Status

JUST ANOTHER UPDATE

I’m getting back into life. Progress feels rather glacial from my perspective but it’s undeniably progress.

foyer and lightI can write, as long as I keep stuff short. I still can’t focus long enough to read much but I’m getting there. Close, very close. Finding a comfortable position in bed remains a major challenge because I can’t yet lie on my side without feeling like my chest is being crushed. I’ve been assured it will come, but not yet. Soon-ish.

I tire quickly but each day is a little better than the one before. I have bursts of energy early in the day then I wear down. By 3 or 4 in the afternoon, I’m beat and I hurt. Still, last week I was exhausted by noon. Change comes and I guess one needs to take the long view.

I did I lot of stuff yesterday. We went to the grocery store and the pharmacy. I did the stairs — both flights — three times. I hiked up and down the driveway — our own bunny slope. It was a lot for me. And I was released from physical therapy ’cause I’m doing so fantastically. I have photographic plans for today.

Except I don’t feel well. Or not well enough, whatever that means.

I guess how one feels is a matter of “compared to what.” Compared to two weeks ago, I’m feeling great. Compared to last year, I’m a puddle of misery, a complete disaster.

It just depends on how you look at it … and whose body in which you are living.

 

ADVENTURES IN HEALTH CARE OR LACK THEREOF

It snowed Wednesday. Just an icing but it prompted a lot of people who actually had to get their cars rolling first thing in the morning to say “This is a joke, right?” A New England joke. The day before, temps had been in the high 70s, I had turned the heat off, so Wednesday saw me and Garry huddled on the sofa in sweatshirts and blankets. Would the cold last long enough to justify revving up the oil burner? Or should we gut it out and shiver until more seasonal weather prevailed? Medicare-Payment-Methods-1024x768 Being so recently sliced and diced, I was not in fighting trim. By evening, I went for heat. Shivering was bad, but sneezing? Wow. That’s a killer. I’m still fighting the battle of no PCP. Technically, I’ve got one. I’ve just haven’t met him. Yet. I’ve got a date, May 2. Not so far away, but far enough. I hope this one’s a keeper.

In the meantime, I’m self-medicating everything including my blood pressure. I’m not doing anything crazy, mind you. I’m merely taking the BP meds I was taking before the surgery because I don’t have anyone to monitor me, no one to call or consult.  Other than the visiting nurses. They are wonderful and deserve medals.

Except they are all leaving because I’m doing so well. Ironies piled on ironies. My self-medication program is working. I’ve got my BP back into the “good” range from the “outta sight” levels of last week. Adventures in health care indeed. This is closer to adventures in lack of health care. How weird I’ve got medical coverage — good coverage — but no doctors. What a world, eh?

STUMBLING DOWN THE WINDING ROAD

They warn you when they send you home it will be hard, especially the first few weeks. They warn you about depression. It seems to be part of the heart surgery package and hits pretty much everyone to some degree. Some of us worse than others. The emotional healing component is a wild card. Assuming that physical healing proceeds without incident, there’s no predictable pattern — or much available help — for handling feeling.

There’s a sense of loss, that “something is missing,” though you don’t know exactly what it is. A sense of dis-empowerment, that you’ve lost your dignity, a part of your self-hood. There’s a sense of having been raped, assaulted, beaten down.

72-PathARTO-LG-2

Some feelings result from the very real physical assault of all that surgery. Your body has been invaded, redesigned, twisted, opened, broken and put back together. You may not have been conscious when it was happening, but your body remembers even if your brain can’t recall details.

Waking up after the surgery, I knew something was missing, some part of me was gone and I was afraid to awaken until I found the lost piece. Eventually I bowed to the inevitable and woke up, but becoming conscious was accompanied by a profound sense of loss. I’m not who I was. I know I am — at least technically — better, but it’s hard to imagine ever feeling whole again.

Even after breast cancer and having both breasts removed, the sense of loss was nothing like this. There was pain, confusion, fear … but surprisingly little sense of mutilation.

