It’s never occurred to me until now; I’m grateful for being able to clean my own home.
This is not to say I like it. I was not successfully domesticated and I’d rather do almost anything else. Ideally, I’d rather do nothing.
Yesterday I was getting after the built-upon grease and grime on my ceramic stovetop. I had the energy, will, and stamina to finally do a proper job. I realized I was happy to do this. The initial reason is obvious. I’m recovering steadily.I get more done and nap less afterward.
Then I looked further. I turned it over and tickled its tummy and realized I have a home to look after and it doesn’t take that much work.
Also, we rented Soylent Green the other night. Among its other toothsome points the population was so great homeless people slept on stairwells. We have something similar here with homeless people taking shelter wherever they can, especially in the cold weather.
My husband and I have a home to ourselves,and I am happy to look after it.
Monday, January 7, 2008
Friday, January 4, 2008
No Room For Modesty
I spent more than 30 hours in in ER at Red Deer Regional Hospital. I was to be in Intensive Care, but the first bed available was in Emergency. Because I needed monitoring, it was the only other place I could be housed.
A few ICU beds opened that first evening, but trauma patients needed them far worse than I did. Sure I wanted my own room, but it’s hard to wish for it knowing there are only two ways a hospital bed opens.
My doctor, a resident in Internal Medicine, had been consulting with my Rocky doctor over the weekend so he knew exactly what was going on. He had the case because the cardiologist was on vacation.
I left the oxygen behind in Rocky and as soon as I was settled Red Deer I had the catheter removed. This pleased me no end even as it would have been a lot more convenient later that night when the 24 hour urine collection started. This was for the amyloidosis test, and I was all for it.
ER is a busy place and it’s hard to get to sleep. My intellectual capacity was down to maybe 70 per cent when this started and it has been slow coming back. I couldn’t concentrate enough to do a progressive relaxation induction on myself to get to sleep. Instead, I managed to picture a peaceful scene of a large lake between some lushly covered hills in a jungle or rainforest. But no matter how hard I tried to change it, my mind lake was a deep, beautiful yellow from a sunrise or sunset because while I was constructing it a Code Yellow, missing patient, had been called.
I’d decided to go gluten-free there so that my sinuses would remain fairly clear. If I was to have breathing difficulties, then I wanted to know exactly where they came from. The hospital did okay although it helped that I was quite hungry. I even liked the corn meal mush I was served for breakfast. In fairness there was rice toast and a hard boiled egg, too. Eggs and I both need salt and there was none to be had for me. I was beginning to feel like the salt-sucking creature from “The Mantrap” episode of Star Trek who had to have it to survive.
The big urine collection was due to start at 7 a.m. at the morning shift change. Instead my night nurse, a 30ish fellow, decide to start it at midnight. This was okay with me, especially as he decided he was going to pour the offerings into the collection container for me. I’d been told earlier that I was to do this myself.
My Commode Chair, already important, became the focal point of my existence. I was tethered to many machines so it was close by and, because of the need to save each drop, a plastic, removable “hat” was fitted over the container.
Modesty has no place in this. Mike was there all day and needed to keep an eye on me when I got out of bed. If my curtain was open too much a nurse had to close it unless Mike was there and I had to ring for the nurse when it was time to add to the bottle. I washed my hands with some large wet wipes used for bathing.
I have to say the ER nurses were phenomenal. Some were pulling 16 hours shifts because the hospital is short-staffed. They remained professional, courteous, and smiled even as they had to run into my room every few minutes.
My cardio monitor was uncommonly sensitive. When I moved, especially my right arm, it would disturb one of the leads stuck to me and it would go off. A nurse had ot check each time this happened. It sounded like that scene in the Star Trek two-parter, “The Menagerie,” where Captain Pike has realized what Spock is planning for him and he desperately signals “No.”
I had my first of three echocardiograms the next day. This is an ultrasound of the heart where more than 50 different pictures taken. I had a quick look at the screen and saw a thin skeletal shape hammering up and down. It was right out of a Tim Burton movie.
