Posted by The Tribune Kathe Tanner April 5, 2022·8 min read on Oct 17th 2023

Learn the signs of a heart attack in women. I did, and it probably saved my life

This is the voice of scary, recent experience:

Please, know what’s normal for your body, pay attention to anything that isn’t, and act on it. Quickly.

Doing all that probably saved my life in late March.

The kicker? Never, ever, ever be too embarrassed to call 911, even if you think there might not really be anything seriously wrong. That’s what the medics are there for, to help you decide if you need to go to the hospital — and if you do, to get you there.

On SecondsCount.org, the Society of Cardiovascular Angiography and Interventions advises: “It is better to go to the hospital and learn that you are not having a heart attack than to stay home and have one. That’s because the consequences of an untreated heart attack are so great. If your symptoms persist for more than 15 minutes, you are at more risk that heart muscle cells will die.

“Know that today your chances of surviving a heart attack — and surviving it well — are greater than ever,” the website continued. “The first and probably most important link in the battle against (coronary heart disease) is seeking prompt medical attention when there is any suspicion of a heart attack.”

I’m also told that women often present very different heart attack clues than the classic ones men have. I know I did. (Find a list of some of the gals’ clues at the Centers for Disease Control’s heart disease website.)

In the wee hours of March 25, I apparently had not yet had a full-fledged heart attack, but despite having only strange, imprecise symptoms, I figured I was jolly well close to one.

I called 911.

My condition that morning appeared to be a wobbler case, again.

It was the second time in two days I’d had some weird but not severe back pains that alternated with chest and shoulder discomfort, along with some other seemingly random symptoms scattered in the mix.

Both times, I called 911, collected a few things, unlocked the front door and sat down to wait for the ambulance. (I didn’t want to fall down and break a bone).

Each of the paramedic-administered EKGs showed some worrisome anomalies that weren’t yet at the critical “put her in the ambulance right now” level, but more in the “check with your primary care provider” mode.

Time for a trip to the hospital

At the second go-round, I didn’t hesitate to do as my primary care provider, Cece Lomeli, had told me to do.

I asked the ambulance medics to take me to what’s often referred to as this county’s heart-treatment central, French Hospital Medical Center in San Luis Obispo.

I’m so glad I did.

By then, I’d sensed that something serious was happening, because I know my body, and I pay attention to what it tells me.

In the ER, they did some tests, including blood draws that showed slightly elevated levels of a protein that a stressed heart puts out when it’s having a pre- or full-fledged attack.

Uh-oh.

Soon thereafter, the doctors scheduled my angiogram procedure, which ultimately happened at about 4:30 p.m. Yeah, it was a long day.

I was home about 24 hours later. Astonishing.

Blocked artery requires surgery

I now have a tubular support (a stent) inserted in my LAD, or left anterior descending artery. That’s the major artery often macabrely nicknamed “the widow maker.” Why? They told me ominously that frequently, the first symptom of a widow-maker heart attack is death.

Dr. Robert Doria, my interventional cardiologist, said the angiogram showed my LAD was 95% blocked (yikes!), hence the immediate insertion of the stent.

Amazingly, all the other arteries looked good, he said. So maybe my LAD had some previous damage, perhaps a healed wound that attracted the sticky plaque like a magnet. Or maybe there was a genetic flaw. Thanks, Mom and Pop.

Doria, a top cardiac surgeon in this county, just happened to be on call that Friday. What’s more, he had been my late husband’s cardiologist for a decade.

Go figure those odds.

As I understand it, for an angiogram or angioplasty, the surgeon inserts into a blood vessel a slender, balloon-tipped catheter and uses medical imaging (typically live x-rays) in a stunningly precise and coordinated surgical ballet between him and his team members.

A catheter is used to implant a stent, if one is needed.

Because I was awake for my procedure (although in no pain and a bit loopy, thanks to “conscious anesthesia”), I was able to hear it all and watch some of it. Fascinating!

Years of experiences helped response

I benefited many ways from my previous lessons learned during decades of caring for my husband when he was in the hospital, such as:

Knowing what to ask for, who to ask, and what I’d need to take with me. A warm jacket and a cozy throw blanket sure helped in an always-cold emergency room. My Kindle kept me sane during those inevitable long waits. My phone kept me mostly connected, although I should have brought a longer charging cord and my portable charger. Hey, you can’t remember everything in an emergency, right?

• It’s absolutely crucial to have a detailed medical list, including past history and what medicines and over-the-counter stuff I take. My frequently updated one is on my computer, and I keep a copy in my emergency folder by the front door. Without it, do you really think I’m going to remember the name of that obscure prescription, or worse yet, how many milligrams of it I take each day? And do you know how many times I was asked those exact questions? I just handed them the list.
• Remembering to keep flexing my feet and exercise my legs is in-bed exercise that helps prevent blood clots. Those can develop if you’re too still for too long.

• I knew that a blood-thinning medicine the doctor insisted that I take regularly might not be available in San Luis Obispo County on a Saturday afternoon. Been there, done that. So, during my hours-long wait to be discharged, I called various pharmacies and, yup, that was the case. Thank heavens the doc had samples to tide me over.
• Most importantly, again, I had enough experience, common sense and self-knowledge to recognize that what was happening to me was serious enough to warrant immediate action by professionals.

Back home healing

Now, my body and I are healing and adjusting.
A bruise the size and color of a large eggplant is gradually fading away on my left arm, and a smaller bruise is beginning to bloom near the incision site. Ah yes, the joys of IVs, a gazillion blood tests and that blood-thinning drug.
I sure benefited from some noteworthy medical innovations. For instance, I’m babying my right wrist because that’s the preferred insertion location for many angiograms and angioplasties these days, rather than the groin area.
Recovering from that pinprick scab on the wrist is much faster and easier. I’ve had larger, more troublesome wounds from a papercut or a mosquito bite.

After the surgery, the team slows post-surgical bleeding with a fancy compression wrist wrap over an adjustable, inflatable cushion. Over the hours, as the bleeding slows, the nurse draws out many tiny amounts of air.
However, pampering the wrist isn’t as easy as it sounds. Think about how many actions require severely flexing of the wrist I’m not supposed to bend, especially because it’s my dominant hand.
Peeling an orange. Making my bed. Typing this, even though I have an ergonomically correct keyboard. Pulling up a zipper. Washing or brushing my hair. Cutting my food. Making my bed. Personal hygiene and hooking up a bra.
I’m also learning what my body’s new normal is. It’ll take a while, folks, but it’s well worth the effort.

I plan on staying aware enough to know when something’s going seriously awry or even is just different, so I can act quickly to get things fixed.
Medical teams have the skills and the meds to do the job — but they can’t help me if I don’t do my part first.
And the same goes for you, my friend.
Note: Thank you to doctors Doria, Bandari, Darger, Lupercio and Shatick, to nurses Lily (who went to school with my sons!), Jessie, Cassie, Brittney and Nick, case manager Brian, to Cambria’s always outstandingly wonderful team of first responders, especially the ambulance medics who whisked me in to French — Tom, C.J. and Tim (I’ve known the latter for decades!) and Mike and the fire crew. And always, Cece, who urged me to follow my instincts and head for the hospital.