I have what is known as a "great room," which is a living room and kitchen and dining room, all combined into one big room. A tall, bar stool height counter separates the kitchen from the rest, in the shape of a big squared off "U." In terms of size, if necessary, I could fit 9 bar stools at my bar. I actually own bar stools, but being a pain in my ass and always in the way, I have relegated them to the attic.
The counter top tends to collect things--which has always pissed me off. I HATE stuff on counters. I have considered buying 18 to 20-ft of pigeon spikes to ward off the mail, gadgetry, dog treats, a couple potted plants, about 39 pens, medication bottles, Kleenex boxes, flashlights, packs of gum, loose change and other assorted counter top detritus. It has gotten particularly bad since I've been sick. It will just have to wait.
I have made myself a nest on the couch. This way I'm in the thick of things. I am right next to the back door for the letting out of dogs. I am near to the fridge and pantry - just toddle a few steps and I can eat and drink something. The TV is out here, and I can put my laptop on the coffee table. The guest bath is just on the other side of one wall. I have everything I need in my nest. It's perfect. Except for the hair.
I hate hair. Naturally I would have 3 dogs made of nothing except hair. Ok, make that hair and teeth. I even went so far as to shave poor Tater one year - left her a big lion tuft at the end of her tail and nothing else. She moped for about 3 days, and from then on I swore there would be no more dog shaving.
I was forced to do a load of laundry today--the sheets and blanket from my couch. If I am on the couch, the dogs want to be close at hand. Binky, the little one, gets on the couch with me. The other two lunks mill around nearby, brushing up against the couch, wiping hair along the sides, leaning up against it, etc., the whole time just bleeding hair onto the damned couch. If I never vacuumed, the entire house would turn into felt.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Fan Dancing
I have this feeling that if I cough or sneeze just one time too many, my ribs will spring open like two giant, bony fans.
They gave me a heart shaped pillow at the hospital, roughly the size of my torso, to "hug tightly" every time I have to cough or sneeze. I am also supposed to wear it between the seat belt and my body when I get in a car.
I used to sing. My voice has been classically trained, is a natural dramatic contralto, and I can sing in all registers. Now I can't take a deep enough breath to give a decent cough. If I tried to sing now I'd sound like Johnny Cash singing Nirvana on his last album right before he died. How sexy. There was a time when my voice could fill a packed house without a mic. Those days are over. Maybe I'll look into Fan Dancing if my ribs cooperate.
They gave me a heart shaped pillow at the hospital, roughly the size of my torso, to "hug tightly" every time I have to cough or sneeze. I am also supposed to wear it between the seat belt and my body when I get in a car.
I used to sing. My voice has been classically trained, is a natural dramatic contralto, and I can sing in all registers. Now I can't take a deep enough breath to give a decent cough. If I tried to sing now I'd sound like Johnny Cash singing Nirvana on his last album right before he died. How sexy. There was a time when my voice could fill a packed house without a mic. Those days are over. Maybe I'll look into Fan Dancing if my ribs cooperate.
Friday, July 29, 2011
I am Klingon, Hear me Roar
I have these knobs. All along the incision on my sternum are these hard lumps under the skin that feel exactly like a row of radiator hose clamps. If I run my fingers along the incision from top to bottom, it feels not unlike the row of knobs on a Klingon's head. I know this from TV, since I have never felt the knobs on an actual Klingon's head.
I got there right at noon, prepared to wait, but surprised there were very few patients sitting in the waiting room. Normally it's crammed, every single one of them sitting there with their thumbs in their asses, every chair filled. I digress...
I was further surprised when the doctor himself came shambling out from the back, script in hand. "I'm really sorry about this," he begins, as he shoves it at me. "Yeah, yeah, whatever, just never let it happen again!!" I smile at him. He smiles back, being used to my odd sense of humor by now.
"When I was here the other day I forgot to make you feel my knobs - so while you're standing right there, give me your paw!" I demand.
"WHAT?"
"It'll be quick," I promise. He sticks out his right hand as if for a handshake.
I take his hand in mine and with his fingers grasped together in my palm, I run his fingertips along my row of Klingon knobs. "What the hell IS that? Do you feel those lumpy knobs? They feel like radiator hose clamps..."
"You're right! That's exactly what they feel like," he laughs. "First of all, I want you to know it only happens to the most beautiful women."
