The Cost of Complexity

I don't feel good. The fingertips of my right hand have gone numb with a tingling sensation. Is this what a panic attack feels like? To feel numb in this moment seems a fitting metaphor. I've seen others go through panic attacks before, and I watched Ted Lasso. This doesn't seem right, but who am I to judge? Is it a heart attack? My chest feels fine. Breathing? Fine.

The feeling slowly starts to spread through the rest of my hand. It creeps up my forearm. Maybe it is a panic attack. Should I panic? I feel like I should panic? Maybe it's just fallen asleep. I can stretch it out. I shift positions and start doing grip exercises. The pundits on TV go on about the impact of a recent piece of legislation that will likely strip millions of healthcare. I really don't want to go to the VA emergency room on the Fourth of July, but at least it's free. Still unaware of the situation, Jill brings me coffee. Do I tell her? Does she notice? Maybe it will go away. Maybe a shower will help?

I finish my coffee. My whole arm feels like it's dying now. It's like I'm wearing a fully inflated blood pressure cuff, and it won't let go. It's time to try the shower. I should brush my teeth first—in case I have to go to the ER. Wow, I haven't trimmed my beard in a while. Better clean it up just a bit while I'm at it. I can see the trimmer in my hand. I can control it, but I can't really feel it. This was a bad idea. I should stop. I hurry up and get in the shower.

That's new. My gums and upper lip start to tingle on my right side. Oh, shit. Am I having a stroke? I do NOT want to pass out naked in the shower. Nobody wants that. My whole cheek is numb now. This was a dumb idea. I need to get out of here. Hurry up and get the soap off! A few seconds later I'm dressed. As I head back to the couch, I start to regain some of the feeling in my face and arm. Jill is trying to talk to me about something, but I can't focus. I'm freaking out inside. "Stop," I tell her, "I think something is wrong with me." Shit. Now she looks freaked out, too.

I start explaining. "It's starting to go away a little," I try to comfort her. She's not buying it. She's convinced I'm having a stroke. She might be right. She wants me to go to the hospital. She's definitely right about that, but I don't want to. She suggests I call my mom. My mom's a nurse. Good idea! I dial like a helpless child. "Mom, I don't feel good."

Shit. Now she sounds freaked out, too. Maybe I am having a stroke. I really don't want to go the VA emergency room on the Fourth of July. I'm convinced I'll die in the waiting room long before anything else. Mom is confident my symptoms will move me right to the head of the line. Is that worse? I feel like that's worse. Jill listens as I try to talk my way into a 'let's wait and see.' Jill changes clothes and grabs her purse. I guess I'm going to the VA emergency room on the Fourth of July. It's a good thing I brushed my teeth already!

I don't want to freak my son out. No 12-year-old wants to hear that dad needs to go to the hospital. Jill tells him to put his shoes on because dad needs to go to the hospital. Shit! Now everybody's freaked out. Coincidentally, this is the first time in I don't know how long that he hasn't complained about being asked to go somewhere. I assure him I'm okay. It's just a precaution. He doesn't look convinced. I'm not convinced either. We take the surface streets. It's not far. I walk into the VA emergency room alone while Jill finds somewhere to park.

I'm greeted by a security guard. He tells me to empty my pockets and proceeds to run a metal detector over my body. By the looks of my surroundings, it's for the best. I overhear the intake nurse complain. She's seven hours overdue for her break. I consider walking back out, or at least texting Jill and suggesting they wait in the car. Too late. Security is now searching my 12-year-old for contraband. Poor kid is so confused. My "World's Greatest Dad" standing is in serious jeopardy.

They find a seat as I give my name to the nurse for the third time. She asks what's wrong. I start explaining. She leaves and comes back with another nurse. They take my vitals while I watch my son watching me. The thought of what he must be thinking brings me to the brink of tears. No time for tears. They tell me to follow them to a bed, so they can run some tests.

Mom was right. I'm out of the waiting room so fast it's scary. Am I really having a stroke? I should have hugged my son. I should have told him and Jill I loved them. They're in the waiting room where security checks in more visitors while I get hooked up to an IV and EKG in the back. The doctor informs me I need a CT scan. I prepare to wait for one over the next several hours, but Mom was really right. Within moments I'm downstairs getting my brain scanned.

The radiographer tries to convince the nurse to wait. It will only take five minutes. They're short-staffed upstairs. She has to get back. He finishes and rolls me out into the hall. Okay, this is definitely the part where I get left in the basement hallway alone for several hours while they find someone to read my scan. I text Jill to let her know I'm still okay. She shows our son the texts in an attempt to reassure him everything is going to be fine. I hope she's right.

My mom must be a good nurse. She's been right a lot today. Shortly after I resign to my spot in the hall someone shows up to take me back upstairs. The doctors come in to let me know the CT scan was normal. They run more tests, take more blood, and ask more questions. Things are looking good. They look less freaked out now. Maybe I didn't have a stroke. They're asking more questions; more medical history. There's a reason I'm at the VA hospital and not somewhere like UCLA after all. Then they ask the big one.

"Have you ever been told you've had a complex migraine before?"

I try not to laugh. I'm relieved and upset all at once. It's been a long time since I've had a migraine so bad that it put me in the hospital. I thought I had this under control. I mean, I still get frequent migraines, and they've been a little worse lately. But, that's just stress...

I haven't had anything like this since before I joined the FBI. I tell them how I was medically discharged from the Marine Corps after being kept in on a medical hold for an extra six months past the end of my enlistment because of a neurological condition involving complex migraines.

I want to tell them how during my second deployment to Iraq I was tasked with providing security for a HAZMAT team while they cleaned up some sort of chemical spill in the industrial district in Fallujah.

I want to tell them how the HAZMAT team wore special suits and masks, but told us they didn't have any extras and not to bother with our MOPP gear or gas masks because they weren't made for this kind of thing.

I want to tell them how we waded around for hours, ankle deep in some unknown chemical the local fire department had first tried to put out with water before learning that water made it worse.

I want to tell them how the next day I had to throw away the brand new boots I'd worn because the soles were disintegrating.

I want to tell them how I spent the rest of my deployment (and years afterwards) struggling with migraines despite rarely even having a headache before that night.

I want to tell them how the doctors tried for years to figure out what was wrong, but weren't sure where to start because I couldn't give them answers about what kind of chemicals I'd been exposed to.

I want to tell them how when I tried to ask the Marine Corps about what I was exposed to they responded it was "classified"—a convenient excuse to mask the fact that I don't think they knew either.

Instead, I explain how I spent years seeing neurologists and trying everything under the sun before I finally found a migraine medication that helped. I explain how after several years things got more manageable, and I started relying on over-the-counter naproxen in place of prescription meds because the prescription always left me feeling like I had the flu for the first hour after taking it. I explain how last fall I switched from naproxen to acetaminophen because I was worried the naproxen (and a large dose of professional stress) may have been giving me an ulcer.

Turns out, it's time for me to see a neurologist again. On the bright side, I didn't have a stroke! After all was said and done, the head ER doctor explained how my stroke-like symptoms (while very stroke-like) were very different from how an actual stroke manifests. Well that's reassuring! No, seriously. It's very reassuring. Apparently, the field of neurology has also advanced quite a bit over the last 14 or so years, too. So, I might finally get a handle on these things—two months from now when I can get in for my consult. There's the VA speed and efficiency I was looking for!