laughing with me.


The only conclusion I can come to is that Rachael calculated the risk of putting our financial stability on the line in order to increase her blog readership. So now, we have a bank teller that is following the never-ending saga that is our life.

I actually asked Rachael if she did this just to give her more material to write about. She swears she didn't.

She's usually pretty honest.

But you just never know.