Elderly

Well, yesterday began remarkably well!

My heart crisis began through awareness gained from trying to walk up the longish but mild hill that begins the Ricki Avenue trail. It’s a lovely trail, rich with a wide variety of flora fed by light that gets through the canopy due to the widely cut trail; the light is what attracts me to that particular pathway. But on July 7^th, I couldn’t make it up the hill. My thighs ached after just doing the first portion, and I was thoroughly out of breath. I was reduced to gasping. The following day, I tried again, and it was worse. I stopped for breath five times before giving up, and as I say, it was a very mild incline.

So yesterday, after some thought, I decided to begin my day by returning to that trail to see if I could walk it. I took it slow at first, but soon I was walking at my normal pace with the ease of a walk on a flat sidewalk. When I crested the hill, I had tears in my eyes, thinking of my good fortune at having my life renewed, the miracle of modern medicine and my luck to be Canadian with free miracle care. I am reborn.

Then Her Highness and I went to the pharmacy for my new meds, did some food shopping and then came home to do some watering. It felt good to be back in the gardens, to be feeding my floral friends. Oh, to be alive! And for Tylenol.

Then our second walk and back to the pharmacy to pick up my drugs. I now take six a day; three of them twice a day. And then it was time to water some more before relaxing for the balance of the day on the couch and eating the food left for me by fellow dog walker Paula, and beloved neighbour Shelly.

•

I am 74 years old in December. 

I have memories of ‘childhood’ as does everyone. And I remember my teen years, all pimples, drama and fears. And then came my ‘young adult’ phase. And ‘young adult’ became just plain adult and that has been what I’ve considered myself for decades—probably 5.5 decades. My generation were baby boomers.  We changed our societies. We were black power, gay rights, feminism. 

I am writing this post, I’m sitting at my desk, wearing glasses, facing a small stockpile of pills and sprays, in a chair wrapped in a Hudson Bay blanket. I’m hunched over because of pain in my left shoulder where my new pacemaker is, and the wound hurts unless I eat my new best friend: Tylenol. 

I’ve come to my desk from the couch where I was watching Morse, a series made a million years ago, after ordering my medical alert bracelets as promoted by the hospital pacemaker team. It’ll say I’m battery operated and that I have a seizure disorder. 

I got bored with Morse and decided to fetch a bottle of abrasive dish cleaner from the kitchen to apply to my chest because my tee shirt is sticking to me. It’s time for round three of trying to get rid of ahdesive applied to my breast(s) during my surgery yesterday.

I got off the couch and went to the bathroom sink that, of course, has a mirror similar to those at a sideshow that distorts one’s image—at least I hope it’s the mirror. It says to me: stigmata on your chest, purple shoulder and breast. I see an aurora borealis of bruise; highlighted in red. I hate tattoos.

I rocked to gain the momentum I needed to get off the couch. My head was bent forward because I wanted to hurl myself off without using my left arm. I walked to the bathroom with a stooped posture because the procedure cut muscles and stooping lessens the pain at the incision.

That’s how I got into this blanketed chair, and I’m thinking:  Breasts, tattoos, blanket, pharmacy, glasses, aurora borealis, third heart attack, stool softener. Hmmm. Suddenly, Boomer Adult Male is replaced by Elderly Adult Male in the inventory of data that informs my self-perception. There’s no going back. Season changed. It’s sad, but it’s inevitable. I must make the best of it. Live the cliché. Book: Death. Chapter One: Getting started.

Adult felt about the body. Elderly Adult Male is more ‘living in the mind/spirit.’

And today I, the elderly man, Zoomed into a memorial for a fellow Gabriolan who’s missed.

Elderly. Yikes!

•

Here are some details of my recent crisis that I didn’t mention yesterday: I went through four ambulance crews and three hospital wards; I met a lot of medical personnel. And often, my seizures came up as a topic of conversation. I’ve known for years that the medical community is peopled by practitioners rooted in pathology; many are uneducated in neurological distress. I don’t blame them for their professional ignorance, I blame those who have shaped the curriculum of their training.

One of the two internists in Nanaimo who were charged with overseeing my care came to see me one day in my room. He began by talking about my heart, but soon he transitioned to my seizures. He asked me: “So about these pseudo seizures that you have, do you make them happen?

“No,” I said, “I don’t make them happen and I and other medical professionals call them Psychogenic Non-Epileptic Seizures.”

“Can you show me what one looks like?”

“No.” He really pissed me off.

Also, when I was found unconscious and then surrounded by the Code Blue team, I had a couple of mild seizures. That sparked the team to think I’d had a major seizure once the idea of me having had a stroke had been disproven by the CT scan. To prevent another seizure, they organized a Dilantin drip. 

I asked not to be given the Dilantin. I’d had it before and it was toxic for me, but they insisted, and there was a chance, I knew, that they could be right. That drug ruined the balance of a day that had begun so scarily, and soon the diagnosis of seizure was discounted.