I felt sorry for the nurse who’d accompanied me down to the ultrasound room. She was a friendly, talkative woman in her late 20s who was in the middle of a 16 hour shift. As we waited for the pictures to be checked the diuretic continued its mission. Waiting to get back to my room was not an option. I still wasn’t supposed to walk around, but there was a bathroom about 10 feet away and we decided to chance it and she let me walk to it and back.
Yes, my doctor caught us but that went okay. The reason I felt sorry for her was we were still collecting my urine and she had to carry the little collection hat back to my room.
We do not pay these people enough.
A few ICU beds opened that first evening, but trauma patients needed them far worse than I did. Sure I wanted my own room, but it’s hard to wish for it knowing there are only two ways a hospital bed opens.
My doctor, a resident in Internal Medicine, had been consulting with my Rocky doctor over the weekend so he knew exactly what was going on. He had the case because the cardiologist was on vacation.
I left the oxygen behind in Rocky and as soon as I was settled Red Deer I had the catheter removed. This pleased me no end even as it would have been a lot more convenient later that night when the 24 hour urine collection started. This was for the amyloidosis test, and I was all for it.
ER is a busy place and it’s hard to get to sleep. My intellectual capacity was down to maybe 70 per cent when this started and it has been slow coming back. I couldn’t concentrate enough to do a progressive relaxation induction on myself to get to sleep. Instead, I managed to picture a peaceful scene of a large lake between some lushly covered hills in a jungle or rainforest. But no matter how hard I tried to change it, my mind lake was a deep, beautiful yellow from a sunrise or sunset because while I was constructing it a Code Yellow, missing patient, had been called.
I’d decided to go gluten-free there so that my sinuses would remain fairly clear. If I was to have breathing difficulties, then I wanted to know exactly where they came from. The hospital did okay although it helped that I was quite hungry. I even liked the corn meal mush I was served for breakfast. In fairness there was rice toast and a hard boiled egg, too. Eggs and I both need salt and there was none to be had for me. I was beginning to feel like the salt-sucking creature from “The Mantrap” episode of Star Trek who had to have it to survive.
The big urine collection was due to start at 7 a.m. at the morning shift change. Instead my night nurse, a 30ish fellow, decide to start it at midnight. This was okay with me, especially as he decided he was going to pour the offerings into the collection container for me. I’d been told earlier that I was to do this myself.
My Commode Chair, already important, became the focal point of my existence. I was tethered to many machines so it was close by and, because of the need to save each drop, a plastic, removable “hat” was fitted over the container.
Modesty has no place in this. Mike was there all day and needed to keep an eye on me when I got out of bed. If my curtain was open too much a nurse had to close it unless Mike was there and I had to ring for the nurse when it was time to add to the bottle. I washed my hands with some large wet wipes used for bathing.
I have to say the ER nurses were phenomenal. Some were pulling 16 hours shifts because the hospital is short-staffed. They remained professional, courteous, and smiled even as they had to run into my room every few minutes.
My cardio monitor was uncommonly sensitive. When I moved, especially my right arm, it would disturb one of the leads stuck to me and it would go off. A nurse had ot check each time this happened. It sounded like that scene in the Star Trek two-parter, “The Menagerie,” where Captain Pike has realized what Spock is planning for him and he desperately signals “No.”
I had my first of three echocardiograms the next day. This is an ultrasound of the heart where more than 50 different pictures taken. I had a quick look at the screen and saw a thin skeletal shape hammering up and down. It was right out of a Tim Burton movie.
I felt sorry for the nurse who’d accompanied me down to the ultrasound room. She was a friendly, talkative woman in her late 20s who was in the middle of a 16 hour shift. As we waited for the pictures to be checked the diuretic continued its mission. Waiting to get back to my room was not an option. I still wasn’t supposed to walk around, but there was a bathroom about 10 feet away and we decided to chance it and she let me walk to it and back.
Yes, my doctor caught us but that went okay. The reason I felt sorry for her was we were still collecting my urine and she had to carry the little collection hat back to my room.
We do not pay these people enough.
Thursday, January 3, 2008
The Wild Amyloidosis Chase Begins
I was monitored virtually constantly. The nurses’ station was right outside my door in the Special Care Unit. This enabled them to keep a close eye on both me and the fellow in the next bed, 60ish lifelong diabetic who’d had a very high blood sugar spike, in the 20s or even 30s. For a while a nurse sat in a chair between us watching.
