I wish I could say my recovery is going without a hitch, but that would be wishful thinking. I would argue that optimism and even wishful thinking have a place in maintaining our well being. But once in the clutches of the medical establishment, one is deluged with enough negative possibilities to swamp even the most steadfast Pollyanna.
So it was that I left the hospital, fortified with a blood transfusion and prescription medications to thin that blood and what was left of my own, then fortify it with extra iron. The blood must be drawn and sent to the Coumadin Clinic every four days for evaluation of its thinness and to adjust the dosage accordingly. There were stern warnings about keeping to this regimen-the drug must be taken at exactly the same time every day-and I was not to take any supplement containing Vitamin K or eat spinach, kale, and other leafy greens containing it (my whole diet). Clots are the enemy. They can cause heart attacks and strokes. Good grief.
Four days after my release, I was to go back for this blood business but I woke at 4 a.m. knowing something was very wrong. I rang my daughter Betty on the two-way radio. She takes my pulse, calls 911 and wakes her sister, Susan. We’re all dressed by the time our local ambulance arrives. The EMTs, whom we know, clock my heart at 170. Supra ventricular tachycardia. I’m told to hold my breath and press down. Beat. Beat. Beat. They put an ice pack on my face. Beat. Beat. Beat. I’m getting a tad dizzy.
They have a shot that will straighten this out, they say. It only flat-lines you momentarily, then restarts the heart. I’m terrified. As they put me in the ambulance, I magically “self-corrected.” Well, who wouldn’t, faced with a drug-induced crash and reboot. Everything is suddenly right again, but we’re still on the way to the nearest hospital (45 miles down the hill).
The scene is straight out of “ER” minus the cranky bald guy and the gal with the crutch.
The only way to get seen in the ER is to arrive by ambulance. I get into Curtain 2 right away. Others wait on gurneys in the hallway and some in chairs. Be advised: the closing of L.A. County trauma centers affects us all. Not just the poor folks in South Central.
They need to find out why my heart went berserk. It could be, you guessed it, a clot. My foot and ankle are swollen. That’s a bad sign. My EKG seems normal. A chest x-ray and an ultrasound take longer, but the results are negative. They’re taking back some of my blood for a CBC and other tests and, yes, they’ll send the results to the Coumadin Clinic saving us another hour drive.
To pass the time, I do an experiment. I practice Dr. Andrew Weil’s “relaxing breath” while Betty reads the heart monitor. Wow. The heart rate actually slows. I knew this stuff worked. Now if only I could check it listening to the Sound Body Sound Mind tape. I bet that would register too.
Anyway, we get home about noon. I’ve been told more negative stuff about clots and the heart. The good news is the likelihood of another “tachy” are slim. But I struggle for another week with all the negative suggestions roaring around my subconscious.
The acupuncturist who helped with leg swelling and back pain had a more optimistic view. He treated two muscle spasms in my back that he says could have triggered the tachy episode. Funny, all the time I was in the hospital and the ER, I complained about back pain and nobody took any notice except to ask if I wanted more drugs. I didn’t.
At almost three weeks post surgery, they removed 26 staples, placed a bunch of little tape strips over the incision and said I had to wait another three days for a shower. Ugh!
At four weeks, the surgeon watched me trek across the room without the walker. He told my daughter I was way ahead of the curve on walking and signed me up for a cane. He also said the exercise regimen given to me in the hospital wasn’t important. He promotes only one exercise, lifting and bending the knee outward. This, of course, is the one that really hurts. The rest are only to restore lost muscle tone.
To the smiling surgeon, this is no big deal. To me, this is huge. I never dreamed I could go flabby in a few weeks. I will continue the forced marches, leg lifts and weight training for the arms anyway.
And when may I drive my Ion with its manual transmission? Several more weeks at least. Damn. Walk on a sandy beach? A rocky trail? Tend my hillside garden? Ski?
Don’t even ask.