"Are you flirting with me, you disgusting old fuck?" I think, but do not say, and roll my eyes instead. "Not that big lump between my collarbones, I mean the row of little ones..."
"Same phenomenon. All I can say is it will eventually smooth out. We don't know why the sternum heals that way in some people. It's just a harmless anomaly."
"Hrmph!" I say. "See you in two weeks," he says, and shambles back to his lair. When he reaches the door, he turns to look at me and says, "You're going to be ok!" I stick out my tongue at him. He giggles like a goofy kid and disappears behind the door.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Now I am become my Grandmother
When I was a girl, my Ma (pronounced "Maw") used to wear what she called "house dresses." These were usually belted shirtwaists - the kind that June Cleaver and Donna Reed wore. What it meant was any dress suitable for wearing around the house, as opposed to something one might wear to go downtown or to the doctor's office, say.
The house dresses would always be accompanied by stockings with garters, and shoes with a heel of no less than three inches in height. She was exactly five feet tall, which killed her to admit, so unless it was bedtime and slippers were appropriate, she would be wearing heels. She made sure she was put together every day and made an effort to look nice.
Since she was short but wide, she was hard to fit. For instance, she couldn't just go to Sears and buy a dress off the rack. Everything would have to be altered. There was one exception: her favorite dress store, Shumacher's in the Dutchtown neighborhood of St. Louis. Shumacher carried petite dresses and always had something she could find in her size that looked nice as well as actually fit her, with no alterations needed.
Years went by, the neighborhood changed, and by the time I was in high school, Shumacher's had closed. Instantly, my Ma became more casual. She still wore house dresses, but rarely would it be an actual dress, unless she expected company or had somewhere to go that day. Most of the time it was a nightgown, and a lot of the time it was the kind of nightgown with snaps down the front. I know you've seen them on various old ladies. They can be had at Walmart for about $12.
Since I got home from the hospital, I've been wearing "house dresses." Not the June Cleaver type dresses, I mean the kind with snaps down the front. This is my morning routine: Get up, take a shower, put on a fresh nightgown. Dammit.
The house dresses would always be accompanied by stockings with garters, and shoes with a heel of no less than three inches in height. She was exactly five feet tall, which killed her to admit, so unless it was bedtime and slippers were appropriate, she would be wearing heels. She made sure she was put together every day and made an effort to look nice.
Since she was short but wide, she was hard to fit. For instance, she couldn't just go to Sears and buy a dress off the rack. Everything would have to be altered. There was one exception: her favorite dress store, Shumacher's in the Dutchtown neighborhood of St. Louis. Shumacher carried petite dresses and always had something she could find in her size that looked nice as well as actually fit her, with no alterations needed.
Years went by, the neighborhood changed, and by the time I was in high school, Shumacher's had closed. Instantly, my Ma became more casual. She still wore house dresses, but rarely would it be an actual dress, unless she expected company or had somewhere to go that day. Most of the time it was a nightgown, and a lot of the time it was the kind of nightgown with snaps down the front. I know you've seen them on various old ladies. They can be had at Walmart for about $12.
Since I got home from the hospital, I've been wearing "house dresses." Not the June Cleaver type dresses, I mean the kind with snaps down the front. This is my morning routine: Get up, take a shower, put on a fresh nightgown. Dammit.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
The Greatest Pain
Ugly words issued
Should stand alone unanswered
Revealing their shame
(bad Haiku #135)
When somebody says something so hateful and hurtful to you, something that just cuts you to the core, how do you get over it? Are you supposed to get over it, or is it meant to follow you around for life, like a bad tattoo?
When I was about five, my mother told me I wasn't her child. That somehow at the hospital she got a changeling, and had remembered being told in the delivery room she had had a boy. Occasionally, she'd remind me of this, usually at some holiday like my birthday or Christmas. I never met my father. They were divorced when I was 2, so there was no one from whom I could demand answers. How cruel. This began when I was 5 and it still hurts me.
I lived with my grandparents from the time I was a new baby until my grandpa died and she was forced to come and take me away. She got a new husband, and a year later, when I was ten, I got a new brother.
For awhile when I was a teenager it stopped, but then when my brother was in his teens, she related the changeling story to him, and it started all over again. In fact, it never ended until she died, in 2003. Never mind that I looked just like one of the family - I've got their nose and eyes. Never mind that my father was a 6'5" redhead. I've got his hair and smile and height--I know this from photographs. According to her I was a changeling. Period.