My vitals signs gave the assorted nurses and my doctor quite a time. They made several tries until they got a pulse and blood pressure readings they were willing to believe. They came to not trust their machines and usually did it the old-fashioned way, but not after up to three tries with the automated cuff. It seemed to be done every 15 minutes or so at first, then calmed down to every hour.
Irregular heartbeat can lead to blood clots so I was put on an IV drip of Heparin, an anticoagulant. Blood was drawn every four hours and I was on absolute bed rest.
Next I was given a nitro patch for overnight. It’s a vasodilator and it works. My feet got warm for the first time in days. I also enjoyed the common side-effect of a nitro headache. It wasn’t that bad, and my warm feet were a reasonable trade-off.
I was awakened in the night frequently for the vitals and bloodletting. This was good. The only problem was at one point in the night the catheter got a vapor lock or some such and didn’t work. It was unpleasant, but a nurse was in checking my vital signs at the time so it was corrected immediately.
My doctor likes to understand why things happen. He was flummoxed why someone my age, 49, my weight, about 145 lb., and in good health got hit with congestive heart failure. An ECG had suggested damage, possibly from a heart attack. I couldn’t think of anything in the past 3-6 months that would fit.
Meanwhile, I’d had Mike email my cousin The Bag Lady the first night as the next day was her birthday and she would wonder if she didn’t hear from me. This led to her doing a bit of sleuthing, as is her way, and found a cousin who said his family members had heart problems at around my age and he further suggested the doctor check for amyloidosis. That’s a disease where rogue proteins break off and attack organs.
My doctor is an animated fellow to begin with. When he heard this his eyebrows shot up to his hairline, his eyes bugged out, his mouth flew open, and he madly drummed his pen against my chart. “Yes! Yes! We’ll look for this. It would cause the kind of damage suggested in the ECG! Yes!”
Meanwhile I had more important things on my mind. Could I have chocolate?
I could, but my doctor said it had to be dark and “only two blocks.”
Now to me that’s a 4” x 6” x 1” slab. My husband said it meant two square sections of a chocolate bar. He won. Mike, who was at my side every day all day through this, got me chocolate and made sure I stuck to the daily allotment.
My doctor wanted more tests done so after two days here I was transferred to Red Deer Regional Hospital 55 miles away. It was the only time I was scared. Being transferred to a larger, city hospital meant unequivocally there was something seriously wrong.
I got my appetite back within about an hour of getting the diuretic that morning. I never knew how much I liked salt until I couldn’t have it.
My vitals signs gave the assorted nurses and my doctor quite a time. They made several tries until they got a pulse and blood pressure readings they were willing to believe. They came to not trust their machines and usually did it the old-fashioned way, but not after up to three tries with the automated cuff. It seemed to be done every 15 minutes or so at first, then calmed down to every hour.
Irregular heartbeat can lead to blood clots so I was put on an IV drip of Heparin, an anticoagulant. Blood was drawn every four hours and I was on absolute bed rest.
Next I was given a nitro patch for overnight. It’s a vasodilator and it works. My feet got warm for the first time in days. I also enjoyed the common side-effect of a nitro headache. It wasn’t that bad, and my warm feet were a reasonable trade-off.
I was awakened in the night frequently for the vitals and bloodletting. This was good. The only problem was at one point in the night the catheter got a vapor lock or some such and didn’t work. It was unpleasant, but a nurse was in checking my vital signs at the time so it was corrected immediately.
My doctor likes to understand why things happen. He was flummoxed why someone my age, 49, my weight, about 145 lb., and in good health got hit with congestive heart failure. An ECG had suggested damage, possibly from a heart attack. I couldn’t think of anything in the past 3-6 months that would fit.
Meanwhile, I’d had Mike email my cousin The Bag Lady the first night as the next day was her birthday and she would wonder if she didn’t hear from me. This led to her doing a bit of sleuthing, as is her way, and found a cousin who said his family members had heart problems at around my age and he further suggested the doctor check for amyloidosis. That’s a disease where rogue proteins break off and attack organs.
