Typing, keyboarding and an ambulance ride

If I’m not the only person who connects an ambulance ride with high school typing class than I’d like to meet the other person who does.

Why typing class? This morning  I woke up in my own bed with this memory of pounding away on a manual typewriter this practice line from typing class:

Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of your party.

Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of your party.

Or to be more accurate, now is the time for all good men (and women) to come to the aid at the party I was attending.

If I am writing this I must be fine. Here’s the thingamabobs that checked my oxygen level. It was fine. I took this photo at the hospital thinking it could be the tidbit of the next day but decided it took more explanation than just a tidbit.

Here are the details. I was at the bipartisan political party of friends who now hold it on the Sunday before Labor Day of gubernatorial or presidential elections. It is a great party attended by both Democrats and Republicans who speak civilly to each other.

The yard is filled with yard signs of candidates of all persuasions – Republican, Democrat and non-partisan.

At least I thought they spoke politely. I was talking with a friend, when suddenly I was overheated and sweating profusely. I was about to meet the Republican candidate for Congress when I realized I had to sit down. Suddenly I was sliding down in my chair.

A couple of doctors whose specialties normally would allow them to check my eyes and give me a new nose helped. In this case, they took my pulse, got me safely to the floor and lifted my legs on to a chair to get blood back to my upper part. Oothers at the party placed wet wash cloths on me.

The doctors insisted they call 9-1-1, despite my saying I was fine.

When the paramedics  spotted those political yard signs, they apparently said something like, “What are we getting into?”

I was already feeling better when the ambulance crew arrived, but was told by the doctors who were at my side along with good friends that I should still go to the hospital to make sure I was OK. Apparently, my own judgment was not to be trusted at that moment. One of the doctors said something like, “Sue, you don’t really know.”

And one of the paramedics who asked me questions posed this one: “Are you telling me the truth?” I had no idea that I needed a polygraph to describe my symptoms, but there is a tendency to minimize and “not want to be a bother,” as I joked later.

They wheeled me out feet first on a gurney, which allowed everyone outside to see me wave good-bye to them.  I even said  thanks to our hosts for a lovely party. My mother taught me good manners.

I also noted later that the friends who brought me to the party did not drive me home, something implied by driving me to the party.

Meanwhile, my husband who had a musical gig, was called and left to come to the hospital. He did suggest earlier in the day that since he couldn’t go to the party, I was to bring back political gossip.  He noted this morning that he didn’t mean for me to be the gossip. Sure, now he tells me.

At the hospital I had an EKG, other tests and all tests showed no problems with anything, although I am supposed to followup with my doctor on Tuesday. It was probably just heat exhaustion and being dehydrated. As we have long said, “Precious doesn’t like to sweat.” Confirmed now.

At that point, I decided in ER that what I had was The Vapors, a 19th century symptom of what once was called Female Hysteria. I was not so hysterical that I was unable to Google it in ER. Nineteenth century diagnoses appear to be coming back these days.

In our family growing up, we used to joke that our family motto was, “Keep up your typing.” (I also learned shorthand, which has been helpful. If asked how to spell dinosaur, it would be S-U-E.) My parents were right.

We took typing on manual typewriters back when the dinosaurs roamed the earth, but students today learn keyboarding on computers.

So here’s my message: Keep up your keyboarding. Now may be the time to come to someone’s aid at a party.