Personal story, or stories

[Sigmund]

We had just purchased our home. Yay! No more apartments. Big fenced in yard to play, BBQ, and sit out on the back porch. And get a canine companion.

I found Bear. Most beautiful German Shepard/Chow mix puppy ever. She was very shy and skittish. She would hide under anything when we would call and try to approach her. After much patience, cuddling and love she flourished. She grew up and weighed...80/85 pounds?

She was fiercely protective and mindful of our comings and goings. If my husband or I left the house, she would stay on the front porch and keep watch. If my husband and I were both gone she would go and stand watch at the end of the drive-way and wait for one/both of us to return. Our son was about four years old and our Bear adored him and our son loved her.

When my husband got sick she knew. She would go into John's room and either climb onto his bed and lay on his lap and nudge her nose at Johns hands so he would pet him and allow him to find comfort in her. Or she would get her ball and drop it at his feet. "Come on, my boy. Come play and leave your pain behind."

When I went to work and John to school, Bear would stay with Philip and keep him company. As God as my witness, Bear would limit her eating and drinking knowing Philip could not get up and let her out to do her business.

Late, late into the night when I was in my den contemplating our future and totally bereft Bear would come and lay on my lap and sigh, look into my eyes and she hurt with me.

One Saturday morning we heard the doorbell ring. Well, that couldn't be right. Bear would not allow anyone to come into the yard. It was our next door neighbor's son. (He'd jumped the fence.) Jesse told us, "Something is wrong with Bear."

We found our dear Bear dead in the front yard. It was a punch to the throat. We got her favorite blanket and wrapped it around her. Crying all the while.

Philip had survived the radiation but the chemo was kicking his azz. He picked her up and took her to the backyard and picked Bears favorite place and proceeded to dig her grave. It was drizzling. Our neighbor, Martin, knew what was going on and he offered his help in digging Bears grave but Philip...Philip declined politely. It took him five hours to dig that grave. Something a healthy man could have done in an hour.

Philip just had to dig that grave and bury our Bear by himself. It was something he had to do himself to honor our friend and companion.

Peace.

 

[Grandpa]

Lovely story, Sigs. Thank you for sharing. I'm so sorry for your troubles and loss.

 

[Grandpa]

When Everything Changed Overnight. No, Seriously.

After the Americans occupied Okinawa in World War II, the island was developed under their management. The roads were built up American style, with right-sided driving. Japan proper is a left-sided driving country. The cars in Okinawa were a mixture of right- and left-side steering wheels (the little Toyota that we owned had a right-sided wheel).

The island was returned to Japan in 1972. However, under an international agreement, all roads in one country were supposed to follow the same protocol. There then began a most interesting public works project of changing every two-way road on the 460-square-mile island from right-sided to left-sided lanes.

It was a massive island-wide effort. New signs were erected facing what would soon be the right - I mean, correct way and then covered up.

New turn lanes were built and sandbagged off.

New lane markers and dividing lines were painted and then taped over.

Traffic lights were added with new lights facing the opposite way, and then hooded.

To get a visualization of this horror, imagine yourself in your comfy town. The order comes through: In the next few years, we need to change traffic flow to the opposite side. How comfortable is that going to be?

In the years, then months, then weeks, then days counting down to the big switch, the public announcements were fierce. “7.31.78” was everywhere. The American bases were drilling their personnel over it. I hadn’t heard of anything like this effort going on before anywhere else (and having gone through it, I sure wouldn’t wish it on any population).

I forget exactly when on July 31st that we were supposed to be clearing off the roads, but at 6:00 p.m., the only things with wheels allowed on the roads, moving or parked, were road crews and emergency vehicles. I don’t know how many part-timers were hired to help with all this, but it must’ve been awesome. For us, we were hunkered down like it was during a typhoon, reading Stephen King and watching the AFRTS (Armed Forces Radio and Television Service) station.

All night they labored, uncovering what was now the right - I mean, correct-facing signs and covering up the now-wrong-sided counterparts, removing sandbags from the new turn lanes and blocking off the old ones, untaping the new lane markers and dividing lines and taping over the now-incorrect ones, and unhooding the new traffic lights and concealing the old ones.

As we got up at 6:00 a.m. (or so) on August 1, we now had to drive on the left side of the road. The driving habits of a lifetime had turned turtle overnight.

