I just got home from the hospital, where my lovely wife Kate will be spending the night.
It's OK. It's probably not as serious as it sounds at this point. The doctors are just being extra-special cautious and keeping her in for observation.
An allergic reaction to an anti-inflammatory resulted in an extreme gastric reflux event, with the associated high blood pressure and heart rate.
She's doing fine now. I suspect she could have actually come home with me, but I guess the doctors think it's better safe than sorry (or sued).
It all began this afternoon when Kate rang me from work, saying she wasn't feeling well and that she was going to get a taxi home. About thirty seconds later I get another call from one of Kate's colleagues, saying that they'd called an ambulance for her.
At this point I ran out the door without really telling anyone why, and grabbed a cab to Kate's office. By the time I was halfway there I'd got yet another call to say she was on her way to hospital, resulting in a hasty detour.
We ended up arriving at the hospital at about the same time, and when I saw her I knew she'd be OK. She was joking with the ambos about the paperwork that would have been required had she actually had a heart attack. Phew.
What followed was much sitting and doing nothing in the emergency area, broken intermittently by blood extractions (for testing), x-ray examinations (for something, not sure what) and the more-or-less constant amusement of plugging the ECG connections back in every time they fell out.
Eventually we saw a doctor who diagnosed the gastric reflux thing and gave Kate a 'Pink Lady', basically a nuclear-strength dose of Mylanta, to cool the fires. Worked a treat.
Once she was settled in the ward and had some dinner I took a cab home, suddenly feeling bone-weary. It's amazing how tiring sitting doing nothing, but doing it very tensely, can actually be.
My cab driver, noting that he'd picked me up from a hospital, regaled me with stories about his lack of trust in modern medicine, his friend who had had a quadruple bypass ("That's six valves, yeah? Quad means six?") and the fact that he had nine children because he and his wife still enjoyed each other physically.
Seriously. If I'd not had the afternoon I'd just had I might have come up with something more than the wry smile I mustered.
Well, that was my day, folks. Goodnight.
Oh, and happy birthday, Budge!