I've heard from people lost off my radar for years. I've heard from a few beautiful ex-girlfriends (one going all the way back to high school!). I've heard from loved ones and, what one fears all along about certain 'friends' one finds is true. This kind of stuff brings many life validations. And an absolute confirmation that I have amazing, amazing friends and family. And a number of interested folks around the world. The number of hits to entry one was surprising.
What has struck me most from private and public messages here, email, FB, and phone messages is the many who have said, "You'd be missed." Realize I never once, not at any moment, believed I was going to die. Death never crossed my mind. A knowledgeable friend informed me the artery they cleaned is known as 'the widow maker.' I wonder what it’s called if one doesn’t have someone who would become the widow (or even the girlfriend who gets one of those gorgeous gothic stories to tell after the funeral... especially stories of my certain beyond-the-grave visits to her as she undresses each night at her mirror). The widow maker. Jesus.
My second visit with Dr Ummat encouraged me. My vitals are all good. Thing is, we don’t really know what numbers weren’t good before the attack. I didn’t have a family doctor, as I mentioned, so we aren’t sure what of these meds are long-term necessary. We do know the cholesterol levels were high (good was low, bad was high… but not dangerously high). My blood pressure on these meds actually runs a little low right now so I’m hoping we’ll knock those off in time. My weight is dropping, which is a direct result of increased exercise.
The second angioplasty is delayed until early April. Doc wants to give my heart 8-10 weeks to make a full recovery to whatever recovery is possible. We have cleaned the widow maker so the other artery (in back of the heart) I hope will hang in there through Mardi Gras and April Fool’s Day.
Stress was a giant factor in my illness and in my recovery. Walking certainly improves the body’s reaction to stress. Doc wants me to do at least a moderate walk for one hour every day. Wave (or join) if you see me heading toward Cherokee Park, Tyler Park, or Downtown.
I’ve redone my office area to make it more relaxation friendly. I’m reading two novels at a time (one for study, one for fun). I haven’t hit any music since I returned home, but I’ve restarted going out evenings with friends so the music will come. (Bonaroo lineup was announced and I’ve cleared my schedule for my fourth ‘Roo.) I’ve started making phone calls. I hate talking on the phone. I always have. But in the past week I’ve averaged a phone call every other day, talking with people I don’t often get to see. I’m writing not only my ‘big project’, but I’ve started smaller projects that have no deadline or goals; personal creative ventures into odd places.
The icicles have dripped off the roof and onto plants soon to bloom. Spring is still several weeks away, but it’s teasing us here in the lower Midwest upper South. Spring and summer clothes (or lack thereof) soon to appear can’t be good for a man’s damaged heart, but I’m ready to take the risk. The widow maker is clear.
I label this first post as first post because, like most blogs, this isn't meant to be read in order. However, if you read in order, I hope there is a narrative of sorts. At least as much of a narrative one can project days after a life-changer with hopes that by the end of this blog there was a happily ever after.
Do start with this post, though. If you don't read this one (and I apologize for the length... future posts I'll strive for brevity), following posts won't have context. The other posts shouldn't, I hope, have an order outside of this one moment in time; the Friday night I, a somewhat young man, 39, had a 20-hour heart attack.
When it first hit, I didn't think it was my heart. There were two actual scary parts of the ordeal, one on the angioplasty table and the next day when the nurse allowed me to raise myself off a pillow for the first time. The heart attack wasn't scary. At around 3:30pm Friday, January 21, I fell away from my desk and the manuscript of a rather needy writer. My chest burned like bad Mexican making its way upward and back out. I strolled to the bed (I'd stroll a lot over the next 20 hours) and lay down for an hour, hoping to sleep. Instead, my body decided to yak up the problem. I went to the bathroom and yakked for a bit. When I was younger, nothing made a head-spinning night out more tolerable than an intentional regurgitation of several dollars worth of tequila and beer. I figured after this episode my chest would instantly feel relief. I was wrong. I went back to bed to sleep it off, but I found no angle to comfort. I popped aspirin. I would take aspirin most of the night, just in case.