There were humorous results (even possibly tragic ones, although I didn’t hear of them). I had one little slip-up, where I turned a corner and went instinctively to the right side of the street. Fortunately, the lane was empty, and I quickly corrected. But every now and then you’d hear a screeeecchh!!! as a car would turn and be in the wrong lane, face to face with another driver, who was probably wondering at that point which of them had made the mistake.

The road crews had done an admirable job in our area, but I did hear of places that had it worse, because island-wide, there simply wasn’t time to get every single conversion done. But we made it through without getting our car dinged.

Now, during this time, I was in my last two and a half months of Marine Corps service, and apparently being delusional, they were trying to talk me into staying. And Grandma was, as they say, large with child, our daughter, and we ended up bringing her home during an actual typhoon.

But those are different stories.

 

[mustangclaire]

We had just purchased our home. Yay! No more apartments. Big fenced in yard to play, BBQ, and sit out on the back porch. And get a canine companion.

I found Bear. Most beautiful German Shepard/Chow mix puppy ever. She was very shy and skittish. She would hide under anything when we would call and try to approach her. After much patience, cuddling and love she flourished. She grew up and weighed...80/85 pounds?

She was fiercely protective and mindful of our comings and goings. If my husband or I left the house, she would stay on the front porch and keep watch. If my husband and I were both gone she would go and stand watch at the end of the drive-way and wait for one/both of us to return. Our son was about four years old and our Bear adored him and our son loved her.

When my husband got sick she knew. She would go into John's room and either climb onto his bed and lay on his lap and nudge her nose at Johns hands so he would pet him and allow him to find comfort in her. Or she would get her ball and drop it at his feet. "Come on, my boy. Come play and leave your pain behind."

When I went to work and John to school, Bear would stay with Philip and keep him company. As God as my witness, Bear would limit her eating and drinking knowing Philip could not get up and let her out to do her business.

Late, late into the night when I was in my den contemplating our future and totally bereft Bear would come and lay on my lap and sigh, look into my eyes and she hurt with me.

One Saturday morning we heard the doorbell ring. Well, that couldn't be right. Bear would not allow anyone to come into the yard. It was our next door neighbor's son. (He'd jumped the fence.) Jesse told us, "Something is wrong with Bear."

We found our dear Bear dead in the front yard. It was a punch to the throat. We got her favorite blanket and wrapped it around her. Crying all the while.

Philip had survived the radiation but the chemo was kicking his azz. He picked her up and took her to the backyard and picked Bears favorite place and proceeded to dig her grave. It was drizzling. Our neighbor, Martin, knew what was going on and he offered his help in digging Bears grave but Philip...Philip declined politely. It took him five hours to dig that grave. Something a healthy man could have done in an hour.

Philip just had to dig that grave and bury our Bear by himself. It was something he had to do himself to honor our friend and companion.

Peace.

(((((Siggy)))))

 

[Grandpa]

Sigs, that story is just really sticking. The visual of a chemo-ridden man spending hours in his fatigued and wracked state to dig a grave for the beloved pet. Just very powerful, very touching. Thank you so much for sharing your and your family's experience.

 

[Spideyman]

(((((Siggy)))) ((((Bear))) ((((Philip)))

 

[Moderator]

Ditto, (((Siggy and family)))

 

[Grandpa]

Weirdly enough, the peanut butter thread made me want to share this.

-------

I wake up about 2:45 on a Monday morning. The time is greeted with a mental groan. Wayyy too early. Feeling weary, I get out of bed and notice a burning sort of pain in my chest, behind my sternum. “Huh. This must be what heartburn is like.”

I head down to the kitchen and get some milk. The milk seems to help a little bit, but the burning sensation is still bothersome, and I lie down on the couch so my moving from discomfort won’t bother Grandma.

And it's worse. Dangit. No way I can go back to sleep feeling like this. I get back up and go to the computer to do a little work, because I might as well do something with the time, but the discomfort is too distracting. What could be causing it? I reflect. I’d had an unusual amount of green tea, unsweetened, working late, before I went to bed. I’m no food chemist, but maybe it’s acidic burn from the tea? If so, let's dilute it. I drink some water, and wow, does the burning get sharper. Back to milk, sip a little bit, and it helps, but not much.