The complexity of my feelings combines with a sometimes overwhelming physical misery. It makes me wonder why I went through all of this. To what purpose? I know the correct answers to these questions, but as the days wear on and evening approaches, it feels as if I am wearing a too-tight iron brassière. I can feel the hard metal straps cutting into my shoulders and my chest feels crushed. It’s hard to breathe, hard to even think.

I whimper and wrap myself in a heating pad, trying to soothe cramping muscles and twisted bones.

All systems are messed up. Digestion, breathing, skeleton … everything feels off. Sleeping is difficult. Finding a position that doesn’t hurt is a major challenge. I have a headache much of the time. The headache isn’t so bad … it’s just the “insult to injury” part of the process.

I have a little mantra I keep repeating to myself. “I can do it,” I say. “I CAN do it. I can do it. I can.” Whatever it is, I do it.

I can shower on my own. Thanks to one wonderful friend, I can do my bathroom stuff and actually get up and down from the toilet without the humiliation of needing help. I can do small things. Make myself a sandwich, toast an English muffin. Read a bit, Write a bit too. My back took a beating. Whatever they did to me in the operating room, I came out of there with new problems in new places. Oh well. I guess it will heal. Eventually.

My other mantra: “It will get better. It will be better. I will be better. I will be better. The future is worth living.” I mean it. But it hurts.

If it were not for friends and especially for Garry who bears the brunt of both my physical inadequacies and my emotional messiness, I’m not sure I would be able to go on. I know this is taking a lot out of him and it adds just one more layer to that invasive sense of helplessness.

It will be better. I can do it. We can do it together.

I just hope it’s worth it.

 

DOCTORS DON’T LISTEN – GARRY ARMSTRONG

One of the things I’ve discovered about blogging is you can say stuff that you might be reluctant or timid to share in normal conversation.

I’m talking about myself and Marilyn. About the medical profession and patients. Marilyn is an aggressive advocate. I’m passive. I usually try to be diplomatic, relying on the quiet, persuasive approach honed over 40 years as a TV news reporter. Marilyn’s learned you can’t always be pleasant or nice in dealing with the establishment. Be it doctors, lawyers, politicians, merchants or your affable cable company. Nice guys often finish last. Even worse, in the medical profession, their lives are often in jeopardy.

I’ve sometimes thought Marilyn was too judgmental with doctors, nurses, medical technicians, medical office managers or HMOs. Color me naïve and maybe stupid for all my years in the news media spotlight. The past dozen years have been almost a continuing nightmare for Marilyn who has been through myriad operations including at least two near death experiences resulting from one botched surgery. No “Law & Order” vindication in real life.

One of Marilyn’s big problems is pain management. She is in her second week of recovery from complex heart valve surgery. She’s in almost constant pain, 24/7. Mornings are kind of okay when she has bursts of energy and can do some writing. The rest of the day is downhill. She has limited pain relief options. Her intestinal system, after two gastric bypasses (one botched), is ultra sensitive to medications. Moreover, she has reached the limit of surgical fixes to her gastrointestinal tract. If she ulcerates again, it’s over.

Marilyn has been trying to explain this to her doctors. They don’t get it. I’ve been there and witnessed these conversations.

Most of the doctors who’ve seen Marilyn treat her as if she doesn’t know anything about her own body. Even after she explains the details of which medications work and which wreak havoc on her system, they merely nod as if she’s stupid or they know better — without so much as checking her records. They prescribe drugs Marilyn knows will make her sick, ignoring her protests.

We hoped today would be different. A first visit with a new primary care physician (the old ones’ network would not make a deal with Medicare or Medicaid, so all their poor or old patients are screwed). I intervened before the session began. I explained I’ve known Marilyn 50 years. I gave high or low lights of her past dozen years of medical hell. I explained the difficulty Marilyn has had communicating with doctors who’ve often been arrogant and dismissive. In essence, I was giving our new PCP a heads up if Marilyn appeared angry, hostile or anxious. I emphasized pain control was our major concern with Marilyn’s limited venue for such medications.

I thought I’d set things up to succeed. I was wrong! Marilyn’s worst fears were confirmed. Our new PCP said she was unable (unwilling, really) to prescribe Marilyn the medications she needs. “Not,” she said, “In my comfort zone.”