She never told me she loved me. On her death bed I tried to tell her I loved her, and with her dying breath she told me, "Shut up and don't get sappy."
To this day it breaks my heart, and there is no way I know to fix it. Anyone who might once have given a shit is dead. Except me - the only one that matters.
Should stand alone unanswered
Revealing their shame
(bad Haiku #135)
When somebody says something so hateful and hurtful to you, something that just cuts you to the core, how do you get over it? Are you supposed to get over it, or is it meant to follow you around for life, like a bad tattoo?
When I was about five, my mother told me I wasn't her child. That somehow at the hospital she got a changeling, and had remembered being told in the delivery room she had had a boy. Occasionally, she'd remind me of this, usually at some holiday like my birthday or Christmas. I never met my father. They were divorced when I was 2, so there was no one from whom I could demand answers. How cruel. This began when I was 5 and it still hurts me.
I lived with my grandparents from the time I was a new baby until my grandpa died and she was forced to come and take me away. She got a new husband, and a year later, when I was ten, I got a new brother.
For awhile when I was a teenager it stopped, but then when my brother was in his teens, she related the changeling story to him, and it started all over again. In fact, it never ended until she died, in 2003. Never mind that I looked just like one of the family - I've got their nose and eyes. Never mind that my father was a 6'5" redhead. I've got his hair and smile and height--I know this from photographs. According to her I was a changeling. Period.
She never told me she loved me. On her death bed I tried to tell her I loved her, and with her dying breath she told me, "Shut up and don't get sappy."
To this day it breaks my heart, and there is no way I know to fix it. Anyone who might once have given a shit is dead. Except me - the only one that matters.
Measle
Fishy in the brook
Jump upon my shining hook
You'll taste great with sauce
(bad haiku #134)
When I moved to Tennessee in 2007, it was the fist time since I was 8 years old that I didn't have a working aquarium set up. I just don't have the gumption anymore. Although it can look effortless taking care of an aquarium, it is no easy task. One doesn't just feed the fish and turn the lights on and off, it's actually a delicate ecosystem that needs to be balanced. The good aquarists are naturals at this and make it look easy. The rest might as well just put their money in a pile and light it on fire.
I prefer African cichlids. They're the most colorful freshwater fish, and fairly easy to obtain. They're fairly hardy too, as long as you keep their temperature up and the pH high.
On one occasion I was setting up a brand new 55 gallon tank. Setting up is a process...can't just dump all the crap in at once and expect it to work. It takes several weeks for the water to adjust and the bacteria colonies to establish themselves before you can introduce fish. I had planned to use this tank to house sunset gouramis.
Before The gouramis came, I bought several aquarium plants, some of the floaty kind and some to plant, and one little upside down catfish - about an inch long. I put the floaty plants into the water, and I see this tiny pair of eyes swimming toward me! Seriously, it was such a tiny fish, I could only see his eyes - he had been a stowaway inside the plant! I decided to let him stay.
I set the lights on a timer, and once a day threw a few sinking shrimp pellets onto the gravel in the bottom for the catfish. I never saw the catfish, but I suspected he was there since I hadn't seen his carcas floating on the top.
About 6 weeks later, I prepare to go gourami shopping. I take the lid off the aquarium to rearrange the rocks, and place a few plants in a more attractive location, and a huge splash greets me at the surface of the water. I jumped about 3 feet straight in the air - it scared the crap out of me. I put the lid back on and turned on the lights to observe. It was the catfish, who by that time had grown to about 8 inches long and had been living under a piece of driftwood. Next I see "the pair of eyes" has grown to be a *pan-sized* spotted fish I would later identify as a turquoise severum. I named him Measle and decided to forget about the gouramis.
Measle would follow whoever happened to walk by the tank, and became a favorite of anyone who visited. And he kept growing, finally ending up dinner-plate sized. Measle had a trick. I would open the lid and say "Give us a kiss, Measle!" He would come to the surface and make a big "smooch" sound, exactly like a huge kiss. That was his feeding routine, not really a trick, but I swear it could have been on Letterman's stupid pet tricks, and Letterman himself would have handed him a prize.
Measle lived to be 18. When he died I kind of lost interest in moving the aquarium one more time. I gave my remaining fish away and packed everything up. It sits in the garage in a crate. Waiting.