Now I notice that the backs of my arms are starting to feel a little pained and tingling.

I'm going from curious to concerned. I wake up poor Grandma and tell her I want to go to the emergency room. She stirs and gets up quickly, alarmed, because this is a highly unusual – make that unique – request from me. I say it’s probably indigestion or heartburn, but I’d like to be certain. She wonders if I should call the ambulance. I say, no, we’ll be halfway there by the time an ambulance gets here. She suggests I call Steven.

Steven is our neighbor who's a nurse in the cardiac catheter team at the local hospital. I say good idea, and then since I’m not feeling presentable, take a quick shower, which makes me feel so much better, and I consider canceling the whole thing, until I step out of the shower, and the burning pain hits me again, harder. I ponder whether to wake Steven up at 3:15 in the morning, and then think, well, if there’s ever a time to wake up your cardiac-familiar friend at 3:15 a.m., now is the time.

I call him, and he answers by the second ring, his voice alert. I’m impressed (as you’ll see, he happened to be on-call that night). I explain my symptoms to him, and he says they’re classic signs of a possible cardiac event and to call the ambulance. I say, by the time an ambulance gets here, we’ll be halfway to the hospital. Besides, I don’t want to disrupt the neighborhood at this hour. He says he'll alert the ER.

And then just in case, because you can never be sure, I go and back up my work so people can find it easily. Then I go back the car out of the garage, and Grandma comes out and orders me out of the driver’s seat, like I’m being stupid or something. And okay, I am.

Now it gets a little more grim. Directionally-challenged Grandma is driving, and I’m directing her because I’ve been to the hospital complex before, and now my chest is hurting ever more, burning and tightening up, the arms are still hurting and tingling, but now more so, and clamminess and sweating are setting in. These have all gone from “possible” signs to “prime” signs of a cardiac issue. I started contemplating the possibility that I might go into coronary failure right there in the car. With the chest, the clamminess, the sweats, I’m feeling bad enough that it doesn’t seem too far removed.

Not a good feeling, guys. I’ll finish the second part of the story, the time at the hospital, later.

 

[Grandpa]

As we near the hospital, I call the emergency room and tell them I’m a minute away. They already know I’m coming; Steven told them. Grandma drops me off to go park, I walk in, and they throw me into a wheelchair, have me sign a form, wheel me to a room 20 feet away, and quickly help me onto a bed.

Being in extremis is one sure way to achieve unself-consciousness. An aide pulls my shirt off, tosses a blanket over me, pulls off my shoes, socks, grabs my pants and yanks them down, and is reaching for the final item, when I say, “This doesn’t mean we’re engaged or anything.” Polite chuckles. Another guy starts shaving my chest in spots. I say, “Some people pay good money for this.” More polite chuckles. An oxygen tube gets hung in my nostrils. Another guy is saying, “This is going to be cold,” and starts smacking electrodes on my torso, and yes, they’re cold, but not a bother at all. A lady says, “This is going to sting,” and starts shoving needles into my arm, and I can feel the stings, but they don’t matter much.

I’m asked about pain scale. Where am I at, with zero being no pain and 10 being the worst I could possibly imagine? Well, the worst I could imagine would be burned alive, and it’s not that bad. I thought I broke my leg once (the Segway incident), and it’s not as that bad, either, although that was a jarring, sharp bolt of pain, and this is ongoing. Fudge factor for one more thing in there, and so I say 7.

They give me baby aspirin to chew and a nitroglycerin pill to stick under my tongue, telling me it will taste nasty, and maybe it does, but it’s fine. At that point, I would’ve eaten a bowl of live worms if it would make me feel better. But it doesn’t. Two guys are talking about me at the foot of the bed, and I hear one of them say, “He’s pretty stoic.” Um, no. It’s just that all else pales in comparison to this fire consuming my chest and the thought that my heart might just completely fail anytime. They leave the room for just a few seconds and run the quickest X ray I have ever experienced.

I’m self-aware enough at times to concentrate on breathing and relaxing and trying to control the discomfort that way, and I’m trying to crack some humor in the room in response to their comments and actions, just to try to break tension and get a little positive levity going, but I really can’t get away from being acutely conscious of the tightness and ever worsening feeling in my chest and all over.

