Of dog walks and ER visits

Spring has come too fast. Lilacs started blooming in April. I have never seen that. 

Lesser celandine, that violet-like ground cover with yellow flowers seems to be dominating the woodlands along the gorge.

Trout lilies are almost done but I have yet to find ramps growing in Niagara Falls. I did find bloodroot.

Garlic mustard is everywhere. Johnny Jump Ups are in their glory filling the pavement cracks at the old tennis courts, beckoning to garnish a salad.

Earlier this week, in DeVeaux Woods, Gord and I paused to see a grey squirrel pup, frozen, panicked, pencil-tailed on a red oak. The kit had lost its way from a drey. (A drey is a squirrel nest, how a kit and a pup can be the same I don’t know.)

Gord, a standard poodle, didn’t see what he was looking at. He just wanted to sniff and pee and scratch and pull his way to the dog park.

At the dog park, he was mellow, until one lab mix decided it was time to run. He’s like me, not competitive but he doesn’t like to lose. By the 4th lap, the race was over. Gord won every one.

I tried to get him to drink from the dog fountain. He refused. We made it past the ice rink that never gets used when he decided to lay in the grass.

The 7-minute walk home took 20 because he kept resting. Home, he drank a full bowl of water and then another before collapsing on the cool wood floor.

45 minutes later, he was almost back to normal.

Monday we had a different experience. Same walk. Beth was with us. We admired the blooming apples and cherries and took photos of the river and wildflowers.

As we approached the dog park, I was short of breath and beginning to sweat. It was warm. Totally normal.

I didn’t sleep well Sunday and was tired. I felt the urge to nap. We left to head home. Three blocks. Past the ice rink, I wanted to lay in the grass. Maybe I am a dog.

We stumbled home, Beth with Gord, leading, I kept wondering if I should sit and ask her to pick me up. A bite to eat and a nap and I would be fine.

We made it home. Gord was fine. I collapsed in my chair, sweating profusely, panting a bit, dizzy. I took my blood pressure. It was uncomfortably low.

“We’re going to the emergency room, either that or I call 9-1-1” Beth said.

I conceded.

She drove too fast. I napped on the way. I laugh about how compressed our travel times are – my doctor is 5 minutes. So is the ER. And the grocery store. Monday it was a blessing.

At Niagara Falls Memorial, the intake clerk was a bit grumpy but I was delirious so I sat down and let the Great Saint Elizabeth deal with the bureaucracy.

5 minutes later, I was in a treatment room, surrounded by caring, compassionate staff, taking my vitals, poking, prodding, hooking me up to an IV and an EKG, sending blood samples for analysis.

Beth, sat in a chair, like a worried mother, wife or hen – asking tough questions when needed and holding everyone accountable because she loves me. The nurses were kind and understanding.

I was scared to go to Niagara Falls Memorial because it is where the ghetto medics take victims of hood violence and too often the nonsense spreads to the hospital.

As treatment began, a commotion arose in the common space.

“I need my stuff, my money and my phone now!” the woman said.

Staff tried to deal with her. She was obviously struggling with problems that came before and would leave when she did, even if they would not be solved.

“Don’t put your hands on me!” she said.

“Do you want to be arrested?” someone said.

“It would be better than being here,” she replied.

“It must be rough here” I said to the nurse.

“It’s gotten worse since bail reform because they can’t arrest anybody,” she said, “we had a woman not long ago take off all her clothes in the waiting room.”

I needed to go to the bathroom. As she wheeled me, ghetto medics from the ambulance service tended to a frazzled-looking woman. She wanted a cigarette, COPD be damned.

I dozed. Beth did not.

I woke up. A nurse told me my blood pressure was rising. I felt better.

“Did that woman get arrested?” I asked.

“Do you hear her?” was the response. She told me everything without saying a thing.

A doctor came in, for the first time, I think. It had been all nurses until now. He was the first professional wearing a mask I had seen.

He reviewed the chart, asked about when I had taken meds and pronounced I should have been taking medication at different times.

Two hours later, I was cleared to leave.

We came home to an overly excited poodle jumping. It was 1 a.m. or so.

I met our physician, Giusepina Kenyon-Savard, DO, Thursday morning for a post-ER visit. She spent 30 minutes or so asking questions, reading records, caring.

“Your wife did the right thing,” she said.

Her level of care, and consideration, was the best I have ever received. She decided to try eliminating one medication.

I came home. Gord put his paws on my shoulder. Later, Beth came home and hugged me. I am blessed.

My only regret was not biking to the doctor’s office.