My Perfect Storm

It’s Saturday morning and I wake up choking. I am coughing and I have a momentary feeling of panic when I can’t immediately catch a breath. The room – or in this case the forward cabin where we sleep – is spinning. I reach over to Rick but by the time he is fully awake I’m fine, although somewhat embarrassed that I woke him up for a coughing fit. He settles back in for a bit more sleep while I get up to get a drink of water.

Once in the main cabin I begin to feel VERY strange. I try to stand at the galley but the world is moving all around and I feel like I’m going to pass out. I’ve often heard the phrase, “light-headed,” but this feels more like heaviness. Everything is closing in and weighting me down. I take a deep breath but that seems to make it worse. This time I’m really panicking and I call for Rick who comes bounding out of the forward cabin. I tell him that I feel really bad, but I can tell that it doesn’t make sense to him. What does it mean to say that everything is moving when you’re on a boat? Everything is ALWAYS moving when you’re on a boat.

Rick thinks maybe I’m a little dehydrated, so he gives me some water and makes me drink it. I don’t feel any better, and in fact the water makes me a bit nauseous. By now I’m shivering and breaking out into a cold sweat. I sometimes get shaky from low blood sugar, and normally you treat that with some protein/carb combination like nuts, but I figure this is an extreme situation and I need some actual sugar. Rick feeds me some candied fruit and I think I feel a little bit better momentarily, but it doesn’t last.

Rick helps me back into bed where I try to think through our options. It’s a Saturday. We’re on a boat. We’re in Gloucester where we don’t know a soul. Friends in Boston are at least an hour away.

Oh my God.

What is wrong with me? Can you OD on scopolamine? I peel off the current patch just in case. Earlier in the week I had spoken with my doctor about a swollen gland I had found behind my jaw. He didn’t seem concerned about it and said it would probably go away on its own in a few days. It’s actually bigger now and very sore - is this related to what’s going on now?

Rick puts a call through to my doctor, knowing that it’s a Saturday but hoping we can talk to SOMEBODY. He gets the answering service for the practice and they promise to page the doctor on call. While we wait for the doctor Rick is tightening up the boat because, wouldn’t you know, a storm is brewing.  I am still up in the forward cabin, and even though I’m horizontal the heavy/dizzy spells keep coming in waves. I’m afraid I’m going to lose consciousness and then they’ll have to air-lift me off of the boat. IF they get to me in time.

Where is that doctor?

I feel like I can’t wait any more, and I tell Rick I want to go to the hospital. I’m not sure I can make a dinghy ride to the dock, but it seems like a better option than passing out on the boat and leaving Rick with an even bigger problem.  I hear Rick making phone calls, talking to the harbormaster, trying to figure out how to get a taxi to take us to the nearest emergency room. Somehow amidst all of this, he keeps pushing glasses of water on me, and even makes some oatmeal on the theory that I need something in my stomach. He pulls up anchor and motors Tortue into the harbor to anchor there, closer to the dock, and I get some clothes on and wait below until he’s ready for me in the dinghy.

Just as Rick has set the anchor the doctor finally calls. It takes her only a few minutes to understand the situation; I’ve been on a boat and using scopolamine patches for three and a half weeks, it has been extraordinarily hot, we’ve been entertaining friends on the boat and drinking alcohol – I’m clearly severely dehydrated. The lump under my earlobe is a clogged salivary gland, a sure sign of dehydration which has probably been building up over some time. Scopolamine tends to dry everything out which just makes the situation worse. The doctor mentions that some people suffering from this have trouble swallowing, and when Rick tells her that I woke up choking she responds with, “Well, there you go.”

She says to keep pushing the water, but also to try and eat some salt. SALT! Of course! No wonder all that water I've been drinking has been going right through me and doesn't seem to make any difference. I feel somewhat foolish that the solution is so simple. The doctor gives us a great tip for dealing with the clogged gland too. You take a slice of lemon and stick it up in your cheek beside your back molars and chew on it for a while. When I try this treatment I get the strangest sensation of a little lightning bolt shooting across my cheek straight to that gland. Now I’m doubly grateful for the bag of lemons that Josh and Laura brought us yesterday.

Even with the new salt/water treatment, it takes a couple of hours for me to feel well enough for us to pull up anchor and leave Gloucester. I tell Rick that this was all just an elaborate ploy to get out of having to do the dishes. I’m not sure how amused he is by this – I know he was very worried. This is clearly an experience that neither one of us would like to repeat. The only good thing to come out of it is that I get to completely indulge my passion for salty popcorn – Doctor’s orders!