It’s Day 10 of Heartapalooza 2009, and Dad will be sent home from the hospital today. However, there will be more follow-ups and more surgery and, based on the doctor’s descripton, likely more issues with his heart. And more heart-stopping moments for me.
Today is a good day, and I’m going to focus on that, and leave the worry for some other day far, far into the future. Kind of like what I’m doing with my work assignments.
I’m learning my way around all of the machines in the room, which one does what. Which alarm beeping is associated with which machine. How to read information off of the displays and track what’s going on or ask questions when things look different. Dr. Google and I have also become good friends. I’ll tell you next week if they end up following my recommended course of treatment, given my vast knowledge of the workings of the heart and current innovations in cardiovascular surgery. I mean, I did take AP Biology in high school. Fifteen years ago.
(Oh My God. Fifteen years ago?!?!)
(Also: our night nurse remembered my brother from high school — he was a year ahead of her. Hello, small town!)
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She may be Irish, but my mother has a stiff upper lip that would put Queen Elizabeth II to shame. I, on the other hand, walked in Wednesday afternoon and immediately burst into tears. Awesome.
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My sister is the (self-appointed) communicator, especially when it comes to stuff like this, but Steve is the entertainer. Therefore, I put him on the task of updating Dad’s website with today’s news, including this little gem:
He could, however, use a comb–he has that “I’ve just finished mowing the back yard and am ready for an MGD” look about his hair.
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We’re waiting. There’s a lot of waiting that goes on in the ICU, I’ve learned. Normally this amount of waiting — and for what, exactly, isn’t really knowable — would drive me batty. Or I’d take the opportunity to worry, endlessly, because at least that’s doing something. Instead, I’m chilling.
This is no vacation, don’t get me wrong, but there’s no hurry, no deadline to meet. Sitting in a dark room listening to the rhythmic sounds of the ventilator and the compression pack machine and the fan they brought in to keep Dad cool and comfortable, there’s just no need to worry. It’s like a week of continuous moments of zen. (Though I’m certainly hoping this stage doesn’t last all week.) We are focusing on calming, soothing, healing vibes here. Maybe the nurses will let us bring in some patchouli incense. I should ask…
I was awake for ten minutes before I started crying. I think that warrants some kind of medal.
My dad had a heart attack yesterday. I”m getting on a plane in a few hours to fly back to Wisconsin. I booked a return flight so far into the future that I’ll run out of vacation days and sick days if I actually stay there that long, but I have absolutely no idea how long it’s going to take, and I was on the brink of a meltdown staring at Northwest’s website trying to figure it out.
On top of the logistical challenge of being 700 miles away and therefore having to get on a plane, rather than jump in the car and drive home, is the extra tasty mega-scoop of Catholic guilt because I, being an asshole who’s too much of a bigshot to check her personal cell for messages or have her siblings’ numbers programmed into her work phone, was completely in the dark for most of the day yesterday. (The first message is from my mother at 6:15 AM. Nobody heard from me until 4:30 PM when I saw a text on my BlackBerry from a number I vaguely recognized as my brother’s saying to call ASAP. So I did. I then realized that some of the missed calls shown on my phone were from my sister. Nice.)
I don’t really know what’s going on, as far as a diagnosis goes. Neither do the doctors. Dad is in ICU in a stable, intentionally-sedated state. Later today they’ll bring him out of the sedation and make decisions about what happens next. I’m trying to focus on the likely “nexts,” like another surgery, but I cannot rule out the possibility that he could die. All of this is not fair, not fair, not fair. We just talked last weekend about his last visit to the cardiologist, wherein he was declared 100% recovered from the triple bypass surgery he had last fall (without a heart attack), all the numbers look good, come back and see me in a year.
Or, have a heart attack next week. That’s cool, too.
I was not prepared for this. Duh, I know, nobody ever is, but having spent the last 18 years knowing he would likely have a heart attack some day, the surgery-sans-heart attack and all-clear from the doctor really lulled me into thinking I wouldn’t have to deal with this particular event for oh, ten or fifteen years. Or never. I was really OK with never. Not fair.
Every weekday morning I wake up and think, “Fuck.” It’s either “fuck, I can’t believe how tired I still am” or “fuck, I can’t believe how much work I have to do today.” During these first few minutes, I have a crucial decision to make: get up and go into work early (thus reducing some of my stress) or get up and go to the gym (a more effective stress-reducer, but less productive on the work front)? Or say screw it, and go back to bed for another hour? (I can tell you which choice hasn’t been selected much lately.)
On the weekends, I’m presented with a slightly different challenge. I generally don’t set the alarm, so I don’t generally complain about how tired I am on those days. Instead, I lie in bed plotting what I’m going to do first. Go for a run! Clean the house! Go to church! Do laundry before other people are up! Go to Target before other people get there! Go to work before other people park near there! I’m a morning person, you see, and I know that prioritizing something at the beginning of my day means it absolutely, 100% will get done, which is why I’m up this morning telling you this – because my evening is already booked.
I don’t think I’ve been this excited to go home for Christmas since freshman year of college when Christmas break meant clean laundry and no homework and lots of time spent catching up with my high school friends. I’ve probably packed as many clothes for the game tonight as for the entire rest of the time I’ll be home over the holidays. Look, it’s an OUTDOOR EVENT in CHICAGO in DECEMBER — not exactly a balmy proposition. Not to mention that it’ll be NIGHTTIME and therefore even colder. The good news is, Emily and I went to the Ravens-Redskins game in Baltimore a couple of weeks ago and froze our asses off had a great time, so I’m well prepared for this endeavor. Sort of. If anything can prepare one for four hours in single degree temperatures mere feet from an inland ocean. Look for me on ESPN — I’ll be the girl in the pink ski jacket trying everything she can think of to avoid turning into an icicle, including but not limited to dreaming about her nice, warm bed.
Yes, we are wearing two hats each. And two shirts. And two jackets.
I noticed this my first night home — plastered to the inside of the door that leads from the kitchen to the garage. I was a bit concerned that this display of private activism was perhaps not the most effective, but was assured that this is the magnet’s retirement home, after its stint on Dad’s car for the last several weeks.
Step 1: Stand on front porch.
Step 2: Grip stick or cane in one hand.
Step 3: Raise arm.
Step 4: Shake arm vigorously.
Step 5: Switch arms and repeat steps 1-4.
Note: This exercise is most effective when neighborhood teenagers are present. Muttering under one’s breath is recommended.
Oh, sure, they tell recovering heart patients to grip this to their chest when coughing or sneezing to reduce the pressure on the sternum, but secretly I think it’s a “scared straight” program in the works. “Here! Have a pillow that shows all the arteries that lead away from your heart! Try not to ruin any of them, OK?” This may be the creepiest thing I have ever seen, and I used to work in a medical library. I’ve seen some f-ed up shit.
This isn’t the half of it. (Not pictured: lemon bars, gingersnaps, and oatmeal molasses cake with lemon topping.) Not to worry, they are all going to the cookie walk at church in a couple weeks, to be foisted upon other people’s waistlines.
Uh, this one we ate. See all those apples? Fruit is good for you! Stop looking at me like that.
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