Friday, August 27, 2010
Tonight I encountered my first true life-or-death crisis at the Soldiers Home: One of my favorite new friends apparently had a heart attack during Bingo. A sincerely kind nurse suggested I write about it when I got home—not as therapy, but as a potential deposition.
So here goes.
It was a chatty evening at the Soldiers Home. I talked a long time with Mike before Bingo, and once I got to Bingo, people kept calling me over or coming over to talk. David Fox asked whether Carson had a major yet. I explained Carson was just in high school, not college. David didn’t hear me the first few times, but finally got it. “Thank you for repeating it 10,000 times,” he said.
Ray McDade snuck up and slid his arm around my waist. I pretended to go into karate self-defense mode, but I really don’t know any karate. He thanked me for the Snickerdoodles (“They actually get better as they age,” he said) and told me about a wonderful place he’d visited in Hawaii.
Ray suggested I toss my purse in the next chair to save the spot for our new friend, who came in and cheerfully claimed it. He looked absolutely fine.
The room filled early, and I was the only volunteer on duty, so we started Bingo a little before 7.
Somewhere in the second game, while I was at another table, the new friend called me over with a little confidential gesture—and, I noticed, he called me Sandy instead of Cindy, which was unusual.
I assumed he wanted me to check a number on his Bingo card.
“I think I’m having a heart attack,” he said.
He no longer looked fine. I told him to hang on, and I raced out to get a nurse.
I think it was between 7:15 and 7:20. I found someone quickly. I know some of the staff members by name, but I do not necessarily know who’s a nurse and who’s an aide. “Are you a nurse?” I asked. “A man in the Bingo room says he’s having a heart attack.”
I showed her which man, and she asked me to get a wheelchair.
I didn’t see anyone else in the hallway—or a wheelchair—so I went room-to-room and finally found a woman in scrubs who said she was a CNA. I briefed her quickly, ran back to the Bingo room and saw that the nurse was checking the resident’s vital signs, and his head was slumped on the table. “I’m going to call 911,” I said out loud. I don’t remember noticing whether anyone heard me, or waiting for anyone to say OK.
It was 7:20-something when I picked up the phone at the nurses’ station and dialed 911. Nothing happened, so I dialed it again, with another 9 first. That time, it worked. They connected me to another dispatch center, and the man asked me a lot of questions I couldn’t answer—How old is the resident? Had he taken medicine within the last 12 hours? What’s the address? (I knew the road but not the street number. I actually said, “Aren’t you guys out here a lot?”)—and they asked me to guide them to the resident once they got there.
Mike had just come in from outside and knew something was up, since I don’t normally make phone calls during Bingo. “Kind of a crisis,” I said. “I have to go outside and meet the paramedics.”
I looked into the Bingo room and, to my amazement and horror, saw a resident pushing the prize cart in my absence. They were still playing Bingo. She pointed at the cart, as if to say, “Here it is; come take back your job.” I told her I was going out to meet the paramedics.
Mike came with me. I might have looked a little stressed. “Am I crazy?” I asked him, “or is everyone in there crazy? They are still playing Bingo.”
We heard sirens. It couldn’t have been five minutes. Mike said it was the fastest response he’d ever seen.
I thanked the paramedics for coming so quickly and led them to the resident. The medical nurse had arrived. The situation looked under control, but the resident looked much worse.
And then, oh my God, I heard a Bingo number.
I ran over to Wesley and asked him to please take a break. He got it. “Let’s let the paramedics do their jobs,” he announced.
Then the resident apparently had a seizure.
“Hurry,” said one of the paramedics. They lifted him on the gurney. The resident was still conscious, and he looked scared. I patted his ankle, which was the only thing I could reach, and told him to hold on.
Bingo resumed the second they left. And then the talk kicked in. One resident told me I should not have called 911. “It’s the nurses’ job,” she said. “We’re never supposed to do that.”
I asked Ray, whom I trust completely, whether I had made a mistake. “You shouldn’t have told anyone you called 911,” he said.
My heart was pounding. I was upset about the resident, about the Bingo Must Go On attitude and now about the fact that I’d apparently broken important protocol. I went to the nurses’ station and tried to explain my case (this was the kind nurse mentioned above). She explained the procedure, and it makes perfect sense: Some residents have “issues” and might, for example, say they’re in trouble when they’re not; some might have allergies to typical medicines or treatments; and emergency personnel expect certain information, responses and assistance that I wasn’t able to provide.
I absolutely get that. But I heard the words “heart attack” from a man I care about, and my instinct told me to a) alert a nurse and b) call 911. I do not believe my actions hurt the resident. And I know I would have regretted not calling.
Bingo went on, though I was shaky and disturbed and distracted and worried.
But then the woman who frowned at me over Ray’s Snickerdoodles a couple Bingo sessions ago grabbed my wrist. “Thank you for helping,” she said, simply.
After Bingo, I stopped in Mike’s room. He knew I was upset. He said he had talked to the medical nurse and explained what had happened, what I had done and why I had done it.
“You be careful on the way home,” he said. We clasped hands, like we usually do, but then he sat up in bed and held his arms out for a hug.
“You did the right thing,” he said. “I’m proud of you.”
Finally, my eyes were giving in and welling up.
“That means a lot,” I said. “Thank you.”
On my way down the hall, I passed the medical nurse.
“Thank you for helping,” she said.
I was shocked. “I was just going to tell you I’d be home waiting for my subpoena,” I said.
“You did the right thing,” she said. “He looked like he was having a heart attack.”
I thanked her, and I left, and I cried a real cry of two dozen swirling emotions. And once I got home, I called the emergency room: My new friend is alive and undergoing tests. Which makes me cry, too, but with just one emotion, mostly: gratitude.