My doctor is an animated fellow to begin with. When he heard this his eyebrows shot up to his hairline, his eyes bugged out, his mouth flew open, and he madly drummed his pen against my chart. “Yes! Yes! We’ll look for this. It would cause the kind of damage suggested in the ECG! Yes!”
Meanwhile I had more important things on my mind. Could I have chocolate?
I could, but my doctor said it had to be dark and “only two blocks.”
Now to me that’s a 4” x 6” x 1” slab. My husband said it meant two square sections of a chocolate bar. He won. Mike, who was at my side every day all day through this, got me chocolate and made sure I stuck to the daily allotment.
My doctor wanted more tests done so after two days here I was transferred to Red Deer Regional Hospital 55 miles away. It was the only time I was scared. Being transferred to a larger, city hospital meant unequivocally there was something seriously wrong.
I got my appetite back within about an hour of getting the diuretic that morning. I never knew how much I liked salt until I couldn’t have it.
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
ER And Me
“If you weren’t sitting up and talking, I’d be worried.”
Although he was smiling as he said it the doctor was unmistakably worried: he’d been unable to find my pulse.
He frowned a bit over my blood pressure and gave me the stethoscope so I could listen to my heart. I believe he wanted to reinforce the fact that something was very wrong. My heartbeat was weak and rapid, up to 200 beats a minute.
Lack of breath and a ribcage that felt two sizes too small made me go to the clinic. I’d had this for a while but it when from annoying to painful overnight. I shoveled snow one day with no problem. I shoveled about the same amount of snow the next day in nearly identical weather conditions and my chest ached and my lungs felt as though they were been squeezed. I thought it was asthma.
Then one night I could not exhale properly. The following nights found me unable to find a position that let me breathe right. On a Thursday in mid-December I walked a half-block to collect the mail and had to rest four times. I hike in Canadian Rockies. Summers find me routinely taking 10 mile bike rides. Something was terribly wrong.
“Well, it’s not asthma,” said the doctor.
“That’s good.”
“It‘s something worse.” He went on to tell me all he could hear in my lungs was fluid. I was to get to ER now. He called over and told them I was coming and that I had atrial fibrillation.
The top two chambers of my heart had stopped. The bottom two were trying vainly to make up for it and this led to congestive heart failure.
At ER I was given oxygen first, asked several questions, and had a few IV leads installed. My blood pressure was taken as well as a few others vitals, I had an ECG and a chest X-ray and I was hooked to a cardio monitor that became my boon companion for the next several days.
Then it was time to get the fluid out of my lungs. A highly effective and very fast-acting diuretic was injected through the IV. I had to have a catheter for this and at first I didn’t want it. My mind changed quickly.
The diuretic took effect in less than 10 minutes. I recall saying that before they did anything else they really needed to put in the catheter.
A small balloon is inserted inside the bladder to keep it inflated so it can drain. Putting in the balloon and the tube is uncomfortable though blessedly quick.
Once we got a good drain going and it was obvious that my kidneys were fine it was time to straighten out the heartbeat.
I had an IV cardio conversion, a heart rebooting. A drug was sent in through the IV to stop my heart. Its own electrical energy restarts it, theoretically in proper rhythm. The drug sent jagged edged lightning speeding up my left arm.
When I was 11 years old I accidentally touched a live spark plug. I felt an explosion in my elbows and shoulders and the next thing I knew I was three feet away facing the opposite direction. I’m glad it happened because it put the cardio conversion in perspective. For as painful as it was, touching a live spark plug is worse.
The doctor had mumbled something about how the procedure might not work. It didn’t work. He also mumbled at one point, “We don’t have much time.”
I went in to Emergency round 9:30 a.m. and I was there until nearly 3 p.m. before being transferred to the hospital’s Special Care Unit.
I had up to six medical professionals working on me for about two hours. Long about 11:30 a.m. this dropped down to one person checking in sometimes.
This was a very good sign.
Showing off the assorted IVs as well as cardio monitor, oxygen, blood oxygen level monitor, blood pressure cuff, and there's a catheter, too, though the tube doesn't show.
Although he was smiling as he said it the doctor was unmistakably worried: he’d been unable to find my pulse.