A guy shows me a readout of ragged peaks and valleys. “See this?” Well, yeah, but it doesn’t help. And really, I’m ready to hear him say, “We’re going to give you a Tums, you big baby, and get the hell out of my hospital.” But he doesn’t. Instead, he says, “You’ve got a blockage. You’re having a heart attack.”

They now give me another nitroglycerin pill to stick under my tongue, which doesn’t taste as bad this time. Nitroglycerin is what they call a vasodilator, so it’s supposed to relax blood vessels so the heart doesn’t have to work so hard to get blood through. But it still doesn’t seem to help. Then they start wheeling me through the halls. By now, with my heart struggling, I’m shaking, chilled, and sweating profusely. They replace some big electrodes on my body, because they’re not staying in place, sliding off with the sweat that’s pouring out of my body.

We get to a room, and my friend Steven is there in his scrubs. He helps move me to a table, saying soothing things to me, and telling me that they’re going to run a catheter up my femoral artery. I ask him if he’s okay with being there, since we’re close friends, and he assures me he’s where he wants to be.

I can’t get comfortable. The chest discomfort is consuming me. They move a fluoroscopy unit over me and tell me they’re going to give me a lidocaine injection for a local. I feel the injection, and then wonder how it’s going to feel when they incise my leg and go into the femoral artery…

… and I fall asleep and dream. Strange, abstract dreams, with weird-shaped and -colored objects around. I’m vaguely aware of where I am and vaguely grateful that I’m asleep and no longer so uncomfortable.

“Grandpa? Grandpa?” I wake up, and Steven is over me, looking down, looking concerned. “Yes,” I say. He asks, “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” I say, and it’s the truth. I’m thinking I’ll get up and walk out.

But no. He says, “You went into fibrillation. We had to shock you twice.”

------

I’ll say more later about what was happening inside my body for all this. I mean, it’s fascinating to me, and I hope this isn’t boring.

 

[VultureLvr45]

Not boring at all Grandpa...interesting. Helps me to understand heart attacks and to rethink my lack of excercise. 8)

 

[Grandpa]

Not boring at all Grandpa...interesting. Helps me to understand heart attacks and to rethink my lack of excercise. 8)

Please stay tuned, then. I'll have some things to say about what goes on in the body, how I dodged a bullet, and lessons learned that it's kinda my mission to pass on.

Thank you for the affirmation! I say what I say and can't tell from paragraph to paragraph what's gold and what's crap and what's in between.

 

[Bryan James]

(1) Zappity-do-dah!
(2) Zappity YAY!

Glad you made it through.

 

[Grandpa]

Thank you, Bryan.

One more thing before I call it a night.

You got stories? Write them now. The heart attack happened a while ago, and I wrote the story soon after. And now, posting it here, there are things that would have been lost in time (two nitros? and the second one wasn't as bad as the first?) had I not written them down right away. Honestly, if I were just writing it now, it would be a lot less fresh, a lot less accurate, than my fresh memories of the moment.

Don't deny the world your story. And that story will change with time, because that's how humans work. So write it now. Please.

 

[Grandpa]

The cardiac surgeon had cut into my leg to access the femoral artery and had run a catheter, about the diameter of an ink tube in a ballpoint pen, up into that artery and around to the blockage in the coronary artery and crunched it (the blockage) down with a balloon inflated by water pressure. This allowed the blood to rush through and refill the heart’s blood vessels.

The heart had been distressed by the lack of oxygen and nutrients, but now here it was with a sudden rush of blood. It stunned the starved heart, and the heart went into a spasm, or fibrillation, where it wasn’t effectively pushing blood anymore. At that point, Steven had said, “Grandpa, cough!” because coughing will sometimes start regular rhythm again. I’d responded with coughs, but that didn’t do the trick.

You remember those big electrodes that were slipping off my body from sweat? Now we’ll find out their purpose. Rather than have paddles that we see on TV, the team sent a big old electric shock through those electrodes to try to get the heart back into rhythm.

So you know how people on TV arch their backs and jerk when they get hit with those paddles? I didn’t do that. I yelled and crunched up. Almost hit the metal fluoroscopy overhead. Then my heart started beating regularly again.

But the danger hadn’t yet passed. The pacemaker of the heart, the sinoatrial node, still irritated from the loss of blood and now reeling from the big return rush, went into fibrillation again. They called for another shock, this time dialed up some more, and Steven very considerately swiveled the overhead fluroscopy unit away.

