Rescue from Maine

Written by Terri Miles
Wednesday, 04 November 2009 22:06

Have you ever heard of anyone being rescued from vacation? That’s exactly what happened to me on my second annual autumn trip to Maine.

As many of you know, I have been absent from the Observer newsroom for the past two months. I had a stroke on Aug. 18 and after an extended hospital stay I recuperated for a while, then another episode occurred between Sept. 29-Oct. 2 when I had a wicked headache for five days. Numbness in my left arm prompted my doctor to send me to the emergency room again.

This second stroke — a mini stroke — was apparent in my driving skills, steering to the left when I was concentrating on staying to the right and confusing the significance of red and green traffic lights.

In the meantime, I returned to work in a limited capacity for two weeks and for a few days even felt like my old self again.

An ER neurologist gave me his blessing to make the eight-hour trip to Maine, and off I went. My traveling partner decided not to go at the last minute, and I became anxious after delaying my departure for much too long. I was feeling well, and decided to go alone.

The ride up was uneventful, lovely weather and beautiful foliage along the way. When I arrived at the vacation house I instantly felt comfortable and began plotting out my travels for each day. Rain in the forecast put a damper on a couple of days, but I worked my way around it.

On Tuesday, Oct. 20, I wrote several stories for the newspaper and e-mailed them into the office. I was feeling a little woozy, so I took a four-hour nap after which I felt wonderful.

The next day, I took a hike and climbed up to the edge of a steep cliff enjoying the scenery. I made sure to visit all of my favorite places early on in my vacation and snapped some beautiful photographs.

On Thursday, Oct. 22, I noticed how foggy it was near the peak of a mountain right outside the front window. “Fog Photos!” I thought; they can be stunning. I made sure the GPS unit was fully charged and after exploring some places I’d never seen before, I headed to the mainland to a place I happened upon far away from Mount Desert Island, which had some lovely vistas.

I must have been driving around for six hours, keeping an eye out for moose and looking for quaint places to photograph. The sun set at about 5:46 p.m., and I wanted to find a place to capture in photos.

I had no idea where I was, somewhere near Bangor, when I suddenly felt dizzy, nauseous and short of breath. I couldn’t take a deep breath or finish a yawn — since my stroke, this trio of symptoms had landed me in the hospital emergency room at least four times.

I rolled the window down and let the freezing air rush over my face and set the GPS for the vacation house back on the island and somehow made my way back there by about 6:30 p.m.

Since I was alone, and everyone back home was following me on Facebook, I posted a brief message. “OMG felt GREAT all day but suddenly, I’m thinking of calling the lady next door for a ride to the ER. Shouldn’t have come up here alone.”

That instantly got several responses by 6:35 p.m.

I saw my friend Craig online and chatted with him for a couple minutes. He got my address in Maine, and said he would call 911 for me, but I decided to call for myself since I could give them my history and symptoms.

At 6:57 p.m. I posted the message “calling 911 ambulance on the way.” I locked the house and shut off the heat and headed outside.

A police officer named Jake was the first to arrive. He talked to me while we waited for the ambulance.

Much like Bethany, the Volunteer Fire Department mans the Volunteer Ambulance, and everyone knows everyone else. The guys were awesome and took me to Mount Desert Island Hospital in Bar Harbor.

I was in the emergency room until about 3 a.m., when the doctor decided to keep me in a room for observation.

The following day I was turned over to another doctor who reviewed my history with me and suggested I have an MRI.

Now, unlike Yale, the “very old” MRI machine is kept in a tractor trailer in the parking lot, and the doctor explained, is driven around the state wherever it’s needed. It would only be in their parking lot with a qualified technician until 7 p.m. that evening.

The doctor fought with my insurance company for approval, but my pounding headache and other complaints were enough to cause him concern. He enlisted the vice president of nursing to fight for it, and the insurance-company finally agreed.

At sunset, I was rolling through the parking lot in a wheel chair and lifted into the tractor trailer. During the MRI, I felt a strange pressure at the right side of my head that I never felt in any of the other MRIs I’d had. The technician also did an MRA, which shows the veins and arteries in the brain.

A few hours later a nurse came in and told me that they found something, and it was a good thing that I called for help.

The next day the doctor came in for rounds and told me that they sent my films via the Internet to Nighthawk in Australia, and they found a 4-mm closure in my cerebral artery that is about as big as the first digit of my thumb, and was never caught by the doctors in New Haven.

My nurse, Danielle, rattled her brain to find a medication that would get rid of my headache, and the on-call doctor agreed to give me Fioricet, which made
it disappear in about an hour.

My cell phone was dying, as was the ability to communicate with anyone in Conn. I used it to call two of my friends, taking just enough time to rattle off the 10 digit number and say call me there and we’ll talk. Then the hospital room phone rang regularly each day, and my friends updated my information on Facebook so no one would worry.

I had to get out of Maine and with a third stroke — albeit a mini-stroke — under my belt it would be irresponsible and dangerous for me to drive to Connecticut. So I needed to find two drivers willing to make the eight hour trek up to the island to pick me up.

I called my daughter, rattled off the hospital number and when she called back, she found out what had happened and began making arrangements for transportation.

She doesn’t drive, so she called my ex-husband, whom I have often referred to as, “the best ex, ever.” and he was on board in a second. He would drive up, but my son would have to stay home and take care of the dogs. My former intern, Ashley, found out about our second driver dilemma, and offered her assistance.

On Sunday, Oct. 25, what would have been our 29th wedding anniversary, I sat in the hospital lounge taking phone calls that the operator transferred to me while my ex, daughter and Ashley drove up to Maine. They arrived at the hospital around 4:30 p.m.

We had to travel to the nearest pharmacy — 20 miles away on the mainland — for prescription medicines, but made it back to Bar Harbor in time for the sunset afterglow on Cadillac Mountain.

The house had enough bedrooms to accommodate all of my guests. My daughter and I cleaned up the kitchen and packed up my stuff before we went to bed. On Monday morning, there was no time for sightseeing, and my rescuers and I left the island at around 8 a.m.

When we returned home, my physician sent me to the emergency room for follow up.

The “so called doctor” that came in for my case was so arrogant. He made faces and smirked as he read the report from Maine, stating that it didn’t make any sense. He said, “you didn’t have a stroke, and I don’t think you even had a second stroke... this is all diabetes related.”

Although my glucose numbers were high when I was hospitalized, they are rather low the rest of the time. I think he should sue the medical school that he attended.

The neurologist with whom I am supposed to meet agreed that the films from Maine show a blockage that most likely came about with my first stroke in August, and that I did have a “mini stroke” in Maine.

Getting an appointment with a neurologist has been difficult. This is scary since, the way I understand it, my condition could lead to more strokes or death.
The neurologist assigned to me by the hospital couldn’t see me until 2010 ... that could be too late. He finally agreed to see me in two weeks.

Disgusted, my physician called upon a neurologist that she trusts and sent him my case history. He scheduled an appointment for yesterday, Wednesday, Nov. 4. I don’t know if it will lead to a stent being put in place or bypass surgery, but whatever he decides, I hope it’s all solved soon so I can get on with my life.

With three strokes in 10 weeks, I still feel very lucky since I haven’t had any lasting effects. My physician calls me a “walking miracle,” and that’s how I feel. I’ve been lucky, and I have the best family and friends that anyone could ask for. But I will feel much better when I don’t have a blocked artery in my brain.

I’d like to thank all the Observer readers for their letters, cards and phone calls. I can’t wait to get back to work.