And finally, as I went in for my surgery Friday morning, the anaesthesiologist was preparing me, and he asked me several questions about my medical history, and then he said: “How’d you get HIV?” I think that was not only an irrelevant question; it was also terribly insensitive.

•

This morning, after well over a year, our big dog walking group walked together. It was very excited to see people whom I haven’t seen in ages—including Paula who left me a huge and delicious lasagne in my fridge on Friday for when I came home. 

I'm Back!

 Well … Where to start? Not at the beginning ….

Early Saturday morning, (July 10^th) the night nurse came in and found me “unresponsive” in my bed in Nanaimo Regional General Hospital. My first memory of that morning was hearing my name being called and being shaken. As I gained consciousness, I eventually opened my eyes, but it was as though I was looking through a non-magnifying telescope, because I could only see in a tiny circle in the centre of my field of vision. 

Surrounding the small circle through which I could see, was a band of grey fading to black. Mostly, I saw black. “Look at me,” nurse Ani said, but I couldn’t turn my head or move my eyes.

Soon, there was a team of about eight doctors and emergency nurses around me.

“Can you wiggle your toes?” I couldn’t.

“Can you raise your right leg?” I couldn’t. I tried to raise my arm to point to my aching head but couldn’t. 

“Your left leg?” No response. I was conscious but nothing was working. I was absolutely terrified. A doctor picked up my arms, one after the other, and let go; they dropped like dead weights to the bed.

The next thing I remember is being on a stretcher as the team moved me to the CT scanner. On the way, I heard them talking. They thought I was having a stroke. When I heard that, I pondered what lay ahead for me because of my experience with my dear, dear friend Bruce when he had his stroke. I wondered how I would look after my pets and what would happen to my gardens.

It wasn’t a stroke. My blood pressure was 246! That’s why my head was so, so painful. So painful, I wasn’t sure what to think. It occurred to me: If I’m dying here, let’s get on with it. The pain was too much. But once they knew that, I was pumped with blood thinners and hypertension medication and slowly I came back. First was being able to say a few words.

I learned later that I caused an alert: Code Blue. That’s what brought all the doctors and nurses to my aid, and for their intervention, I’ll be eternally grateful. But what I’ll never ever, ever forget, is Ani, holding my hand and stroking my head and leaning in close so that I could see her in my tunnel vision, saying, “You’ll be okay, Chris. We’re going to fix this. I promise you.”

As I got better and better, and during the ensuing week in the hospital, I thought of her constantly, hoping I could see her and thank her. Then, Thursday evening, the night before my surgery, there she was. As soon as she was close, we were holding hands again and I teared up as I thanked her for that human touch and compassion that attended my soul that I discovered is as much in need of attention as was my heart.

Two strangers, one in crisis and one a compassionate and wonderful aid, whom I love as much as my long-time friends. Oh Ani, what a saint you are!

From then on, it was test after test: Zillions of electrocardiograms, an echocardiogram, an MRI, by ambulance to Victoria for an angiogram (that revealed pristine arteries) and back, plus an x-ray after my surgery to implant a pacemaker. It turns out I have what’s called an A.V. Block that created Myocarditis (swelling of my heart muscle). This was my third heart attack and second case of Myocarditis. Hence, the pacemaker (or as I think of it, peacemaker).

Back to the beginning….

As I wrote here in past posts, I’d been feeling unwell for a while, so on Monday the 5^th, I wrote to my doctor here. On Wednesday, he had me have a ECG and blood test and then, on Thursday, he called me in at 10:30 in the morning and when I got there, an ambulance was waiting for me to take me to Nanaimo.

I arrived for admission with only the clothes I was wearing. I had no money, no glasses or books or toiletries—nothing. And I’m not a cell phone owner, so I had only a land line with no long-distance privileges or contact information list with which to contact anyone. I didn’t know the phone numbers of anyone here on Gabriola. I was stuck.

Those first two days, I just sat in bed awake and idle. I had nothing to read or watch except the comings and goings of nurses and a zillion blood and vitals tests.

The surgery, though minor, was dreadful. I was awake, sedated and frozen locally, but the anxiety and minor pains throughout the short ideal that seemed interminable, were hard to endure. And last night, when all the local anaesthetics were gone, I was so sore I could not sleep at all. However, at 2:00 am, it occurred to me to take some Tylenol and that did the trick. Sleep followed.

My reunion with Sheba, Fred and Ethel was emotionally enriching. I am so, so glad to be home. I arrived to a pristinely clean house, all laundry done and lots and lots of food in my fridge and on the counters. Plus, all my gardens are thriving. It’s truly unbelievable, and everyone here who came to my aid, I met through Sheba. Were it not for her, I’d not have joined the dog walking group that joined me to a compassionate community. I am even more committed to living here.

I have recovery ahead and limited use of my left arm. I go back to the hospital in six weeks to have my peacemaker checked. 

I’m back and so, so happy be so.

