Note: Special contributor Grant Rampy is a marketing professional who lives in Warrenton, Virginia. In this first-person account, he shares valuable lessons he learned after experiencing a life-changing health emergency.
I’m 57 and I’m going to live forever – or so I thought before the morning of Aug. 24, 2021.
A couple of weeks earlier, something unusual happened during one of my thrice-weekly virtual workouts with Kaitlyn, my personal trainer. (She barks at me from her couch over FaceTime while I run around on the driveway outside my garage 20 miles away.) Never during our two years of working out together have I ever told her to back off and give me a break.
On this afternoon at sunset, however, she instructed me to complete four repetitions of an exercise that under normal circumstances would have brought on a little extra sweat, maybe a few groans, nothing more.
Out of nowhere, I heard a voice in my head. Stop. Do not finish that rep.
I halted halfway through the one-hour call to toss out a question. “I’ve never given you my address, have I, Kaitlyn? In case I ever fall down half dead, I want you to be able to call 9-1-1 and tell them where I am.” The statement sounded so odd, almost silly leaving my lips that I almost chuckled.
“So,” she said, “do you want to go ahead and text me the address while you’re thinking about it?”
I followed through with a sense of foreboding as if guided by the voice that again whispered: Slow it down… Stop the reps… Pay attention to this feeling.
I read subsequently that among the many signs of possible heart trouble, feeling a sense of impending doom is not uncommon and is also not something to be dismissed. I listened and am probably alive today because I did.
+ + +
Along the short journey to the late August hospital visit that changed my life there were a few twists that could have left my story with a very different ending.
- I could have pushed through the afternoon workout and willed myself to finish the reps.
- I could have skipped the trip to the local Urgent Care clinic that occurred a few days later when I would have rather been knocking out my office to-do list.
- I could have misstated or played down a few of the symptoms I relayed to my primary care specialist.
And this is where the story takes yet another critical turn.
After passing the Urgent Care’s quickie resting EKG test, the nurse suggested I seek more counsel. The next day, I met with my regular nurse practitioner and she promptly delivered her diagnosis.
“You were working out in the heat and humidity, but you weren’t having any real pain, just some mild discomfort, so I’d say you have a case of asthma.” She ducked out of the room to order an inhaler through my pharmacy, then returned with ‘script in hand.
“Just one quick question before you go,” she added. “Did you say something about your left arm?”
I had already told her about the weekend walk through my girlfriend’s neighborhood – how both my chest and left arm had felt a little strange, but neither seemed to be screaming You’re about to have a heart attack! The odd feeling had passed, and I finished the stroll with no other issues.
With the inhaler prescription now in hand, I tossed out a more recent story I hadn’t thought to share.
“I should probably tell you about getting the mail yesterday. As I walked to the box, then back up the driveway and up the stairs to the front door, I got that funny feeling again. I sat down at my desk, counted to five, and felt fine.”
The look on the nurse’s face morphed as I spoke, her pleasant smile giving way to a pursed brow.
“Don’t fill that prescription. I think you need a stress test.”
She paused. “You need a stress test.”
She repeated a third time, but with more resolve: “We need to schedule you for a stress test as soon as we can get it.”
The skip-to-my-lou hope I had for a quick fix evaporated. Something’s up. I may not be OK after all.
The first available opening to see a cardiologist was nearly a full week away. “Take it easy through the weekend and don’t skip that appointment,” the nurse ordered as I grabbed the door handle to leave.
A few days later, on a nice, sunny Saturday, I saw the yard was a little ragged and decided no harm would come from doing ‘an old man walk’ behind the push mower. I’ll just test myself with a few rows to see how I feel. I made it through one row, heard The Voice again, and rolled the mower back into the garage.
From there, you would think I would have headed inside to park my rear in front of the TV. I should probably wait patiently for my appointment like the obedient, intelligent patient that I typically am. But is that what I did?!?
No. I showered, got dressed, and went on a date.
I got up the next morning and stuck with plans to fix a big lunch for members of my extended family. All good. Monday came around and it was just another day at the office topped off with another attempted workout that I again cut short. No need to worry. It’s probably just the asthma (that, by the way, I’ve never had before).
Tuesday, August 24: I arrived right on time at one of the fancy, new area hospitals only slightly nervous about my no-big-deal stress test. Now bare-chested and wired to another EKG, I stepped onto the cardiologist’s treadmill and began to walk.
One minute. Two minutes. Three minutes.
“Mr. Rampy, we’re going to discontinue the test at this point. I don’t need to see any more. Please take a seat on the table.” There was a hint of a smile on the doc’s face – one of those cloying, semi-sweet smiles only a doctor can smile.
“Mr. Rampy, you won’t be going home today. I saw something here” – he motioned toward the print-out draped over one arm – “and it tells us you have… Well, you pretty clearly have a blockage in your heart, but we need to get in and have a look.”
+ + +
Life changes on a dime. You can remember times you’ve heard a sentence – “It’s cancer…” “I want a divorce…” “Your position is being terminated…” – and realized everything’s been turned inside out and upside down. Likewise, I realized as I sat ashen-faced on that paper-covered exam bench: This chapter of my life is over and I have no idea what’s next.
It would be 24 hours before I underwent an emergency heart catheterization that led to the diagnosis of a 90% percent blockage in my heart’s left anterior descending artery. During that same procedure, a team placed two stents in the ‘widow maker’ vessel that splits off to supply two critical zones of the heart’s lower chamber.
I subsequently learned that had my condition worsened during the Saturday night date, the brief but misbegotten mowing episode, or any one of my mini workouts, it would have been lights out, plain and simple.
To say I was lucky is the ultimate understatement. So many things went right.
- I heard my body talking and I listened.
- Medical professionals heard what they needed to hear from their patient.
- Their colleagues knew exactly what to do when an otherwise fit 57-year-old landed in the hospital’s cath lab.
- A pack of covid-stressed nurses knew how to get me up and out and on my way a day later.
And here I am, alive and entirely well, thankyouverymuch, now eating a lot smarter, taking my new meds, and working out with renewed vigor and vigilance.
I’m resolved to share not only my story, but also a message to anyone who may think, as I used to, that they’re bullet-proof – who foolishly believes their outward physical fitness means they can eat and drink like a teenager. The key takeaway from my experience is this:
Diet is key. No amount of working out can undo the damage done by a bad diet.
My father is 91 and still operates a chain saw. At 85, my mother is zippier than women 20 years younger. I mistakenly thought my good genes and fine gym habits gave me a green light to live with a kind of reckless abandon. I could sweat like a madman, then rest after my workouts with a plate of microwaved Fritos covered with grated cheese and Tabasco sauce.
Again, I say: That’s apparently not how this stuff works. Garbage in, garage out – or into your arteries as I learned while nearly Frito’ing my way to an early grave. Now, I hope you, dear reader, will be around in 2064 to join me for what promises to be one heck of an awesome 100th birthday party.
You bring the celery; I’ll supply the humus.