That larger shock ripped through my body, and larger shock means bigger reaction. I had yelled and crunched up in response, involuntarily, this time my head flying into the space where Steven had just moved the fluoroscopy unit out of. How much do I owe this guy, anyway? And then my heart had returned to normal rhythm, this time for good.

However, all that stuff I just told you about the shocks? I remember none of it. During the procedure, the team ran Fentanyl and Versed through my IV lines, for their painkilling and sedating effects. The Versed also worked as a short-term amnesiac. The sensations of the catheterization, Steven telling me to cough, and the shocks and my reaction are gone from my memory. Wiped clean. I’m sure I felt all of it, and I hope I wasn’t a wuss. There's just no hint of memory of that, even after being told about them later. It’s quite strange to have a fairly continuous memory of what went on at that time, only to later discover significant gaps in that continuity.

Back to the room, Steven is still talking. “We put a stent in your coronary artery.” They could’ve put in the Eiffel Tower for all I cared. The relief was dramatic.

And the relief has stayed since. I had inconsequential superficial results. A few sore spots at the IV ports. Tenderness around the hole where the catheter was run into my femoral artery, and where it had bruised from my crunching up when I got zapped. A somewhat sore burn mark on my chest from the shock. My sweatiness had unfortunately kept one electrode from making great contact on my skin, so it arced a little and created a short-lived first degree burn, or maybe two on top of each other. But all in all, I felt good enough to go home right then, if they’d have let me. But they weren’t inclined to do so yet.

This all had occurred before the sun was up. Through the rest of that day, I had constant monitoring, a frank and informative update by the good doctor and attentive care by the nurses. I was doing great. I believe they were surprised with how good I felt and, after I was allowed to move around, probably a little annoyed with my activity walking around the halls for something to do.

When the good doctor came in the next day to give me The Talk about the pathology of the heart attack, the treatment, and the drugs I’d be placed on at least for the short term, he explained troponin values to me. When cardiac tissue is stressed or damaged, the cardiac muscle fibers release certain troponin compounds, and the presence of those compounds in the blood indicates to the doctor a level of damage to the heart. I’d had an acute heart attack and a couple shocks. A value of 100 wouldn’t be surprising and would indicate damage that would call for post-treatment therapy. But in my case, the troponin value peaked at 2, or virtually no damage. My heart had endured and recovered remarkably and unusually well.

The good doctor also explained the stent in my coronary artery. A stent is a little latticed metal tube that’s placed in the blood vessel to prop it open. In my case, he used a “short, fat, unmedicated” stent, and after I asked if he was talking about me or the device, he explained that it was really an optimal configuration to have to use. It would result in the quickest healing and a shorter medication regimen.

So presumably based on my good vitals, the great troponin test results, and the smoothness of the procedure, he finished our discussion with, “Do you want to go home?” “Yes, please.” “Okay, you can,” in his matter-of-fact, good-natured way. And I was out about 24 hours earlier than their customary 48-hour wait-and-observe period.

----------------

Next, for those of you still awake, we’ll talk about how and why the heart attack actually happened and ways to address it.

 

[Spideyman]

You can never be boring, grandpa. Been on pins and needles since starting to read this heat attack issue. Just so very thankful you are well and with us and part of the Ka-Tet.

 

[Neesy]

The cardiac surgeon had cut into my leg to access the femoral artery and had run a catheter, about the diameter of an ink tube in a ballpoint pen, up into that artery and around to the blockage in the coronary artery and crunched it (the blockage) down with a balloon inflated by water pressure. This allowed the blood to rush through and refill the heart’s blood vessels.

The heart had been distressed by the lack of oxygen and nutrients, but now here it was with a sudden rush of blood. It stunned the starved heart, and the heart went into a spasm, or fibrillation, where it wasn’t effectively pushing blood anymore. At that point, Steven had said, “Grandpa, cough!” because coughing will sometimes start regular rhythm again. I’d responded with coughs, but that didn’t do the trick.

You remember those big electrodes that were slipping off my body from sweat? Now we’ll find out their purpose. Rather than have paddles that we see on TV, the team sent a big old electric shock through those electrodes to try to get the heart back into rhythm.