Jump upon my shining hook
You'll taste great with sauce
(bad haiku #134)
When I moved to Tennessee in 2007, it was the fist time since I was 8 years old that I didn't have a working aquarium set up. I just don't have the gumption anymore. Although it can look effortless taking care of an aquarium, it is no easy task. One doesn't just feed the fish and turn the lights on and off, it's actually a delicate ecosystem that needs to be balanced. The good aquarists are naturals at this and make it look easy. The rest might as well just put their money in a pile and light it on fire.
I prefer African cichlids. They're the most colorful freshwater fish, and fairly easy to obtain. They're fairly hardy too, as long as you keep their temperature up and the pH high.
On one occasion I was setting up a brand new 55 gallon tank. Setting up is a process...can't just dump all the crap in at once and expect it to work. It takes several weeks for the water to adjust and the bacteria colonies to establish themselves before you can introduce fish. I had planned to use this tank to house sunset gouramis.
Before The gouramis came, I bought several aquarium plants, some of the floaty kind and some to plant, and one little upside down catfish - about an inch long. I put the floaty plants into the water, and I see this tiny pair of eyes swimming toward me! Seriously, it was such a tiny fish, I could only see his eyes - he had been a stowaway inside the plant! I decided to let him stay.
I set the lights on a timer, and once a day threw a few sinking shrimp pellets onto the gravel in the bottom for the catfish. I never saw the catfish, but I suspected he was there since I hadn't seen his carcas floating on the top.
About 6 weeks later, I prepare to go gourami shopping. I take the lid off the aquarium to rearrange the rocks, and place a few plants in a more attractive location, and a huge splash greets me at the surface of the water. I jumped about 3 feet straight in the air - it scared the crap out of me. I put the lid back on and turned on the lights to observe. It was the catfish, who by that time had grown to about 8 inches long and had been living under a piece of driftwood. Next I see "the pair of eyes" has grown to be a *pan-sized* spotted fish I would later identify as a turquoise severum. I named him Measle and decided to forget about the gouramis.
Measle would follow whoever happened to walk by the tank, and became a favorite of anyone who visited. And he kept growing, finally ending up dinner-plate sized. Measle had a trick. I would open the lid and say "Give us a kiss, Measle!" He would come to the surface and make a big "smooch" sound, exactly like a huge kiss. That was his feeding routine, not really a trick, but I swear it could have been on Letterman's stupid pet tricks, and Letterman himself would have handed him a prize.
Measle lived to be 18. When he died I kind of lost interest in moving the aquarium one more time. I gave my remaining fish away and packed everything up. It sits in the garage in a crate. Waiting.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Dogs
I hope that it's true
There exists a rainbow bridge
Where my old dogs wait
(bad Haiku #133)
I have owned some wonderful dogs in my lifetime. The ones who have gone on now exist in ash form in little polished oak boxes, their remains placed there after I had them cremated. They are my family, after all, I could do nothing less.
Those little oak boxes will be buried with me in the family vault. The Catholic Church does not allow animals in their cemetaries, but that's just tough shit - my dogs are going with me. Period. I want them in my coffin when I get planted. My family, my pack, my furry children will be buried with me. The rest of my family members, if they're aware, will think it typical of me, and have a laugh, and possibly a snort and a beer back - if beers & shots exist in the afterlife.
One of the most difficult things I ever had to do was put my Miniature Pinscher, Scarlett, down. She was the most fabulous dog I ever had. She was blind, but that didn't slow her down a bit. She was smart as a whip and I swear, intuitive. I still miss her to this day. She was 15 and had congestive heart failure. It crushed me to do it, but I took her to the vet wrapped up in her little blanket, bought her the pink needle, and had her cremated the same day.
Sometmes I think people should have the option of the pink needle. If the pain is too hideous, the cure too imposible, the ravages of the disease too much to bear, I think people should be able to choose the ends of their own lives. And I don't want any mail telling me what a Nazi I am, dammit. This is my opinion and I'm entitled to it. So there.
There exists a rainbow bridge
Where my old dogs wait
(bad Haiku #133)
I have owned some wonderful dogs in my lifetime. The ones who have gone on now exist in ash form in little polished oak boxes, their remains placed there after I had them cremated. They are my family, after all, I could do nothing less.