He frowned a bit over my blood pressure and gave me the stethoscope so I could listen to my heart. I believe he wanted to reinforce the fact that something was very wrong. My heartbeat was weak and rapid, up to 200 beats a minute.
Lack of breath and a ribcage that felt two sizes too small made me go to the clinic. I’d had this for a while but it when from annoying to painful overnight. I shoveled snow one day with no problem. I shoveled about the same amount of snow the next day in nearly identical weather conditions and my chest ached and my lungs felt as though they were been squeezed. I thought it was asthma.
Then one night I could not exhale properly. The following nights found me unable to find a position that let me breathe right. On a Thursday in mid-December I walked a half-block to collect the mail and had to rest four times. I hike in Canadian Rockies. Summers find me routinely taking 10 mile bike rides. Something was terribly wrong.
“Well, it’s not asthma,” said the doctor.
“That’s good.”
“It‘s something worse.” He went on to tell me all he could hear in my lungs was fluid. I was to get to ER now. He called over and told them I was coming and that I had atrial fibrillation.
The top two chambers of my heart had stopped. The bottom two were trying vainly to make up for it and this led to congestive heart failure.
At ER I was given oxygen first, asked several questions, and had a few IV leads installed. My blood pressure was taken as well as a few others vitals, I had an ECG and a chest X-ray and I was hooked to a cardio monitor that became my boon companion for the next several days.
Then it was time to get the fluid out of my lungs. A highly effective and very fast-acting diuretic was injected through the IV. I had to have a catheter for this and at first I didn’t want it. My mind changed quickly.
The diuretic took effect in less than 10 minutes. I recall saying that before they did anything else they really needed to put in the catheter.
A small balloon is inserted inside the bladder to keep it inflated so it can drain. Putting in the balloon and the tube is uncomfortable though blessedly quick.
Once we got a good drain going and it was obvious that my kidneys were fine it was time to straighten out the heartbeat.
I had an IV cardio conversion, a heart rebooting. A drug was sent in through the IV to stop my heart. Its own electrical energy restarts it, theoretically in proper rhythm. The drug sent jagged edged lightning speeding up my left arm.
When I was 11 years old I accidentally touched a live spark plug. I felt an explosion in my elbows and shoulders and the next thing I knew I was three feet away facing the opposite direction. I’m glad it happened because it put the cardio conversion in perspective. For as painful as it was, touching a live spark plug is worse.
The doctor had mumbled something about how the procedure might not work. It didn’t work. He also mumbled at one point, “We don’t have much time.”
I went in to Emergency round 9:30 a.m. and I was there until nearly 3 p.m. before being transferred to the hospital’s Special Care Unit.
I had up to six medical professionals working on me for about two hours. Long about 11:30 a.m. this dropped down to one person checking in sometimes.
This was a very good sign.
Showing off the assorted IVs as well as cardio monitor, oxygen, blood oxygen level monitor, blood pressure cuff, and there's a catheter, too, though the tube doesn't show.
Monday, December 31, 2007
TGLP Gratitude Monday – I’ve Got Rhythm Edition
It’s the final Monday of 2007 and I’m pleased to report that it is not my final Monday. My heart is now ticking in proper rhythm after having an irregular beat for quite some time.
I didn’t know it was zipping along with an extra tick, a kind of grace note of the heart if you will. The top chambers of my heart weren’t working at all while the bottom chambers were skittering along like a mad hamster on a loose wheel. This led to fluid in my lungs.
I’m grateful this was found and treated successfully.
Over the years I’ve heard many a patient complain about being poked and prodded and injected and bled. Complaining is the height of ingratitude. If you didn’t want your life saved, then why did you seek treatment?
I spent 10 days in three different hospitals. At least half a dozen doctors and more nurses than I could count put their skills, training, and experience into saving my life and making me healthy again. I am grateful for their diligence.
And to all my blog buddies: thank you so much for your well wishes, kind words, good vibes and virtual chocolate.
It was heartening (the pun’s unavoidable) to hear your concern for me.
I’ll be writing in great and glorious and maybe even gory detail about my experiences in future posts. I even have photos.
For now, I’m just happy to be here.