My passive take on the situation has dissolved into anger. I managed to retain my nice guy demeanor but if thoughts could kill, I would be in lockup right now. Somehow, Marilyn has reached inside and grabbed another chunk of fortitude to search for another doctor.

I have new admiration for my wife. I wish I still had the clout to help, to make things right. All I can do is be here, offering support that, maybe, tomorrow will be a better day.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY GARRY ARMSTRONG!

Kind of a sucky day for your celebration. Even though I bought your present before I went into the hospital, I don’t feel like I’m doing enough, saying enough to tell you what you mean to me, which is everything. You’ve saved my life, literally and every other way. I wish there were enough words. Or at least more and better words.

happy birthday from google

You’ve earned, at the very least, a medal for grace under fire. Now, it’s your birthday. You deserve a lot more and better than I can give you right now. Maybe ever.

Happy birthday Baby. You should have traded me in for a model that actually works while I was still under warranty.

As each day wears on and everything starts to hurt, I know I have to struggle through another night and then one more day. Even though each day is a bit better than the previous one … it’s hard. If I was tired before the surgery; I’m depleted since. You have kept me alive, kept me going, put up with all my crap.

You look tired.

You deserve much better. I hope knowing how much I love you and appreciate you will partly compensate for this nightmare I’ve put you through.

Status

WAKE UP SLEEPY HEAD

Today marks a week back from the hospital. I’m not sure what I expected, but I’m pretty sure this wasn’t it. So much didn’t go the way I expected. A friend said it was like taking your car in for an oil change only to discover you need a new tranny. I needed a new tranny, timing chain, rear axle and electrical system.

How could I have failed to notice that the central system of my body wasn’t working? How did I miss that? I was short of breath, true. I had been gradually limiting my activities. I stopped driving. I passed on activities that involved more than very minimal walking … skipping stuff that required I go up and down my own stairs. Gradually, I chipped away at life until my “outside appearances” were few and far between.

I was tired. Not sleepy-tired. Weary. I attributed each lifestyle change to something. Asthma. Bursitis in my hips, arthritis in my back. Blow-back from cancer a couple of years ago. And, of course, the all-time best bucket explanation for anything and everything — getting older.

When I was first informed that my EKG showed “issues,” though the doctors didn’t seem to feel I needed to know exactly what the issues were (did they know?) — when finally all the cards were laid out, I felt blindsided. I had been keeping track of my heart, getting an evaluation and EKG every year. Suddenly, from “no problem” to “big problem”? Heart problems don’t usually just pop up out of the blue. I still don’t know and probably never will if this was a case of misdiagnosis or some weird medical event that went unnoticed amidst the myriad other health crises which have punctuated my last decade and a bit.

Do I blame my doctors? To a degree. For failing to promptly and clearly inform me of what was happening and for giving me terrible, medically unsound advice. If I had followed it, I’d be dead.

Expect-Delays-sign

What I expected

Cardiomyectomy (shaving down the overgrown muscle in the left ventricle that was stopping the flow of blood through the aortic valve, causing the mitral valve to work double-time. There was hope the mitral valve would self-repair if the aortic valve was unblocked. Surely, at most, the mitral valve would need repair, not replacement. (Ha!)

What I got

A cardiac catheterization, a totally disgusting, intrusive horrible test that requires you be awake — the absolutely last thing you want to be. Not like you get a choice.

The next day, the aforementioned cardiomyectomy, a bypass and a mitral valve replacement made from bovine tissue (thank you Bossy, wherever you may be).

Three-for-one. Woo hoo!!

But that’s not all, no-sirree. After another few days, when my heart refused to beat on its own (stubborn to the last), it was back to surgery for a pacemaker. Now everything in my world runs on batteries, including me. Sure hope those batteries keep going and going and going.

Waking up – Let the games commence!

Round one: They tried arousing me, but I woke up fighting, struggling. Apparently tried to deck the recovery nurse. I do not remember this, but I have no reason to doubt it. Under the circumstances I’m sure I wanted to deck someone. They put me back under for another 24 hours. They were protecting me and/or the nurse.

“Tough customer,” they said.

Round two: I heard Katy, my new recovery nurse calling me.

“Marilyn, wake up. You’ve had your heart surgery.”