I am grateful to all who read this blog and reached out. I feel blessed to have the friends I do, and I’m glad to be reawakened to the beauty of humanity. And God bless Ani!

Progress Due

I’m glad yesterday is behind me. I felt pretty dreadful all day and what really irritated me was the constant yawning I was doing unless I was installed on the couch. I just have neither energy nor strength. I’m glad that I see Dr. Majic this morning and that I had some tests yesterday; I feel I’m on the road to an informed diagnosis.

I felt too compromised to do any work yesterday. I just read and I took Sheba for two short and shaded walks. I felt crappy all day and unable to stay awake later than 7:30. I went to bed really early and took an Atavan.

I’ll finish this post once I see Dr. Majic later this morning...

Tests and Trouble

Yesterday was a very good day. We walked where there were no hills and where the trail was shaded, and I had a spa that has now cooled to 91°—down from 102°, the winter temperature. I did mild chores and perched on the chaise longue to read. I felt good about life again. I have not yet heard from my doctor, and that’s fine with me. I will be calm and more confident when I see or talk to him.

Another reason yesterday was a good day is that I had absolutely no reaction whatsoever to the second Covid vaccination that I had on Monday afternoon. And I’m enjoying reading Julien Barnes for the first time; I’m reading Arthur and George, and it’s a great read.

I went for a dog walk with my friends this morning. I requested we shorten our walk and that was fine with Regina and Di. When I got home, I went to the lab for an ECG and blood test. The lab is in our medical clinic and the doctor’s offices are above it. I had my tests and then was asked to drop off a form to my doctor.

There are 13 steps between the floors. It was my mistake to try to do all 13 steps at once. When I got to the top of the stairs, I collapsed. I didn’t faint; I was conscious the entire time. I was gasping for breath and my legs were too weak to support me. But it was a good place to have trouble.  

I rested until I felt well enough to walk. That was maybe five minutes. When I walked to my car. I had to rest again. Something is very wrong. I’m going back tomorrow morning when Dr. Majic has the results of my tests.

When I got home. I had a nap, ate lunch and had another nap, watered the gardens and here I am writing this post at 2:30. Thank God I live in a house on one floor. 

Chris.3

This is from the letter I wrote to my doctor): 

I had a second Prinzmetal attack 29 years ago. I had some kind of test that produced a 3-D heart. I lay on a narrow board, and some kind of machine whirled around me for 45 minutes. When I got off the beam, the technician showed me a model of my heart on a computer screen. She pointed out two “icicles” of yellow, wide at the top, narrow at the bottom, arching down my heart, and she said each was a scar from a myocardial infarction—damage to the heart muscle.

Dr. Fung diagnosed Prinzmetal angina (PA). He said it was the underlying condition and that my attacks were critical symptoms of it. Although I did not go to hospital when I had the first attack, I remembered it. The second one caused me to feel the same way, but it did not stop. It was the worst, the one last week was like number one: It stopped on its own.

Dr. Fung said that my coronary artery that feeds my heart, goes into spasm, and that the “icicles” were scar tissue—dead cells, killed by restricted blood flow to my heart muscle. I’ve been worried that my bout of Prinzmetal last week created another icicle because more scar tissue could explain my remarkable loss of energy and strength.

Five years ago, I wrote a post on this blog:  

I think of who I am now as, Chris.2. Chris.1 being who I was before the onset of my neurological symptoms. Chris.2 has been infected, not with a virus, but a demon who juggles balls called, Seizures, Muteness and Stuttering.

I feel that I’m now living as Chris.3—all of Chris.2, plus seriously diminished energy. All letters in the word suicide. Just kidding. Regardless of whatever the story is that explains how I’ve been living my life these past six days: I am functioning at 40%. 

And that means hiring wood stackers and roof cleaners and maybe even gardeners. I can’t carry heavy things, bending over is nasty and walks must be short. It also means I pretty much want to stay home. I’m thirsty for guidance. I hope Dr, Majic and our medical system can advise me about what to avoid.

My big question is: Permanent or passing? Chris.3 or back to Chris.2? 

Yesterday, I pondered life as Chris.3. Chris.3 makes me feel “elderly.” And going down. So, what to do?

As Chris.3 I can stay continue to live here if I hire help from time to time. I can live safely and joyously with my pets and garden, and day trips are possible. It’ll take time to feel the limits of activity. My own experience, plus any information that I can get from Dr. Maic and the medical community, will help me know if it’s permanent.

I’ve transitioned before when I became Chris.2. Before I transition, I must go through hope, understanding and acceptance. I’m cynical about recovery not only because of how I feel right now, but also because Chris.2 has been around for five years. So, in case this is permanent, I wondered how I could make Pinecone Park a little merrier.

I went to Eoin and François’ place yesterday to see their ducks. In a week or so, they expect to know the gender of each one. They can only have three males in their flock of 26. They have to lose excess males. And so, I told them that I’d be interested in taking any unwanted males if there’s more than one. I’ll turn the wasteland into Duckland—pond and all.

Lemonade!