So you know how people on TV arch their backs and jerk when they get hit with those paddles? I didn’t do that. I yelled and crunched up. Almost hit the metal fluoroscopy overhead. Then my heart started beating regularly again.

But the danger hadn’t yet passed. The pacemaker of the heart, the sinoatrial node, still irritated from the loss of blood and now reeling from the big return rush, went into fibrillation again. They called for another shock, this time dialed up some more, and Steven very considerately swiveled the overhead fluroscopy unit away.

That larger shock ripped through my body, and larger shock means bigger reaction. I had yelled and crunched up in response, involuntarily, this time my head flying into the space where Steven had just moved the fluoroscopy unit out of. How much do I owe this guy, anyway? And then my heart had returned to normal rhythm, this time for good.

However, all that stuff I just told you about the shocks? I remember none of it. During the procedure, the team ran Fentanyl and Versed through my IV lines, for their painkilling and sedating effects. The Versed also worked as a short-term amnesiac. The sensations of the catheterization, Steven telling me to cough, and the shocks and my reaction are gone from my memory. Wiped clean. I’m sure I felt all of it, and I hope I wasn’t a wuss. There's just no hint of memory of that, even after being told about them later. It’s quite strange to have a fairly continuous memory of what went on at that time, only to later discover significant gaps in that continuity.

Back to the room, Steven is still talking. “We put a stent in your coronary artery.” They could’ve put in the Eiffel Tower for all I cared. The relief was dramatic.

And the relief has stayed since. I had inconsequential superficial results. A few sore spots at the IV ports. Tenderness around the hole where the catheter was run into my femoral artery, and where it had bruised from my crunching up when I got zapped. A somewhat sore burn mark on my chest from the shock. My sweatiness had unfortunately kept one electrode from making great contact on my skin, so it arced a little and created a short-lived first degree burn, or maybe two on top of each other. But all in all, I felt good enough to go home right then, if they’d have let me. But they weren’t inclined to do so yet.

This all had occurred before the sun was up. Through the rest of that day, I had constant monitoring, a frank and informative update by the good doctor and attentive care by the nurses. I was doing great. I believe they were surprised with how good I felt and, after I was allowed to move around, probably a little annoyed with my activity walking around the halls for something to do.

When the good doctor came in the next day to give me The Talk about the pathology of the heart attack, the treatment, and the drugs I’d be placed on at least for the short term, he explained troponin values to me. When cardiac tissue is stressed or damaged, the cardiac muscle fibers release certain troponin compounds, and the presence of those compounds in the blood indicates to the doctor a level of damage to the heart. I’d had an acute heart attack and a couple shocks. A value of 100 wouldn’t be surprising and would indicate damage that would call for post-treatment therapy. But in my case, the troponin value peaked at 2, or virtually no damage. My heart had endured and recovered remarkably and unusually well.

The good doctor also explained the stent in my coronary artery. A stent is a little latticed metal tube that’s placed in the blood vessel to prop it open. In my case, he used a “short, fat, unmedicated” stent, and after I asked if he was talking about me or the device, he explained that it was really an optimal configuration to have to use. It would result in the quickest healing and a shorter medication regimen.

So presumably based on my good vitals, the great troponin test results, and the smoothness of the procedure, he finished our discussion with, “Do you want to go home?” “Yes, please.” “Okay, you can,” in his matter-of-fact, good-natured way. And I was out about 24 hours earlier than their customary 48-hour wait-and-observe period.

----------------

Next, for those of you still awake, we’ll talk about how and why the heart attack actually happened and ways to address it.

Yup - still awake here - thanks for reminding me I get to go back to work tomorrow and type reports

 

[Grandpa]

You can never be boring, grandpa. Been on pins and needles since starting to read this heat attack issue. Just so very thankful you are well and with us and part of the Ka-Tet.

That is so nice to hear. And this is just about the nicest forum ever. Glad to be here.

Yup - still awake here - thanks for reminding me I get to go back to work tomorrow and type reports

Great illustration, and it adds a visualization that I didn't have. Thank you!

 

[Neesy]

That is so nice to hear. And this is just about the nicest forum ever. Glad to be here.



Great illustration, and it adds a visualization that I didn't have. Thank you!