“NO,” I said. Liar liar pants on fire. They were saying it was Friday, but I knew it was only Thursday. What’s more, I was in the middle of a word game and the letter “U” was missing. I could not wake up until I found it.

“Marilyn, you have to wake up.”

“NO I DON’T,” I said.

“Would you like to see your husband? Your friend?”

“NO.”

“You have to wake up. It’s time to wake up.”

“NO.”

Ultimately, I realized the letter “U” was a permanent loss and they were just going to keep annoying me until I stopped saying NO. So I opened my eyes. Instantly knew why I hadn’t wanted to wake up.

Question: How much pain can you be in and still live?

Answer: A lot.

Thus I reentered the world. Screaming in anger, pain, outrage and helplessness. I’m still screaming. Silently.

MARILYN IN RECOVERY: LAZY SATURDAY

This is Marilyn’s 6th full day back home after complex heart valve surgery at Boston’s Beth Israel Hospital. We’re both tired. Marilyn for multiple reasons, me just for fatigue. So, this is a short update. It’s a day for watching silly movies that don’t tax our minds. So far, we’ve seen “Hot Shots! Part Deux” and “Airplane!” The stack of waiting movies includes  “Galaxy Quest,” “Crazy People,” “The Court Jester” and a deluxe set of Mel Brooks comedies.

Marilyn is moving around more on her own. Slowly but without assistance. We received a truly nice gift from an old friend. One of those elongated bathroom seat risers with removable arms. It enables Marilyn to take care of business without help. That’s a big boost for privacy and self-accomplishment. If you’ve been there, you know it’s no small thing.

No visiting nurse or physical therapist visits today. Marilyn is in one of her bright red nightgowns. I’m wearing my “Dog Father” casual bottoms and dog-eared top. The furry kids are taking their afternoon siestas. Dinner is still to be discussed. I’m hoping to keep it simple. That’s my speed.

Marilyn wants to write a blog. She tried valiantly this morning. The brain is working but not her arms or fingers. Matter of fact, Marilyn’s mind is like that of HEDley Lamaar — ‘a raging torrent of brilliant ideas’. She’ll try her next blog when more body parts are in sync.

My usual baseball passion is slightly dormant right now for obvious reasons. I didn’t read the pre-season predictions or watch the Red Sox home opener. Sheer heresy in any other year. It’s a long season. Here’s hoping the team is doing well when Marilyn and I can give them more attention.

Surely, you understand our priorities here. And don’t call me Shirley!!

 

 

MARILYN’S FRIDAY: I’M SHOCKED!

Usually I’d wait til later in the day to write an update post since Marilyn’s return home Monday from complex heart valve surgery. But some funny and encouraging things have happened this morning. I figured I’d best write as coffee is slowly clearing the cobwebs in my mind.

Where to begin? Latest news at the top, right? Okay, Marilyn is waiting for the visiting nurse to arrive for today’s session. Visit number two. We’re properly attired, Marilyn in a clean nightgown and me in my “Dogfather” lounge pants and top.

Diane, Marilyn’s nurse has just arrived. Her first visit. We’ve greeted each other. I continue writing as Diane checks and examines Marilyn

Marilyn was able to put on her nightgown WITHOUT assistance, using her arms and with minimal pain. FIRST time since she came home. Give the lady a hug, kiss and round of applause after Diane leaves.

My Claude Rains moment came a little earlier this morning. I was relaxing on the love seat, sipping coffee and waiting for my brains to show some life. Nan, our Norwich Terrier, was lying at my feet watching Marilyn. Nan is Marilyn’s dog. Her faithful companion. She follows Marilyn wherever she goes. I’m normally ignored. I used to be a household name for more than 31 years as a Boston TV news reporter. I used to be somebody.

Well, Marilyn had to answer nature’s call. She got up by herself from the love seat. Another first this week. No, don’t stop the presses. Not yet. Marilyn walked slowly away and into the bathroom. Normally, Nan would be right behind her. Marilyn’s faithful companion usually follows her Mom right into the bathroom, pushing open the door and moving right up to where business is being conducted. Frequently, Nan grunts like a pig, signaling the other dogs Mom is in the bathroom. They scamper down the hallway and gaze from the bathroom door. Nan sends out sideline reports about Marilyn’s efforts. Wide, wide world of sports!

