Six Weeks and Counting

Six weeks into this whole electronic monitoring deal, and I’m still getting used to the idea of remembering my “leash” or portable digital monitor. I confess it took me four weeks to re-read the booklet I received with the device. It’s amazing what a difference it makes to read such an important document without mind-altering drugs in my system!

I’ve pushed the green button on two occasions; I’ve set off a theft control device at the used record store; and had one significant “event” reported to the doctor’s office.

The first time I pressed the green button was when my husband called me from the next room. I got up off the couch and walked into the kitchen to see what he wanted. I made it to the stove and the world went gray. My legs folded beneath me and I wound up on the floor, unable to open my eyes without spiraling out of consciousness. I waited a a few minutes and recovered nicely.

The other time was when I was in Prescott, Arizona at the County Records office. I walked up to the counter and said, “Hello.” Then I got dizzy and grabbed the counter. I pressed the button and willed myself to keep upright while the clerk ran to get me a paper cup of water. I managed to stay upright and conscious.

The theft control device at Zia’s Used Record store must be more sensitive than the ones at Walmart or Albertson’s. I brought a box of used records to trade last month and set off the device as I entered the store. The clerk didn’t want to be bothered with looking at my fancy new ID card that describes my implanted medical device. Imagine that!

The significant cardiac event occured last night when I remembered to keep the portable monitor within arm’s reach, instead of across the room. I felt a little flutter as I was drifting off to sleep. I didn’t press the button because I didn’t want to wake up enough to reach for the device. At 8:01 this morning, my cardiologist’s office called. The doctor was notified of an “event” last night, and he needed to see me as soon as possible. It turns out that “as soon as possible” means next Tuesday at 9:45. So it must not be a serious event!

Implantable Loop Recorder

Why?

Ventricular Tachycardia: (V-tach or VT) is a tachycardia, or fast heart rhythm, that originates in one of the ventricles of the heart. This is a potentially life-threatening arrhythmia because it may lead to ventricular fibrillation and sudden death.

Syncope: Partial or complete loss of consciousness with interruption of awareness of oneself and ones surroundings. When the loss of consciousness is temporary and there is spontaneous recovery, it is referred to as syncope or, in nonmedical quarters, fainting.

Syncope is due to a temporary reduction in blood flow and therefore a shortage of oxygen to the brain. This leads to lightheadedness or a “black out” episode, a loss of consciousness. Temporary impairment of the blood supply to the brain can be caused by heart conditions and by conditions that do not directly involve the heart.