By evening my roommate had made it home. She said I was scary pale. I explained my pain and we both were aware of two possibilities: severe indigestion or my heart. Around 7pm she said she'd run to Walgreens and get some antacids. By now the burning had spread throughout the entire chest area. It felt too large to be heart related. My arm didn't hurt, my jaw didn't hurt, I wasn't weak, I wasn't gasping for breath... I was just very uncomfortable. Roomie left the house, returned, said her car was frozen and she'd walk. Although it was only a few blocks I said forget it. It was far too cold to walk and could wait until morning. She's a scrappy little soldier and went anyway, through the cold and snow, and brought back antacids that, taken throughout the night, did nothing. I tried to sleep the night in my recliner, but I could only sleep a few minutes each hour. By Saturday morning I had no choice but to visit the doctor. Because I still wasn't convinced, we went to a local clinic where there would be almost no waiting. They put the EKG on me and said, "This shows you are possibly having an attack right now."
"Well, that would be twenty hours then because this hasn't stopped since yesterday afternoon."
"You need to go to the ER."
They gave us an address, they called ahead, and sent me to the wrong ER. How the hospital they sent me to did not inform the clinic nurse that they had no cardiac care unit still baffles me, but that hospital gave me Nitro, took more tests, confirmed the EKG with another, and summoned an ambulance. By the time I arrived at the Norton Audubon Hospital by ambulance, the cardio team was ready to balloon and stent me. They had already received X-rays from the second stop.
I could step away here and talk about the lovely medic in the ambulance who told me great stories of his grandmother who recently died of a heart attack. I could talk about Dr Richards who could do nothing for me at stop two, but made sure stop three was ready the second I arrived. I could write about the Doc at the clinic who couldn't believe heart attack because of my age, and because I strolled in with ease that Saturday morning. But what mattered at that moment and at this moment and for all moments to come is the magic I observed and experienced in the next 20 minutes.
Dr Ummat, an older (70's) gentle man from India said to me how they would soon cut into my groin and send a camera and balloon up an artery and into my heart. He said he was now shooting my groin with Novocain. He stood beside me and took my hand, "There are three arteries into our heart God has given to us. We will clear one for you right now that is completely blocked. A second is more than half blocked and we will have to clear it in weeks to come." (He might have said three of something else, or didn't say arteries... this is what I remember and I understand the incorrect information here. It was the gentle delivery of his message that matters.)
I didn't feel the cut to my groin or the balloon enter my leg, but I watched. I watched live video as the wire journeyed through my leg, up my side, and into my heart. I watched my artery respond when one of the doctors said, "Inflate." I think they said it two or three times, at least. They should sell DVDs of this procedure because I'd watch it a hundred times. It was done with such ease, such matter-of-factness. I've ordered meals that took six people longer to get right than it took this team to get my artery cleaned. Making a phone call to correct a phone bill takes longer. What once could not be done, what would once almost certainly kill a man or woman, is now easier than filing papers to pay for the procedure.
We were done. The angioplasty was a success and now they just needed to shoot my body full of dye to look at the heart and vessel damage.
A nurse said, "You're going to feel a little weird. It's going to feel warm at your head then down to your feet. You might feel like you've wet yourself." I admit I was interested in feeling like I'd wet myself. Either in my youth I had wet myself or I've sometimes felt as if I would soon wet myself, but I can't imagine what it is like to feel like I've wet myself but actually haven't.
As she spoke, heat filled my head and indeed shot to my feet. The doctor was saying, "You must not move your right leg for a day. And leave your head down as well. Lifting your head puts pressure on the incision, and we need that to heal."
Those were the last words I heard him say when my ears swelled shut. As the warmth spread into my toes, the skin on my face began to crawl. An itch like I've never felt wrapped my head and arms then legs like cellophane. My tongue swelled, my lips swelled; lips itchy and swollen and would barely open... all of this within seconds. A nurse said, "Are you OK?"
"I can't breathe. My tongue is swollen and I can't breathe."
The doctor, luckily still in the room, called for Benadryl and an oxygen mask. "Don't lift your right leg," he said. "If you need to move, lift your left." He touched my arm and said, "You're OK."
I'm certain a Kentucky native could not have soothed me as this man who sounded like he was reading a Hindu book of relaxation. "I know I'm OK," I said. "I'm just uncomfortable." The only reason I knew I was OK was because he said so.
The Benadryl set in and as fast as my first anaphylactic shock rattled me, it passed. I've never had an allergic reaction to anything, ever. A yellow pollen in May sets me back a few weeks, but nothing has affected me as quickly or as intensely. Think of the most satisfying wall-shaking orgasm you can imagine and then imagine the exact opposite happening to your body. That is anaphylactic shock. The instant release goes inward and rattles everything.