Not today. Nan didn’t budge as Marilyn left the living room. She stayed at my feet, grunting with satisfaction. Okay, now the “Louie Renault” moment. Marilyn called from the bathroom but Nan never moved. I was shocked! Absolutely shocked!

Diane’s just wrapped up her visit with Marilyn. They’re laughing. Marilyn’s blood pressure and heart rate look pretty okay. Here’s hoping the rest of this Friday is good.

The Five Second Rule

A few curious thoughts by Rich Paschall, Sunday Night Blog

Admit it.  You have probably invoked the five second rule many times in your life.  Maybe you tend to do it when no one else is around, but you do it nonetheless.  No matter what some in society may say, you can not help yourself.  You may think it just a little bit evil, but you do it anyway.  You may even do it openly, not caring what others may think.  Don’t worry.  They do it too.

In case you are one of the few who have not heard about it and have not followed the widely disputed practice, the “Five Second Rule” is the belief that if you drop some food on the floor, it is alright to eat if you pick it up right away, say in five seconds.  While common sense may speak to you against such a practice, science seems to be coming down in favor of what once was folklore or an “old wives’ tale.”  A recent study seems to suggest that a few seconds on the floor does not matter much.  Your wet gummy bears are not likely to pick up much in the way of bacteria if you pick them up right away.the special

Unbelievably, dropping food on your carpet seems to pick up less bacteria than dropping it on your tile or linoleum floor.  Of course, if you own a dog or a cat the food item may pick up some animal hair or dander you might not want to pop in your mouth.  No matter how clean Fido looks to you, all that rolling around on the floor is not good for your dropped food.  Also, you have to consider that Fido might beat you to the item, in which case your dog has the treat you lost and let’s face it.  Your dog never seems to get sick after eating food off the floor.

While I would not care to eat off my floors, considering what I know, I may be less reluctant elsewhere.  You may have heard that Aunt Matilda’s house was so clean you could eat off the floors.  That may literally be true, although I do not think I would try that on a dare.  Still, it is good to know that your odds of puking later are greatly diminished according to modern-day science, if your food is not down there too long.

Who funds this type of study, you may wonder?  Who cares?  This particular science is extremely important when you consider the amount of people who drop food on the floor, then pop it in their mouths.  Isn’t it time we got the answer to the age-old question, “Does the five second rule really exist?”  Now we know, until the next study comes along to debunk this whole thing, and you know that will eventually happen.

Life itself also has a rule like the Five Second Rule.  It goes like this, the longer you are down, the more likely you are to pick up dirt.  When you fall down, get knocked down, get tripped up or whatever it is that causes you to land on your butt or your face, it is best if you get right back up and get going.  The world just does not look as good when you have fallen to the floor.

No scientific study is needed here.  Hopefully common sense will tell you, the quicker you get up and clean yourself off the better it is for you.  If it has been a particularly bad day, it can be hard to convince yourself to get off the ground.  You may wish to wallow in whatever is down there.  Just like the food in the study, more is likely to jump on you if you stay put.  It is the nature of life.

There is one more thing to consider while we are invoking scientific studies.  It is a known fact that if you fall and stay down, you will look like a dropped treat to people-eating Cyclops.  In that case one of them is likely to scoop you up and pop you in his mouth.  Another thing to know from the most recent study is that Cyclops have a long time, a 5 day rule perhaps.  In that case, wallowing in the muck with one of Fido’s playmates is likely to do you in.  Being chomped on by Cyclops is far worse than eating candy off the floor.  You have been warned.

Status

UPDATE: GAME ON

No cancellation this time. Tomorrow, off to Beth Israel for the cardiac catheterization. Thursday, terrifying surgery.

I think my feelings define ambivalence. I don’t want another delay … but I really don’t want surgery, either.

Out-of-Office

I’m entering that familiar tunnel, the one in which there is no control. Life, death and the future are in other hands. Perhaps they always are, but it is at times like this that we notice.