You are welcome - I think I am a visual person (but I like to hear voices, too!) - no - not that I have any in my head!
Your stories are very good - and quite easy to read as well

When I try to type ÈyouèreÈ this is what I get - the large E with the accent is a quote mark and the small e with an accent is a hyphen - my keyboard is haunted

 

[Grandpa]

People say, “Oh, you had a heart attack! I’m so sorry!” And sometimes I get some astonishment that I’m up-front about it. For some, it seems to fit in the Dark Secret category. For me, it’s in the Big Life Event category, so I tend to talk about it (as you can tell).

Enough of that. Biology lesson coming.

When I was talking about health issues with my soccer teammate and family doc (who didn’t work on me during all this), his advice was, “The best thing you can do for your health is choose the right parents.” I get the humor of that, but like any good humor, it has the kernel of truth. Genetics is going to have you in certain categories, good and bad, as much as anything else.

So since I had a heart attack, I had a bad diet, no exercise, and a family history of heart disease, right?

No, wait, I didn’t. We had a pretty good diet (with the exception of an ice cream addiction, which for me evaporated overnight), we hike, I like physical work when I can get it, and I played soccer and worked out. You might have heard me inveigh against tobacco. I've never had a puff of a cigarette, not even for curiosity.

And as far as I know, I’m the only one in the family who’s had a heart attack.

The uncomfortable fact is that it can happen to anyone. Anyone. But that doesn’t mean it’s inevitable. What you look for is to lower the risk. Just like having good driving habits and wearing your seatbelt. You’re not immunizing yourself from accidents. You’re lowering the risk.

A blockage caused my heart attack. My right coronary artery, which feeds blood and oxygen and nutrients to the heart tissue, has areas of plaque on the arterial surface. Many of us have the same thing going on. If you think of an artery as a pipe, then plaque is the equivalent of grease in the pipe, and that grease can collect on the surface areas. But in an artery, there are living cells under that gunky stuff. In my case, those covered-up cells got inflamed and infected, built up an area of pus akin to a pimple and, like a pimple, erupted.

That erupted area then brought in my body’s immune response of platelets and white blood cells, and they were just so enthusiastic about covering up that little area of infection that they piled over it, and kept piling over it, like football players on a fumble, until the artery got occluded, or clogged. Since this is the artery that brings nutrients and oxygen to much of the heart, my heart was then getting starved, laboring to get its work done without the stuff that enervated it, and was starting to falter. Simply, the heart muscle wasn't getting the things that it needed to keep functioning. So we call it a heart attack, but in my case, the readout said “Acute MI,” or acute myocardial infarction.

So they stuck in the catheter and inflated the balloon and planted in the stent, like Neesy so nicely illustrated. Afterwards, they put me on Plavix, which is an anticlotting drug, to keep those platelets and white blood cells from clumping, and it also promoted cell growth around the stent so that the metal of the stent would get covered by cells and just be nicely implanted in the body. They also had me take a drug to keep my heart rate down, a drug to keep my blood pressure down, a statin to inhibit secretion of cholesterol and maybe keep the plaque from developing on my arteries so much, a side of nitroglycerin just in case I got alarming chest pains, and 81 mg of aspirin that I will take once a day for the rest of my life. The aspirin makes the platelets slicker and less likely to clump, which is more cumbersome than saying “thins the blood.”

I have to say, for a guy who is drug-averse and is used to taking ibuprofen about twice a year, this was a bit of a shock.

But in a big way, I’m incredibly lucky in all of this. Not in an odd way. In a big way.

For one thing, during the heart attack, I had time to do stupid things like do some work (and back it up) and shower and get driven to the hospital. That ain’t always the case. One of the more common symptoms of heart attack is sudden death.

Well, I dodged that one.

For another thing, if I lost to the odds in being a lower-risk person to have a heart attack, I surpassed the odds in having no damage to the heart. It’s like my heart said, “Okay, we got over that, and let’s keep on trucking,” and shrugged it off. This is not normal, but it is incredibly lucky, and I’m appreciative.

And the last way I’m lucky is harder to measure. When we face death, then hopefully, we come to appreciate our transient life here all the more.

Steven the cardiac nurse is my friend and a scotch buddy as well. We’ve had many talks since that night. I did hear that most heart attacks are survivable (at least the ones that don’t start with “sudden death”). I mentioned that to Steven, and he said, “The dirty secret, of sorts, is that most people who come in with a heart attack would survive if we did nothing. They may well have more heart damage without treatment, but they would survive.”