Tonight I encountered my first true life-or-death crisis at the Soldiers Home: One of my favorite new friends apparently had a heart attack during Bingo. A sincerely kind nurse suggested I write about it when I got home—not as therapy, but as a potential deposition.
So here goes.
It was a chatty evening at the Soldiers Home. I talked a long time with Mike before Bingo, and once I got to Bingo, people kept calling me over or coming over to talk. David Fox asked whether Carson had a major yet. I explained Carson was just in high school, not college. David didn’t hear me the first few times, but finally got it. “Thank you for repeating it 10,000 times,” he said.
Ray McDade snuck up and slid his arm around my waist. I pretended to go into karate self-defense mode, but I really don’t know any karate. He thanked me for the Snickerdoodles (“They actually get better as they age,” he said) and told me about a wonderful place he’d visited in Hawaii.
Ray suggested I toss my purse in the next chair to save the spot for our new friend, who came in and cheerfully claimed it. He looked absolutely fine.
The room filled early, and I was the only volunteer on duty, so we started Bingo a little before 7.
Somewhere in the second game, while I was at another table, the new friend called me over with a little confidential gesture—and, I noticed, he called me Sandy instead of Cindy, which was unusual.
I assumed he wanted me to check a number on his Bingo card.
“I think I’m having a heart attack,” he said.
He no longer looked fine. I told him to hang on, and I raced out to get a nurse.
I think it was between 7:15 and 7:20. I found someone quickly. I know some of the staff members by name, but I do not necessarily know who’s a nurse and who’s an aide. “Are you a nurse?” I asked. “A man in the Bingo room says he’s having a heart attack.”
I showed her which man, and she asked me to get a wheelchair.
I didn’t see anyone else in the hallway—or a wheelchair—so I went room-to-room and finally found a woman in scrubs who said she was a CNA. I briefed her quickly, ran back to the Bingo room and saw that the nurse was checking the resident’s vital signs, and his head was slumped on the table. “I’m going to call 911,” I said out loud. I don’t remember noticing whether anyone heard me, or waiting for anyone to say OK.
It was 7:20-something when I picked up the phone at the nurses’ station and dialed 911. Nothing happened, so I dialed it again, with another 9 first. That time, it worked. They connected me to another dispatch center, and the man asked me a lot of questions I couldn’t answer—How old is the resident? Had he taken medicine within the last 12 hours? What’s the address? (I knew the road but not the street number. I actually said, “Aren’t you guys out here a lot?”)—and they asked me to guide them to the resident once they got there.
Mike had just come in from outside and knew something was up, since I don’t normally make phone calls during Bingo. “Kind of a crisis,” I said. “I have to go outside and meet the paramedics.”
I looked into the Bingo room and, to my amazement and horror, saw a resident pushing the prize cart in my absence. They were still playing Bingo. She pointed at the cart, as if to say, “Here it is; come take back your job.” I told her I was going out to meet the paramedics.
Mike came with me. I might have looked a little stressed. “Am I crazy?” I asked him, “or is everyone in there crazy? They are still playing Bingo.”
We heard sirens. It couldn’t have been five minutes. Mike said it was the fastest response he’d ever seen.
I thanked the paramedics for coming so quickly and led them to the resident. The medical nurse had arrived. The situation looked under control, but the resident looked much worse.
And then, oh my God, I heard a Bingo number.
I ran over to Wesley and asked him to please take a break. He got it. “Let’s let the paramedics do their jobs,” he announced.
Then the resident apparently had a seizure.
“Hurry,” said one of the paramedics. They lifted him on the gurney. The resident was still conscious, and he looked scared. I patted his ankle, which was the only thing I could reach, and told him to hold on.
Bingo resumed the second they left. And then the talk kicked in. One resident told me I should not have called 911. “It’s the nurses’ job,” she said. “We’re never supposed to do that.”
I asked Ray, whom I trust completely, whether I had made a mistake. “You shouldn’t have told anyone you called 911,” he said.
My heart was pounding. I was upset about the resident, about the Bingo Must Go On attitude and now about the fact that I’d apparently broken important protocol. I went to the nurses’ station and tried to explain my case (this was the kind nurse mentioned above). She explained the procedure, and it makes perfect sense: Some residents have “issues” and might, for example, say they’re in trouble when they’re not; some might have allergies to typical medicines or treatments; and emergency personnel expect certain information, responses and assistance that I wasn’t able to provide.
I absolutely get that. But I heard the words “heart attack” from a man I care about, and my instinct told me to a) alert a nurse and b) call 911. I do not believe my actions hurt the resident. And I know I would have regretted not calling.
Bingo went on, though I was shaky and disturbed and distracted and worried.
But then the woman who frowned at me over Ray’s Snickerdoodles a couple Bingo sessions ago grabbed my wrist. “Thank you for helping,” she said, simply.
After Bingo, I stopped in Mike’s room. He knew I was upset. He said he had talked to the medical nurse and explained what had happened, what I had done and why I had done it.
“You be careful on the way home,” he said. We clasped hands, like we usually do, but then he sat up in bed and held his arms out for a hug.
“You did the right thing,” he said. “I’m proud of you.”
Finally, my eyes were giving in and welling up.
“That means a lot,” I said. “Thank you.”
On my way down the hall, I passed the medical nurse.
“Thank you for helping,” she said.
I was shocked. “I was just going to tell you I’d be home waiting for my subpoena,” I said.
“You did the right thing,” she said. “He looked like he was having a heart attack.”
I thanked her, and I left, and I cried a real cry of two dozen swirling emotions. And once I got home, I called the emergency room: My new friend is alive and undergoing tests. Which makes me cry, too, but with just one emotion, mostly: gratitude.
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