Close call at the veterans hospital

Close, as they say, only counts in three things: horseshoes, hand grenades and dancin’.

Now there’s a fourth.

Making a phone call in the hot, unbearable sun on a bench at the entrance of the Mountain Home VAMC in Johnson City.

Right out of nowhere, in the middle of my phone conversation a couple of days ago with my co-author and friend Michael Manuel, I blacked out.

As in fainted.

Lost consciousness.

Entered into another dimension of nothingness that I never ever want to visit again.

It happened a bit after 2 in the afternoon—after I’d had glowing reports from the doctors at both my appointments earlier in the day.

I’m thinking I’ve got the rest of the day free. I’m going to split this popsicle (leave the premises and get on to my car and do whatever).

I’d had a good lunch.

Felt good. Looked good (I think). Acted good (hard for me but I tried).

Then that phone call before leaving the hospital.

I went outside to the front entrance of the building for a better signal.

I’m talking. Jawboning with Mike. Swapping lies. Sharing whatever other mindless stuff you share on a cell phone.

Had been chatting for about 15 or 20 minutes. It was hot outside—really hot. In the low 90s, I’d say. But I was in quasi shade about 40 feet from the front door of the building.

And then my world and mind went blank.

For how long?

Not sure but might have been 5-10 minutes.

Then I “came to”— dioriented and dizzy and scared, my world spinning, my legs rubbery and wobbly.

I got my bearings, barely, and staggered back into the air-conditioned hospital. Tried to walk, but couldn’t. Sat back down. Tried again. Clutched anything I could get my hands on while I moved. But then gave up and plopped back down.

Saw a nurse and asked for a wheelchair so I could make it back to the far end of the building to valet parking.

But she wasn’t game. Told me there was no way she’d let me drive.

Found me a wheelchair and rolled me to the ER.

Man, they work fast and efficiently and professionally in the Mountain Home VAMC ER! No messing around. They took me right in. Asked me dozens of questions. Connected me to wires and computers and all the rest of the stuff they tether you do when you’re in crisis.

Read me my “rights”—sort of.

Doc: “If your heart stops, do you want to be revived?”

Me: “What do you mean?”

Doc: “Do you want us to do chest compressions and intubate you or whatever else we need to do to get you breathing.”

Me: “Yes.”

Doc: “Do you have a living will?”

Me: “Yes, I have an advanced directive on file here.”


Hours later, they still didn’t know what had happened.

The suspected gremlins: dehydration, a reaction to one of my heart medications, a pesky UTI (which they discovered while I was in the ER).

And then—on the day that had started out so well—I was admitted to the hospital.

To a part of the place called C-1.

Wow, did they ever pamper me!

By “they,” I mean primarily the nurses on C-1—Renee, Jackie, Amy, Felicia.

Angels all of them. (I love my veterans pajamas).

Didn’t stay on C-1 very long. Got discharged the next day. And they still don’t know for sure (my opinion) why I blacked out.

But if you’re going to go dark, what better place than a big VA hospital?

Thank you again to the docs, nurses, my family and to everyone else who helped me.

I’m glad I’m a veteran. An old USAF veteran but still one who got exceptional treatment at the Mountain Home VAMC.

Y’all are the best!