I didn’t know it was zipping along with an extra tick, a kind of grace note of the heart if you will. The top chambers of my heart weren’t working at all while the bottom chambers were skittering along like a mad hamster on a loose wheel. This led to fluid in my lungs.
I’m grateful this was found and treated successfully.
Over the years I’ve heard many a patient complain about being poked and prodded and injected and bled. Complaining is the height of ingratitude. If you didn’t want your life saved, then why did you seek treatment?
I spent 10 days in three different hospitals. At least half a dozen doctors and more nurses than I could count put their skills, training, and experience into saving my life and making me healthy again. I am grateful for their diligence.
And to all my blog buddies: thank you so much for your well wishes, kind words, good vibes and virtual chocolate.
It was heartening (the pun’s unavoidable) to hear your concern for me.
I’ll be writing in great and glorious and maybe even gory detail about my experiences in future posts. I even have photos.
For now, I’m just happy to be here.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Back
Hello,
Thanks so much to everyone who worried and sent good vibes and virtual chocolate. It all helped.
I got home Christmas Eve and am a bit weak, but healthy.
I'll be blogging again shortly, and there's not a blessed thing any of you can do about it.
Ha!
Thanks so much to everyone who worried and sent good vibes and virtual chocolate. It all helped.
I got home Christmas Eve and am a bit weak, but healthy.
I'll be blogging again shortly, and there's not a blessed thing any of you can do about it.
Ha!
Friday, December 14, 2007
Fodder For Later
Have you ever made small talk with a call girl?
I have. My former housemate of 25 years ago, R. Airhead,* used to call a particular escort service, avail himself of the product, then tell the service provider he had no money.
Airhead, in fairness, had been in a very serious accident and had to relearn to walk. It also left him with the attention span of a gnat. Perhaps that’s why he got away with it. Despite his getting along in the world, having a job and driving a car and even having a girlfriend, he really wasn’t all there.
Maybe it’s because I’m a writer that I can see something interesting in most people. Certainly Airhead provided plenty of fodder.
So I did have a bland conversation with an escort one evening while the guys of the house asked some specific questions regarding services and rates, etc. It was several years before I could work it into a conversation, but one boring afternoon at the newspaper my knowing the rates for services perked things up.
On another occasion I was reading one of Frank Herbert’s Dune series when either his girlfriend or a service provider asked, ”What have you got there, a book?”
And one stellar evening I came home to a lovely aroma that originated in my closet. My nose led me to a suitcase stuffed full of individually packaged bags of pot. When I confronted Airhead about it he bragged that it was about $10,000 worth and all I had to do was tell the cops it wasn’t mine.
I’m glad I’m able to look though a writer’s eyes and see all this as interesting bits of life to be used later. Sure, he was irritating as all get out. But between drugs in the closet and the knocks on the door that might be someone coming to clear up a debt, Airhead made life exciting.
*Airhead was our nickname for him.
I have. My former housemate of 25 years ago, R. Airhead,* used to call a particular escort service, avail himself of the product, then tell the service provider he had no money.
Airhead, in fairness, had been in a very serious accident and had to relearn to walk. It also left him with the attention span of a gnat. Perhaps that’s why he got away with it. Despite his getting along in the world, having a job and driving a car and even having a girlfriend, he really wasn’t all there.
Maybe it’s because I’m a writer that I can see something interesting in most people. Certainly Airhead provided plenty of fodder.
So I did have a bland conversation with an escort one evening while the guys of the house asked some specific questions regarding services and rates, etc. It was several years before I could work it into a conversation, but one boring afternoon at the newspaper my knowing the rates for services perked things up.
On another occasion I was reading one of Frank Herbert’s Dune series when either his girlfriend or a service provider asked, ”What have you got there, a book?”
And one stellar evening I came home to a lovely aroma that originated in my closet. My nose led me to a suitcase stuffed full of individually packaged bags of pot. When I confronted Airhead about it he bragged that it was about $10,000 worth and all I had to do was tell the cops it wasn’t mine.
I’m glad I’m able to look though a writer’s eyes and see all this as interesting bits of life to be used later. Sure, he was irritating as all get out. But between drugs in the closet and the knocks on the door that might be someone coming to clear up a debt, Airhead made life exciting.
*Airhead was our nickname for him.
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