Those little oak boxes will be buried with me in the family vault. The Catholic Church does not allow animals in their cemetaries, but that's just tough shit - my dogs are going with me. Period. I want them in my coffin when I get planted. My family, my pack, my furry children will be buried with me. The rest of my family members, if they're aware, will think it typical of me, and have a laugh, and possibly a snort and a beer back - if beers & shots exist in the afterlife.
One of the most difficult things I ever had to do was put my Miniature Pinscher, Scarlett, down. She was the most fabulous dog I ever had. She was blind, but that didn't slow her down a bit. She was smart as a whip and I swear, intuitive. I still miss her to this day. She was 15 and had congestive heart failure. It crushed me to do it, but I took her to the vet wrapped up in her little blanket, bought her the pink needle, and had her cremated the same day.
Sometmes I think people should have the option of the pink needle. If the pain is too hideous, the cure too imposible, the ravages of the disease too much to bear, I think people should be able to choose the ends of their own lives. And I don't want any mail telling me what a Nazi I am, dammit. This is my opinion and I'm entitled to it. So there.
5 French Fries
Why is it you always want what you can't have? I dreamed I went to McDonald's and ordered five french fries. Not five orders of fries, just five singular ones. And a packet of ketchup. And some salt. Can't eat fries without salt.
If there was a bacon dispensary anywhere nearby, I'd be lining up there in my dreams too.
Incidentally, NEVER buy turkey bacon. They should rename it "Salty bacon-shaped vomit strips." It is bacon's evil imitator. It will make you wish your mother had never met your father. Seriously, it is far better to do without bacon than try to replace it with an evil imitator. Ugh.
If there was a bacon dispensary anywhere nearby, I'd be lining up there in my dreams too.
Incidentally, NEVER buy turkey bacon. They should rename it "Salty bacon-shaped vomit strips." It is bacon's evil imitator. It will make you wish your mother had never met your father. Seriously, it is far better to do without bacon than try to replace it with an evil imitator. Ugh.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Torture at the Cardiologist's
I'm so weak I can do nothing but lie here on the couch and waggle my fingers over this damned keyboard. It's kind of ridiculous that I actually have to recover from a visit to the doctor. I was there for 5 hours, not counting travel time. I'm surprised my house wasn't entirely filled up with dog crap when I returned.
Besides my usual complaint that I am screamy sore and can't he please do something about it, he asked he if I was sleeping. I am NOT sleeping. What I have is sort of a half-sleep, not fully unconscious, but not fully awake, either. It's a strange state. He said he'd give me sleeping pills. I said I didn't want them unless they were the type that made me sleep through a five alarm fire and wake up refreshed. He laughed. I tried to kick his shins, but missed.
I get a lovely mixture of oxy and tramadol, along with a generous dose of ativan to smooth things out. It used to make me barf. Now I just sit around with my tongue lolling out, like one of the dogs. At least we look like a family that way. Anyway, I don't think I need a sleeping pill thrown in the mix. On the other hand, maybe not sleeping is hindering any recovery I might have. We shall see.
I feel terrible. He told me, "You're going to be ok." I told him he was a liar, knowing full well he stole that line directly from Norman Vincent Peale, and called him on it. Pfft.
Besides my usual complaint that I am screamy sore and can't he please do something about it, he asked he if I was sleeping. I am NOT sleeping. What I have is sort of a half-sleep, not fully unconscious, but not fully awake, either. It's a strange state. He said he'd give me sleeping pills. I said I didn't want them unless they were the type that made me sleep through a five alarm fire and wake up refreshed. He laughed. I tried to kick his shins, but missed.
I get a lovely mixture of oxy and tramadol, along with a generous dose of ativan to smooth things out. It used to make me barf. Now I just sit around with my tongue lolling out, like one of the dogs. At least we look like a family that way. Anyway, I don't think I need a sleeping pill thrown in the mix. On the other hand, maybe not sleeping is hindering any recovery I might have. We shall see.
I feel terrible. He told me, "You're going to be ok." I told him he was a liar, knowing full well he stole that line directly from Norman Vincent Peale, and called him on it. Pfft.
Actually, I feel like an Aztec sacrifice - like I've had my heart ripped out. I wonder how many Aztec priests looked at their victims and said "You're going to be ok!" right before they ripped out their hearts?