I have scheduled posts for the next 10 days and Rich has a bunch coming up too. Garry will post updates as he has information and can get to a computer. Meanwhile, be well, blog on and I’ll see you later.

SUBLIME TO RIDICULOUS IN ONE EASY STEP

Daily Prompt: Linger

Right now, my entire life is one long linger. I am waiting for the other shoe, figuratively speaking, to drop. Waiting to be repaired. To be hurt, then to recover. I may not show the stress such waiting causes in any outward display (other than bad temper), but my dreams tell a story. Anxious dreams, wake-up-screaming dreams. All have one theme in common — events that are out-of-control.

Clearly, I read too much fantasy. The other night, I dreamed my real self was murdered by killing my shadow wraith which was roaming somewhere far distant from my flesh and blood self. I remember being surprised: I didn’t know you could shoot a wraith and have the attached body die. Dream and learn, eh? That isn’t Freudian — that’s literary.

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Last night was more mundane, closer to home. A friend of my daughter’s who seemed to have moved in (her friends never want to go home) realized her clothing was dirty, so she decided to wash it. By hand. Then leave the piles of soggy garments all over the house.

I was in the process of trying to corral the wet laundry before it destroyed the floors … and I woke up realizing, hey, it’s laundry day again.

Laundry

Caught as I am between chapters of my life, I find myself making strange (hilarious?) discoveries. Apparently when the plastic surgeon rebuilt my breasts (implants) following the double mastectomy a couple of years back, she used muscles as part of the construction. Factory-original breasts have no muscles. There are muscles on the chest wall and off to the sides, but real breasts are not designed for men to ogle but to feed babies. Milk production. Way back in the long-lost past, I had (for a few months) “working breasts.”

That was more than 45 years ago. Last night I discovered I can make my breasts do all kinds of things. I discovered those newly arranged muscles! Together and independently, the muscles work and since I’m healed from that surgery (finally, just in time for the next one), I can control them. Cool.

Fake breasts

This was a startling discovery. I stood in front of my mirror making my breasts dance and salute for quite a while. Then I came out of the bedroom and showed Garry who laughed, but for some reason, did not think making a video to post on YouTube (it might go viral!) of my new talent was a good idea. Spoil sport.

This is what happens when you are on a long intermission between life and life. You linger.

Of course, I’d make every attempt to linger anyhow. The single thing I really don’t want to end is my life. I want to live. Life is the ultimate event and I want to keep it going.

I’m lingering with enthusiasm and verve.

More Lingering:

  1. My pre-game Pre-Game | The Bohemian Rock Star’s “Untitled Project”
  2. Daily prompt: Linger | The Wandering Poet
  3. A Love Affair With Southern Italy | AS I PLEASE
  4. Home Sweet Home | Views Splash!
  5. Step by step | Le Drake Noir
  6. Daily Prompt: Linger | tnkerr-Writing Prompts and Practice
  7. Linger Longer… | Hope* the happy hugger
  8. Never fly solo | Perspectives on life, universe and everything
  9. If ever | Perspectives on life, universe and everything
  10. Love for lingering, drumming | Journey of a Culture Carrier
  11. Lingering longer | Sue’s Trifles
  12. The Trouble with Lingering | Wise Woman in Training
  13. Daily Prompt: Linger « cognitive reflection
  14. I see stars | littlegirlstory
  15. Linger At The Beach | Lisa’s Kansa Muse
  16. Lingering, all day today | sixty, single and surviving
  17. Linger | forgottenmeadows
  18. Not Wanting this Moment to End. Daily Prompt | Angela McCauley
  19. Linger | The Library Lady and Rosie Bear
  20. Daily Prompt: Linger | CHRONICLES OF AN ANGLO SWISS

UPDATE! ANOTHER DAY, ANOTHER DELAY

There are two classic ways to jinx yourself:

  1. Announce what you will never, ever do.
  2. Ask “What else could possibly go wrong?”

Of all the things I said I would never do, I never moved back home. Given the nature of my relationship with my father, this should be no surprise. My mother died more than 30 years ago and she was home. I think I would have slept in a doorway before staying with my father.