Overnight, I slept on occasion as nurses checked on me every two hours. A heavy weight was placed on my groin incision to be left all night. I was forbidden to lift my head. My heart monitor showed a normal oxygen rate, normal blood pressure, and a heart rate that sometimes raced from 90 to 120 or dropped to 80. When morning came, I would be moved upstairs but not before one final check of the vitals. At 6am the nurse removed the weight and gave permission to limber up.
"Lift your head, your leg, and push up into a sitting position." I pushed down on the bed lifting my head, moved my leg an inch, and the heart monitor screamed. The nurse looked at me wondering why I wasn't in convulsions, the door flew open as another nurse entered looking for the patient for whom the bells rang... my heart rate was at 144 for the moment I glanced at the monitor. Two guys rolled in a little machine as the monitor stopped screaming.
Everyone stared at me for a moment while I looked at them wondering what I was supposed to do. Was I supposed to collapse? Was I at least supposed to be in pain? The first nurse said, "Well. If that's going to happen when you sit up, you might not leave this floor today." A couple of hours later, room dark so I could finally sleep, Dr Ummat made an early Saturday visit. I suppose I winced as the light flipped on because he apologized and turned it off. We talked in the dark. I explained the heart rate of a couple hours previously. He used words like 'heart failure' and 'massive heart attack' and 'severe damage.'
Over the next three days many varied nurses would prick my fingers, bruise my veins, visually inspect and physically push on my groin incision. I wish I could say that last check-up didn't oddly satisfy me.
I'm home now with a few guidelines. The main cause of the attack docs say was genetics. The second cause was stress and third was lack of exercise because of my lifestyle. I write, read, and talk for a living. None of that requires running long hallways like I once did in the corporate publishing world. When I traveled more, I'd walk big cities month after month. But I stopped much of the travel to focus on my own work. Now I sit. I sit and sit maybe walk to a coffee shop to sit and then go to dinner and sit and go to drinks and sit and listen to music sitting.
To avoid congestive heart failure, or too much liquid pushing around in me, I'm on a 2000ml liquid restriction. I can have the equivalent of a 2-liter bottle of liquids a day. I am someone who probably drank 2-liters of water before late afternoon and another liter of various liquids after. I've acclimated. A small orange juice in the morning, a Grande Starbucks through the day with water, a beer in the evening, a water before bed. It's nowhere near what I consumed before, but this is temporary.
In five weeks I have another angioplasty. Then we see what the full damage was. One doc believes much of the damage showing now is the heart performing 'stunned' and I'll get much of the heart activity back.
Fact is, I feel terrific. I have more energy than a month or more leading up to the attack. I knew something within me wasn't right a month or even two before. I was tired, sluggish, sometimes not feeling well, but mostly I could feel the stress. I could feel my heart thump when a shit email came through. I started weeding out negative voices, ideas, and clients before the attack. I'm revamping a few things to help the stress level. I'm reading more. I'm enjoying various music throughout the day. But fact is, aside from the negative aspects of my life I needed to quiet down, I enjoyed life before this attack. I enjoyed friends and family. I enjoyed the small things; a nice museum, a gorgeous garden, brilliant food. I'm not celebrating a 'second lease' on life. I'm continuing the celebration. I will continue eating good foods (healthy, but quality flavor and cooking), the laughter and words of my nieces and nephews, good prose, moving lyrics and notes, the smell and sight and conversation of intriguing women.
My heart could shut it off tomorrow. In fact, as I write this it was one week ago this moment where I was two hours into the pain that would last another eighteen before visiting a doctor. If this last decade I'd gone to a doctor on a regular basis, this would likely have been avoided. I'd have known my numbers were high and I could have taken meds and instituted lifestyle changes to avoid the heart attack. But, I feel terrific. I walk my neighborhood every day, I've already shed several pounds and many more will follow.
I walk with more purpose.
This blog will be occasional thoughts about a damaged heart. Lifestyle changes, things I've read, music I've heard, theatre, beautiful women, bourbon and beer taken in moderation and appreciated unlike before, and what it is to walk away from what many don't. All from this moment forward viewed through a heart-attack colored lens. If you want to see it with me, come on back.
