a scare

On Thursday night while I was nursing Zoë (yes, we’re back to bedtime nursing because of her recent cold and ear infection), I experienced a sharp pain in my chest, followed by a dull ache lasting about 10 minutes. I had been short of breath earlier in the day, so I thought I should get a little more information. I Googled “chest pain in women” and was bombarded by stories about women who didn’t realize they were having heart attacks because the symptoms for women (neck, jaw, shoulder, upper back or abdominal discomfort, shortness of breath, nausea or vomiting, abdominal pain or “heartburn,” sweating, lightheadedness or dizziness, unusual or unexplained fatigue) are less publicized than the symptoms for men. Good information to know, but the pain in my chest subsided, so I shrugged it off.

At this point I should tell you that I am at low risk for a heart attack: I eat well, I have never smoked (other than those few bar and beach cigarettes here and there in my 20s), I run, and I’m only 37. But, I did have severe preeclampsia with Stella, and women who have had severe preeclampsia “remote from delivery” could be at an eight-fold risk for cardiovascular disease than women who did not have a preeclampic pregnancy. (You can read more about that here.)

I should also mention that I’m currently reading the manuscript of a writer whose husband died at age thirty of a complete arterial blockage. And this translates in my mind into: it can happen.

Friday morning I was tidying the dining room after Stella and Zoë’s breakfast, and I again experienced sharp chest pain followed by a dull ache. But this time the ache didn’t go away. It radiated to my upper back. I called my doctor’s office to make an appointment—just in case—and after I had scheduled an appointment for a couple of hours later, the receptionist put me through to the triage nurse, who, after hearing my symptoms, told me to go to the emergency room.

Donny was out of town, so I called my mom. No answer. I called again. No answer. Now I was getting nervous. My chest ached as I changed Zoë’s diaper, got her dressed. My step-dad called back and said my mom was out getting coffee but that she’d be home soon. I explained my pain and asked him to have her come and get us as soon as she got home.

Fifteen minutes later, we were in the car, driving to the emergency room, and, as traffic slowed and we took the wrong exit, my nerves began to fray. I started to feel pain in my jaw and my arms became tingly and numb. Holy shit, I thought, I’m really having a heart attack. “This would be the time to drive faster,” I said to my mom.

When we pulled up to the emergency entrance, I told Stella and Zoë I loved them, and got out of the car. (My mom agreed to take them to a park or to breakfast.) And as soon as I walked through the door and the triage nurse asked if I was okay, I started to cry. “I think I’m having a heart attack.” She was fabulous, got my in a wheel chair, talked me down with stories of her twins, and got me checked into the ER.

I had an EKG, a GI cocktail, nitroglycerin, blood work and a chest x-ray. And everything was normal. I’m fine. I’m fine.

But why the chest pain? Was it because of the new cold and cough I have now, thanks to my little Zoë and my apparently nonexistent immune system? It was not a panic attack (at least not initially; I think the tingling of the arms was because I was beginning to panic and hyperventilate.)

I have a follow-up appointment with my doctor later this week, and I’m going to ask for a referral to the University on Minnesota, to see a doctor who specializes in the heart health of preeclampsia survivors.

I’m relieved that everything seems to be fine, but I don’t feel settled. I feel lethargic and tired. (This is probably a result of the chest cold rather than the scare, but still, I feel overwhelmed. All weekend I was irritable with my kids, exhausted by the constant vigilance that Zoë requires. I must have blocked these months of Stella’s development because I seriously don’t remember all the dirt and potentially poisonous berry eating, the teetering on chairs, the rifling through cabinets.)

What I need is a vacation. Not an I-can-still-check-e-mail kind of vacation, but a no-contact-faraway-childcare-provided kind of vacation. Any ideas?