As for all the other things I was sure I would never do? I paid the high prices I said I’d never pay. I’ve had the surgeries I said I’d refuse. I’ve put up with behavior from loved ones I said I’d never tolerate, but they’ve put up with a large amount of crap from me. Fair is fair.

WHAT COULD POSSIBLY GO WRONG

These days, I modify all those “never” statements with “I hope I never have to …” because whenever I use the “never” word, I wind up feeling like a complete fool when I do exactly the thing I said I’d never do.

Words taste fine on the way out, but somehow, eating them is not so yummy. Moreover, saying “never” is daring Fate to nail your butt.

It’s the same as saying “What else could go wrong?” The very instant those words pass your lips, you can be sure you are going to get an answer to that question. And you are not going to like it.

So now, let’s move on to the news of the day. This is getting a bit repetitive and mildly embarrassing.

My surgery has been postponed again. Why? Because Beth Israel has a brilliant cardiac unit. And I guess March is heart failure month. They are backed up with emergencies. They have patients coming in on Medivac flights from California and other points south and west. Big emergencies that require multiple surgeons and take all day. And all the operating rooms are booked.

Expect-Delays-sign

I have been promised that I am “on” for Wednesday March 19th for the catheterization and Thursday March 20th for surgery. My surgeon personally promised I wouldn’t get bumped again. Except I know that if there are more emergencies they will take the emergencies and bump me again. And if I were one of those emergencies, I would want them to bump someone else and save my life. That’s what these guys do and that’s what they should do. It’s the price one pays for going to the premier cardiac hospital in the country. They take the cases no one else can handle.

So I’m back on hold. It’s a total pain in the butt and I can’t complain. But I want to complain. So okay. I’m complaining. I can’t make plans. I can’t go anywhere or do anything. All I can do is wait.

Funny about that because the one thing I have never been good at is waiting. I am impatient, permanently in a hurry. Perhaps this too is Karmic payback. I am learning that sometimes, I have to wait, whether I like it or not.

I’ll tell you one of the more interesting changes resulting from all this delay? Instead of dreading the surgery, I’m eager to get it done. Just so it’ll be over and I can start the business of recovery. I never would have expected this … but never say never, right?

RELATED POST (And where I got the idea how to write this post):

Never Say Never | Rosie Smartie Pants

Status

I’LL BE BACK

Daily Prompt: Never Surrender

Like a lichen on a rock, I cling. Like the sun, I rise. Like the earth, I renew.

I’ll be back.

DawnLateWinter09-300-72

Friday’s the big day, though I’ll be in the hospital as of Thursday for cardiac catheterization. Hopefully they won’t find anymore stuff that needs repairing. Garry will try to send updates, but he’s going to be busy and tired, so be gentle with him. This is hard for him too.

Stubbornly, determinedly, I’ll come back. Until then, I will miss you.

Other entries:

  1. Daily Prompt: Never Surrender- Between Resilience and Stubbroness | Journeyman
  2. The Trial, Not For the Weak of Faint of Heart: Part 1 | jlaneb
  3. No surrender on Mental Illness | ALIEN AURA’S BlOG: IT’LL BLOW YOUR MIND!
  4. There are just some things I like a certain way. The right way. | thoughtsofrkh
  5. Stubborn as a Mule! | meanderedwanderings
  6. Pardon me for everything I’m about to say | Attempted Human Relations and Self
  7. Welcome to the jungle | The verbal hedge
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YET ANOTHER UPDATE

Surgery has been delayed. Garry got pneumonia and I got a nasty cold. Apparently coughing, sneezing and heart surgery don’t go well together. Surgery has been rescheduled for March 14th when presumably Garry will not have pneumonia and I will have stopped sneezing and coughing.

I’m not exactly eager for surgery, but I am eager to get this done. I want to get on with living. Everything has been on hold for what feels like forever.

I’m frustrated with waiting and this is not the kind of waiting in which one can relax and forget about what’s coming.

So, that’s the story. I’m okay, getting over my case of “what’s going around.” Garry is taking antibiotics and in theory should be better soon. He is certainly restless enough … and we are running out of groceries. Tomorrow, he will emerge from the house one way or the other. It’s time.
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INVENTORY, MEMORIES AND BRAIN FUEL

It’s going around. I’ve got it. Garry’s got it. My best friend is just getting over it. My son had it last week and my granddaughter got it and recovered in a couple of day. If you’re a teenager, you get a cold, feel cruddy for a few days, then you’re better. No biggie. 50 years later, it’s a different ball game.