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Oww Oww & Oww
When they crack your chest, they tell you within six weeks you should start feeling normal again. Liars! They say that so you will go away and leave them alone. They say it so you'll agree to their operations and assorted tortures before you know the full extent of what you're in for. They say it because there is no other choice for you and they have to say something. They figure six weeks is a short enough time period to keep you from running out the door, screaming. It's a barbaric operation, about like surviving an autopsy.
It has been ten weeks. I hurt. I mean I HURT. I'm not kidding. My hurt rates enough narcotic to keep me semi-conscious and enough ativan to keep me from going on a killing rampage (since I am fairly certain all killing rampages begin with a great pain.)
My left boob--the purplest one--is really screamy sore, in the way that a badly infected tooth is screamy sore. I was told it's because they used the left mammary artery in one of my grafts. Since its blood supply has essentially been cut off, the boob is saying "OMGWTF where the hell is my blood supply? I better send a distress signal!!" It is still discolored and kind of lumpy looking. Meh. It's not like I had plans to pose for Playboy, but still.
My ribs and sternum are a nightmare. I can feel them move. I can feel the radiator clamps, or whatever the hell they used to clamp it back together, under my skin...like they're trying to poke out. With each breath, every rib gives me a little stabbity stab. If the damned sheet on the bed happens to touch my chest I gasp in pain. I just fucking hurt. All of me hurts. Sometimes I can no longer distinguish which hurty part is which.
Apparently in the fall of 2008 I had a fairly significant heart attack. I remember this because I had gone to the ER during a trip to Baltimore and said specifically, "I AM HAVING A HEART ATTACK!" The ER said my EKG looked *beautiful,* and it was probably my stomach or pancreas. I said, "But what about this elephant sitting on my chest, stabbing me with a daggar?" They said, "It's your imagination." Bastards. FYI: An EKG does not show all areas of the heart.
I cut my trip to Baltimore short, came back to Memphis and was treated for Pancreatitis. They figured "holy crap she has a monster pain and it's not her heart, it MUST be her pancreas." Pfft. Shorty after this I developed an infection in my jaw and started losing bone and teeth. All of these symptoms point to heart disease. NONE of it was noticed until it was too late to fix.
My right coronary artery has a 100% blockage and the bottom of my heart is essentially dead. They didn't bypass this area because it wouldn't have helped--the tissue wouldn't revive-- it had been dead or dying for the past three years. THIS blockage was the elephant on my chest.
They did bypass the areas that could still be saved, the 70-90% blockages. I have significant heart disease and nobody noticed. I wish I could roll some heads but I don't know where to start. I had a "beautiful EKG," I have low blood pressure, I have normal range weight, and my fasting cholesterol numbers were ok. That's why they didn't notice.
My puppy finally made them notice. When I couldn't keep up with the puppy - couldn't breathe while walking around the ring at puppy class, that's when I finally got some attention. Instead of the crazy nut job with the constant pain, overnight I became the dying heart patient in need of immediate surgery.
At that point, I went into hyperdrive. I came home, arranged for care of dogs, revised will, made a new living will, paid everything that needed to be paid and set up auto-pay for everything else. Did every scrap of laundry, changed the sheets, vacuumed, and went grocery shopping for things that would be easy to fix (frozen meals)....because I knew when I got back it would be a long time before I could do any domestic crap again. I threw some toiletries in an overnight bag and went to the hospital, scared out of my mind and actively trying to not think.
The following days went by in a blur of pain. I got to go home as soon as my blood sugar levels came down to normal and I no longer needed the insulin drip. I was there for seven days.
I started to cry in the hospital. More or less I have continued to cry since I left. Apparently major depression is something common to all heart operations. They claim it's an affect of being on the heart/lung machine--part of "pump head," along with a host of other cognitive and emotional impairments.
If I had it to do over again, I would choose to just stay home and let whatever happen happen. In the future I will make sure I have a porch, just so I can crawl under it and be left alone, like an old hound dog. One thing's for damned sure, I will never have my chest opened again.
I see my Cardiologist Monday at noon. I may punch him in the mouth for good measure.
It has been ten weeks. I hurt. I mean I HURT. I'm not kidding. My hurt rates enough narcotic to keep me semi-conscious and enough ativan to keep me from going on a killing rampage (since I am fairly certain all killing rampages begin with a great pain.)