Implantable Loop Recorder: A device that is inserted under the skin below the collar bone (usually on the patients left side). The procedure to implant the device is simple. Local anesthetic is injected into the area. A small incision is made and device is inserted. The skin is then sutured closed. The device continuously records heart activity similar to an ECG for up to 2 years. If the patient experiences an episode of fainting the device is activated to save the recording before, during, and after the episode. The recordings can then be evaluated by a physician to help determine the cause of fainting.

~~~~~~~~~~~

There’s no warning. One second I’m standing up or walking or whatever, and the next second, I’m on the ground looking up, wondering what happened. It doesn’t happen often, but really, one time is too often. The doctor’s office received approval from my insurance company and scheduled my procedure for last Thursday morning. My pre-op instructions included fasting on Tuesday evening for blood work during my pre-admissions appointment on Wednesday. And again on Wednesday evening before my procedure.

We arrived at the hospital on Thursday morning at 0730 and signed in. I was anxious, sleepy, hungry and caffeine deprived. We were escorted to the outpatient waiting room for 45 minutes of fidgeting. The nurse called me in, telling my husband to wait while she got me prepped — 20 minutes, she promised. I was given a gown made out of thick, soft paper-like fabric that was two sizes too big. While I changed (minor victory: I got to keep my underpants on!), she asked me the standard screening questions, When did I last eat, etc.

Then a gentle giant arrived, who introduced himself only as “John”. He held my hand while the nurse blew one IV attempt in my right arm, and talked her through another attempt in my left. When he was satisfied, he wheeled me down the hall to the operating room. I never did get to see my husband before they started.

The operating room was freezing cold. The operating table was no wider than 15 inches or so. The nurses and John scooted me from the bed to the table and ensured I was centered and settled. As they tied the “soft restraints” securing my arms to the table, a representative from the company who manufactures the devices breezed in and briefed me on the charactistics and procedures of the device. She was too blonde, too bubbly, and too sparkly for that situation. And why was she wearing scrubs and diamond earrings in the operating room?

John and I negotiated the musical selection. They were fresh out of Metallica, so we settled on Mozart. I think the surgeon was relieved. After a few moments of forced levity with the technicians (Why yes, we stayed at a Holiday Inn Express last night.), John inserted the oxygen tubes into my nostrils and draped a “tent” over my face to keep me from watching. The doctor ordered the nurse to begin sedation and I gulped oxygen while I waited for it to start. I tasted the cold metal in the back of my throat, so I assumed it was working.

Then I heard my doctor say, “OK, Cynthia. We start now. Stinging and burning, just like at the dentist office, now. Stinging and burning.” And I felt the stinging and the burning and it was nothing like the dentist’s office. I would have bitten someone, anyone who strayed near my teeth.

I struggled to remember any of the prayers I recently learned, but the only words I could string together were “Oh” and “God.” And I think I remember a “Please” or two. More stinging and burning. Some pressure on my chest. A little tugging. More gulping oxygen. More “Oh Gods.” I felt something laid across my legs and wondered what that was.

I heard John’s voice, “Cynthia? You doing okay?” I mumbled something like, “It hurts.” Then I heard, “More Versed.” I figured my insurance was paying for it, I might as well enjoy it, right?

Then I heard tape stretching sounds and felt more pressure on my chest, and they were done. I was untented, untied and scooted back to my bed and rolled to the recovery section. I met Anna – an absolute angel of a nurse. I saw my husband and got a quick kiss. I thought it was incredibly important for him to give me the book I’d brought to read while waiting. I held it while I slept off the sedation for three hours.

All I remember of that time was that the nurses called each other “Sister” and I remember telling Anna that I wanted to be a sister, too. My husband tells me that I asked the nurse for some milk to drink. I haven’t drunk milk in twenty or thirty years. I don’t like milk. But I asked for it, and I drank it.

Anna helped me dress and wheeled me out to the parking lot and put me in the truck. My husband brought me home and put me to bed with some pain medicine. I woke up on Friday morning, took more pain medicine and eased through the rest of the day. By Saturday, I’d given up on pain medicine. It makes me loopy, itchy, and agitated. I switched over to advil without any problems.

The only problem I’ve had is skin irritation from the surgical tape. I ripped off the bandage and put some neosporin on it. The actual incision is approximately two inches long, covered by a couple pieces of tape. I put a waterproof bandage over it, to keep it clean and dry. Although I was told not to shower for two weeks (ha, ha), I made it until Friday night before showering. I have an appointment to return to the doctor next week to have my staples removed.

I have a portable monitor, about the size of a cellphone, that I’m supposed to carry with me when I leave the house. If I experience dizziness, pain, palpitations or syncope, I’m to press the green button on the monitor to record the “event.” When I get back home, the portable monitor reports to the base station on the table in the den. That unit reports to the doctor’s office through the ether somehow. I’m still getting used to the electronics management side of it. According to the booklet I was given, I could set off theft control devices in retail stores, or metal detectors at the airport. I know it all causes interference with my new whizbang cellphone and the cordless home phone. I’m a walking jammer. I can imagine all the garage doors in my neighborhood opening and closing when I walk past with Bailey. :^D Or all the calls to tech support at the cable company wondering why their reception is suddenly fuzzy.

I’ve got some questions to discuss with my doctor about that next week. All in all, it went quite smoothly.

On My Mind

Merlot
Itchy feet
Heart Surgery tomorrow morning
Did I buy cat food today?
Top Chef Las Vegas
More life insurance
What’s Conor up to?
Project Runway
I should go to bed
Is Ted Kennedy in heaven?
CEVich or ceviCHAY?
Thank God they’re not doing the scallop thing at every meal.
What’s with the Housewife phenomena? Those women aren’t Housewives. Some aren’t even women!
Achy. Wish I could take an Advil.
Why didn’t I get my hair cut Monday?
I could use a mani/pedi.
Go Cubs! 9 to 4 I think.
What should I get for Ben’s birthday?
I forgot to offer to do Allyson and George’s online check-in for their Friday flight.
I didn’t finish finishing the hems on Mason’s sweater.
Something’s wrong with the clapitois pattern.
Why haven’t I written in months?