“How do you feel?” I ask Garry. I can take a good guess but I’m obliged to ask because this is how I express concern. And how he knows I care.

“Lousy,” he says. Succinct, to the point. That’s why they paid him the big bucks for all those years.

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I remember when an inventory of bodily functions would pinpoint problem areas. I could assume everything else was fine, thanks for asking. Standing was one smooth movement, no grunting. I could eat anything that didn’t eat me first. I could (did) live on pizza and donuts with a side of diet Coke. It wasn’t healthy, but who cared?

We weren’t as obsessed with food as everyone seems to be these days. I doubt the current obsession with “healthy and natural” is going to make anyone live longer. Or forever, which is the underlying fuel for the obsession (beat death by eating healthy).

But we’re old school. We eat healthy because we like it. If we didn’t like it, we’d probably eat junk. It’s not a religion, just dinner.

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In my 50s, I hiked from the Stop and Shop to our apartment on Beacon Hill carrying 20 pounds of groceries in each hand without breaking stride or breathing hard. Thighs of iron. On days off in the summer, Garry and I walked from our apartment to the Commons, then strolled to the Public Gardens. Rode a swan boat then stopped for dinner. And rambled on home just pleasantly tired.

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I don’t want a younger brain (the body is another matter). I like my wise old brain, the way my thoughts dodge and weave through the mind’s object-linked file system. Each thought evokes a complete set of memories including pictures, music, smells and emotions. Whole experiences recreate themselves as the little electrical impulses fire. Good for you, old brain!

According to the AARP, coffee drinkers are 40% less likely to develop dementia than non-coffee drinkers. I drink a lot of coffee. I always knew it was the best brain fuel. Brew me another pot, would you?

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LOOKING FOR A SILVER LINING

I woke up this morning to the sound of the phone ringing. It was the hospital. Just as well since I had to call them anyway.

“How are you?” asked the Lisa, the nurse for the unit.

“Swimming in a world of mucous,” I said. “But I don’t think it’s pneumonia. It doesn’t feel like pneumonia.”

“Are you coughing?”75-Sky-NK-84

“Not much, but I’m sneezing a lot.” I’m an epic sneezer. I put my heart and soul into my sneezes. They echo through the house. I’ve been known to sneeze 8 or 9 times in a row and throw my back out at the same time.

“That’s not good. After surgery, sneezing or coughing can be really painful.”

I could only imagine. The image it conjured was all too graphic. Ouch!

I called my friend to tell her surgery was postponed.

“Garry says he won’t drive me there. He says he has a bad feeling about this.”

“Me too,” she said. Me three, I thought.

Next call, the doctor. Chest x-rays all around. I don’t have pneumonia, but Garry does. I’m about 4 or 5 days behind him in this particular viral infection, but hopefully I won’t go the same route. I don’t believe in prophylactic antibiotics and neither does my doctor, but Garry is now on what have to be the most expensive antibiotics on the market. Usually, antibiotics are free or really cheap, but these were worth two weeks of groceries. Impressive. I hope they are as effective as they are costly.

Presumably Garry is now on the way to getting better. He’s not there yet, still pretty miserable.

Meanwhile, my surgery is postponed until I can breathe, no coughing or sneezing. The new date will depend on how long this cold takes to go away. If I’m lucky, a week. Unlucky, longer. At this point, I want to get this show on the road, get to the other side and start the healing process.

A thought for us all. With all the research and advances in medicine, there is still virtually nothing to be done about The Common Cold. I doubt they are any closer to a cure (or prevention) now than ever.

So where’s the silver lining?

I won’t be in the hospital for my birthday. Good. I’ve spent two birthdays in the hospital. Maybe this time, I will celebrate with Garry in our favorite Japanese restaurant. Overeating on sushi and other good stuff.

Even if we wind up eating breakfast sandwiches in front of the TV, it beats out hospital food with a side order of morphine drip.