My left boob--the purplest one--is really screamy sore, in the way that a badly infected tooth is screamy sore. I was told it's because they used the left mammary artery in one of my grafts. Since its blood supply has essentially been cut off, the boob is saying "OMGWTF where the hell is my blood supply? I better send a distress signal!!" It is still discolored and kind of lumpy looking. Meh. It's not like I had plans to pose for Playboy, but still.
My ribs and sternum are a nightmare. I can feel them move. I can feel the radiator clamps, or whatever the hell they used to clamp it back together, under my skin...like they're trying to poke out. With each breath, every rib gives me a little stabbity stab. If the damned sheet on the bed happens to touch my chest I gasp in pain. I just fucking hurt. All of me hurts. Sometimes I can no longer distinguish which hurty part is which.
Apparently in the fall of 2008 I had a fairly significant heart attack. I remember this because I had gone to the ER during a trip to Baltimore and said specifically, "I AM HAVING A HEART ATTACK!" The ER said my EKG looked *beautiful,* and it was probably my stomach or pancreas. I said, "But what about this elephant sitting on my chest, stabbing me with a daggar?" They said, "It's your imagination." Bastards. FYI: An EKG does not show all areas of the heart.
I cut my trip to Baltimore short, came back to Memphis and was treated for Pancreatitis. They figured "holy crap she has a monster pain and it's not her heart, it MUST be her pancreas." Pfft. Shorty after this I developed an infection in my jaw and started losing bone and teeth. All of these symptoms point to heart disease. NONE of it was noticed until it was too late to fix.
My right coronary artery has a 100% blockage and the bottom of my heart is essentially dead. They didn't bypass this area because it wouldn't have helped--the tissue wouldn't revive-- it had been dead or dying for the past three years. THIS blockage was the elephant on my chest.
They did bypass the areas that could still be saved, the 70-90% blockages. I have significant heart disease and nobody noticed. I wish I could roll some heads but I don't know where to start. I had a "beautiful EKG," I have low blood pressure, I have normal range weight, and my fasting cholesterol numbers were ok. That's why they didn't notice.
My puppy finally made them notice. When I couldn't keep up with the puppy - couldn't breathe while walking around the ring at puppy class, that's when I finally got some attention. Instead of the crazy nut job with the constant pain, overnight I became the dying heart patient in need of immediate surgery.
At that point, I went into hyperdrive. I came home, arranged for care of dogs, revised will, made a new living will, paid everything that needed to be paid and set up auto-pay for everything else. Did every scrap of laundry, changed the sheets, vacuumed, and went grocery shopping for things that would be easy to fix (frozen meals)....because I knew when I got back it would be a long time before I could do any domestic crap again. I threw some toiletries in an overnight bag and went to the hospital, scared out of my mind and actively trying to not think.
The following days went by in a blur of pain. I got to go home as soon as my blood sugar levels came down to normal and I no longer needed the insulin drip. I was there for seven days.
I started to cry in the hospital. More or less I have continued to cry since I left. Apparently major depression is something common to all heart operations. They claim it's an affect of being on the heart/lung machine--part of "pump head," along with a host of other cognitive and emotional impairments.
If I had it to do over again, I would choose to just stay home and let whatever happen happen. In the future I will make sure I have a porch, just so I can crawl under it and be left alone, like an old hound dog. One thing's for damned sure, I will never have my chest opened again.
I see my Cardiologist Monday at noon. I may punch him in the mouth for good measure.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Intro
My brother and I are all that are left of a once huge Irish Catholic family. He is 38 and lives in St. Louis. Oddly, we have both chosen to be alone throughout most of our lives, each of us preferring the company of dogs to people.
Now that I'm at the end of my life, I kinda wish I had some relative or another to fall back on. Being a lonely curmudgeon has finally come back to bite me on the ass. I miss my grandma, who was mostly responsible for raising me. She was also half German, but was not keen on admitting it. She was kind and sweet and loved me with food. She would force cookies and coffee with cream down my throat at every visit up until the time I was in my thirties when she died. She had a bad heart. I wish she was here now so we could commiserate about bad hearts and eat cookies and drink coffee. I wish she could tell me what was going to happen next. I wish I could ask her what I should do.
The last time I saw my doctor I asked him how much time he could buy me. He said nothing. Pussy. I see him again on Monday. Oh goody. If I have to be nauseated, puking and in pain all day every day, the time he's buying me isn't worth it. Dammit, I want some cookies and coffee with cream.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)