The Annie Lamont book is amazing.
If something goes wrong tomorrow and I haven’t been confirmed yet, am I still considered Catholic?
I’m hungry.
How much wine is too much wine on the night before surgery, even if I stop well before midnight?
Did I take my pills?
I should go to bed.
I hope Allyson and George enjoyed their anniversary dinner (Andre’s) and show (Zumanity).
I’m happy that I have a friend who can recommend fancy restaurants for my out of town guests. (SUSAN :^D)
Mattin needs to lose the Gilligan scarf.
I wish CBS had renewed The Unit.
When will Fall start? I’m tired of 105 degree heat.
How many more miles til I need to change to oil in my truck?
Should I put the prologue back in?
I wonder if anyone’s read the story I submitted to the WD competition?
Bed. Now….
My foot itches. What if I’m allergic to something?
Where’s my book?
Pumpkin looks funny when he sleeps. So does Jax.
Time for bed. Surgery in the morning. Early.

Thirty Years

Wilmot Union High School, Wilmot, Wisconsin
Class of 1979

I attended my reunion last Saturday night. It wasn’t held in a fancy country club, or a posh lakeside resort. That wouldn’t have represented the spirit of our class. We met in a small, smoke-filled bar in Genoa City, nibbled unhealthy appetizers, and drank. That’s the spirit! No gowns, no tuxes, no pretensions.

I took my little brother as my date. He’s tall, handsome, charasmatic, observant, and extremely funny. In short, the perfect date for a social event I’ve been anticipating and dreading. Thank you, Tommy.

I’ve always prided myself on my ability to remember people, places, faces and events. Perhaps I shouldn’t be so proud. I was amazed at how many people I didn’t remember, even with nametags. I’d have sworn I never went to school with a guy named “Joe Smith.” Is that exactly the type of name bestowed by the US Marshals?

Some folks I’d never forget. They were shining stars in our school, and they still sparkle: Kathy Keating, Julie Kruzan, Colleen Saucerman. These women look as though they’ve been kept in cold storage with their odometers disconnected. I’m not one of them, regardless of all the squeals of “You look exactly the same!” In 1979, I had long curly brown hair and weighed a whopping 145 lbs on my 5′9″ frame (I thought I was obese.) Today my hair is approximately 1 1/2 inches long, colored “champagne sparkle” and I weigh, well….MORE than 145 lbs. But it was kind of them to say it.

Of course, some friends weren’t able to attend. I was disappointed not to see Doug and Kricket Jackson. My first day of 8th grade in my new school, I sat next to Doug. He’d bought a class ring with a ‘79 on it to give to Kricket on the first day of school. Doug dropped it and it rolled over to my foot. He was mortified that I’d misunderstood. I just handed it back to him to pass along the rows over to Kricket. They started going steady on that day and pretty much stayed together ever since, getting married right after high school. Well, except for those few rocky months after our junior year, but let’s not dwell on that. They’re still together and I love thinking about that old story.

I saw an old friend who worked with my family, who loved my parents, who knows all the dirty laundry and still loves us. Debbie Hendzel, you’re a true gem. Seeing you, spending an hour listening to your voice, made the price of the trip worthwhile. I promised to keep in touch and I swear I will, this time.

The captain of every sport team, Danny Moore, a guy I never spoke to in school, resembles one of my favorite actors: Ed Harris. I actually walked up to him, said hello and chatted for five minutes. He’s still sparkly. He’s friendly and articulate. I walked away from that conversation all tingly. Not in the “I’ll-never-wash-my-hand-again!” kind of tingly, but the “I-just-spent-a-few-minutes-with-someone-special” kind of tingly.

I thought I was going to go to the reunion, stay for an hour or so and leave early. Imagine how surprised I was to discover it was almost midnight and the party still raged on (just like old times). My brother’s family was waiting up for us, so we had to leave. The noise, the smoke, the smell of greasy bar food….I wasn’t sorry to leave all that. The blaring sounds of late 70’s rock and roll? Hmmmm….At least it wasn’t the 80’s pop or 90’s techno-poop that youngsters in those decades listened to! Although, if I ever hear “My Sharona” again, it will be too soon.

I’m glad I went. As usual, I wish I’d circulated more, met more people. As usual, I gravitated to the few familiar faces. And, as usual, I talked more than I listened and I could have learned more about my old friends.

Thirty years. As my six year old niece would say, “O. M. G.!”

Recurring Dreams, Planes Crashing

I’m always on the ground watching. I always sense the plane before I see it. I always know it’s right behind me, just overhead. And I always know it’s going to crash.

I hate this dream. I feel heavy, unable to move, unable to help, unable to turn and run, unable close my eyes. I look up and see the belly as it swooshes by, just out of reach. I brace myself for the battering jet blast, the earpiercing roar of the engines. I imagine the pilot wrestling the controls.

I’m helpless. I feel an enormous weight inside my body, pinning me to the ground. I want to scream, flail my arms, hold the plane up, nudge it away from the ground and send it safely on its way.

It always crashes, cartwheeling into the ground in flames. I can see the blast coming, feel the wind whip my hair, my eyes squint but never close. I feel the impact of broken pieces slamming into the ground and watch as flaming debris settles around the main fuselage.

I usually wake up at this point, recognize that it’s another plane crash dream, and reluctantly go back to sleep. I know that when this dream visits me, I can expect to see it three or four more times that night. Sometimes, after the second or third time I am able to move myself out of the situation before the plane hits the ground.

Sometimes the plane is a passenger jet, sometimes it’s a military model. Once, after watching the USAF Thuderbirds airshow, I dreamt of a flight of F-16s crashing one after another.

Last night it was a huge cargo plane, possibly a C-5. I was on the roof of a parking garage near the Spaghetti Bowl (the intersection of Hwy 95 and I-15) in Las Vegas. A enormous formation of Air Force planes flew overhead from the West toward Nellis AFB. I felt THE plane, the C-5, behind me. I knew in an instant that this was the one that would crash. Before I saw the plane, I knew it would roar over my head, sink toward the earth and the tip of wing would clip the ground, sending it into a cartwheel. And then in my dream, I felt the plane fly just over my head, saw the belly, felt the jetwash, heard the engine and watched it fly into the ground, just as I had imagined it seconds before.

During the dream, I’m terrified. I know I won’t be hurt, but I’m always afraid. The other common feeling is intense sadness. I know what’s going to happen before it does. I know it’s going to be awful, and I’m powerless.

Anxiety, feeling out of control, fear, sadness, helplessness. Is this the message my subconscious is sending me?

I hate this dream.