I said, “Oh, was that my case too?”

He shot his sincere-and-candid friendly grin my way. “Oh, no. You would’ve died.”

It’s my opportunity to have an epiphany out of this. Y'know, I put on my shoulder/lap belt before driving. Before getting on two wheels, I put on a helmet. Before crossing the street, I look both ways. It’s all to lessen risk.

But now the reason to lessen risk of another heart attack is a clear and present danger, imagined or not, that I would stop taking care of and loving and being loved by Grandma, that I’d miss the kids being here for holiday dinners and gabbing about life events, that I’d miss giving the grandkids driving lessons and being one who can keep their confidences.

Oh, man, I so do not want to miss that. I can give up some ice cream and work out more regularly to make that happen.

I’m lucky to have those goals made so clear for me. The character test is rising to the challenge to meet those goals.

 

[EMTP513]

Weirdly enough, the peanut butter thread made me want to share this.

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I wake up about 2:45 on a Monday morning. The time is greeted with a mental groan. Wayyy too early. Feeling weary, I get out of bed and notice a burning sort of pain in my chest, behind my sternum. “Huh. This must be what heartburn is like.”

I head down to the kitchen and get some milk. The milk seems to help a little bit, but the burning sensation is still bothersome, and I lie down on the couch so my moving from discomfort won’t bother Grandma.

And it's worse. Dangit. No way I can go back to sleep feeling like this. I get back up and go to the computer to do a little work, because I might as well do something with the time, but the discomfort is too distracting. What could be causing it? I reflect. I’d had an unusual amount of green tea, unsweetened, working late, before I went to bed. I’m no food chemist, but maybe it’s acidic burn from the tea? If so, let's dilute it. I drink some water, and wow, does the burning get sharper. Back to milk, sip a little bit, and it helps, but not much.

Now I notice that the backs of my arms are starting to feel a little pained and tingling.

I'm going from curious to concerned. I wake up poor Grandma and tell her I want to go to the emergency room. She stirs and gets up quickly, alarmed, because this is a highly unusual – make that unique – request from me. I say it’s probably indigestion or heartburn, but I’d like to be certain. She wonders if I should call the ambulance. I say, no, we’ll be halfway there by the time an ambulance gets here. She suggests I call Steven.

Steven is our neighbor who's a nurse in the cardiac catheter team at the local hospital. I say good idea, and then since I’m not feeling presentable, take a quick shower, which makes me feel so much better, and I consider canceling the whole thing, until I step out of the shower, and the burning pain hits me again, harder. I ponder whether to wake Steven up at 3:15 in the morning, and then think, well, if there’s ever a time to wake up your cardiac-familiar friend at 3:15 a.m., now is the time.

I call him, and he answers by the second ring, his voice alert. I’m impressed (as you’ll see, he happened to be on-call that night). I explain my symptoms to him, and he says they’re classic signs of a possible cardiac event and to call the ambulance. I say, by the time an ambulance gets here, we’ll be halfway to the hospital. Besides, I don’t want to disrupt the neighborhood at this hour. He says he'll alert the ER.

And then just in case, because you can never be sure, I go and back up my work so people can find it easily. Then I go back the car out of the garage, and Grandma comes out and orders me out of the driver’s seat, like I’m being stupid or something. And okay, I am.

Now it gets a little more grim. Directionally-challenged Grandma is driving, and I’m directing her because I’ve been to the hospital complex before, and now my chest is hurting ever more, burning and tightening up, the arms are still hurting and tingling, but now more so, and clamminess and sweating are setting in. These have all gone from “possible” signs to “prime” signs of a cardiac issue. I started contemplating the possibility that I might go into coronary failure right there in the car. With the chest, the clamminess, the sweats, I’m feeling bad enough that it doesn’t seem too far removed.

Not a good feeling, guys. I’ll finish the second part of the story, the time at the hospital, later.

Where I work, it's not true that it'll take the ambulance a long time to respond. Unless you live less than 8 minutes away from a hospital the ambulance will get there faster, because the symptoms of a cardiac incident are always ramped up to Trauma 1. And we have to arrive way before the 8-minute golden period that you get for cardiac episodes.