Cousin,
You said you'd be interested in a narrative of my latest medical adventure when I had time to write it. Well, it's 4:30 in the morning, an hour earlier than my usual rising time, and I'm wide awake, and writing is a better use of time than surfing the internet or even working the crossword puzzle I didn't get to yesterday.
Often things happen out of the blue; certainly this latest brush with mortality seemed to.
But it's like piloting a boat across a tidal inlet: Sometimes the best way to see where you're actually going is to look back at your wake. In this latest case, I was confident in my compass -- the three bypasses I had thought would last as long as I did -- and I damn near ended up on the rocks.
Things got choppy on a Saturday two weeks ago. The started with me feeling vaguely crummy; nothing specifically wrong, just not a bundle of energy. Later in the day, I was helping Adelaide plant some pansies down by the seawall. When I walked back up to the house, not a great distance, I was really out of breath. I also felt a tightness in my chest. Not pain, not even that squeezing feeling that people often describe. Just a tightness that I still can't say whether was real or psychosomatic. I took my blood pressure. It was higher than it should be, but not dangerously so.
Then I tried to do what we so often do: deny what is. It's arguing that you've followed that safe course on the compass while hearing the surf pounding in your ears.
I'd played 18 holes of golf in Auburn the day before and then driven with Adelaide over to Clanton to pick up a car we were thinking about buying. Earlier in the week I had been in the gym at least a couple of times, including good sessions on the stationary bike, and had taken at least one good, long walk.
But, dammit, something just wasn't right, and we decided to go to the emergency room on the theory that a false alarm was better than a real one unheeded.
Potential heart attacks get prompt attention in the ER. They gave me some stuff that would help if I were having a heart attack, including aspirin, and did an EKG, took an X-ray and drew some blood. The ER physician said the EKG and X-ray looked normal, and there was nothing in the blood chemistry to indicate a heart attack, but he had talked with my cardiologist, who said they should keep me overnight and that he would look in on me on Sunday.
It turned out to be a good call.
Although my EKG looked normal, it looked different than the last one I'd had when I had my annual checkup with him in February, a checkup that included an echo cardiogram and a stress test, which did not reveal any imminent dangers. My cholesterol and triglycerides had been good, too.
There was enough question to warrant a heart on Monday, so I spent a second night in the hospital.
I really didn't think he was going to find anything (denial again), but he emerged from the procedure to tell Adelaide that he had found scar tissue creating blockages at all three sites where veins had been grafted onto the arteries. They scheduled sessions to put in stents on Friday and the following Monday. The reason for doing it in two sessions was that the dye they use in the procedure can damage the kidneys if there's too much of it in the blood.
Adelaide didn't even have to work hard to keep me from doing much physical activity while we waited for Friday, and I plenty of time to ruminate about how I got to this point.
After the bypasses (three years and a month earlier) I had worked at keeping fit and at eating wisely. While I hadn't limited my diet to leaves and twigs, a hamburger was a rare treat; we didn't eat red meat of any kind very often. I couldn't remember the last time I'd had bacon. We always used skim milk and put flax seed meal on our oatmeal or cereal in the mornings.
But I had to admit, I had not gotten as much exercise during the hot, dry summer (which around here seemed to start in May and is just now ending) as I ordinarily do. And I had noticed that I would be breathing a little hard when I began some activity, although that went away after I got going. And I was a little slower going up hills than I used to, but I didn't have to stop to catch my breath. And I am 70 years old; that ought to account for some slowing down.
So there were signs, but doggone subtle ones.
On that Friday the doctor put four stents in one artery, and on Monday he put in two more stents, one in each of two arteries.
As I'm recovering, I've thought about my brother and sister. My sis, a year older than I, has always eaten pretty much what she wanted, and what she wanted was often fried or salty or sweet. My brother, four and a half years younger, is a very disciplined eater. Both of them have coronary systems to envy. I think they inherited genes from my mother's side of the family. My inheritance, apparently comes from the Brown side of the family, not particularly noted for longevity.
Even if fate has drawn the line on the chart, though, I will keep trying to account for the current.
You recently sent me a copy of one of your favorite poems. There is a poignant line: How dull it is to pause, to make an end, / To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!
I can promise that I will not rust unburnish'd.
Cousin Bill
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
Showing posts with label health. Show all posts
Showing posts with label health. Show all posts
Saturday, November 12, 2011
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Note to a Friend in Minnesota
Today marked a significant milestone on the road from my near self-amputation.
I managed to tie a small fly onto a tiny tippet. Never mind that it took 15 minutes to do it. Never mind that the fish were not the least bit interested in what I was offering them. I, by George, tied a tiny improved clinch knot.
My left thumb still has not fully healed. The plastic surgeon will decide early next month whether he needs to graft some skin onto a small spot that has stubbornly refused to heal thus far. But my only bandage is a large Band-Aid, and although my fingers are stiff from having been in a splint and the part of my thumb that still moves is equally restricted, after four long months I am beginning to think I may be able to resume being a left hander. I managed to put my left hand in my pocket the other day, something I had not done since May 21, and I am able to hold a pen in my left hand and move it to produce something that looks pretty much like my handwriting. I did manage to write my name with the right hand. It had a cramped look, like the signature of someone who has learned to write his name but who really can't read and write. When I had to write some checks on an account that I am the only signatory to, I stopped by the bank to make sure the checks wouldn't be rejected as forgeries. My friend at the bank put a note on my account that if anyone had a question about my checks they should consult with him. Another reason for loving a small town.
The temporary incapacity does have some advantages, as my older son, who always sees the glass half full, would be quick to recognize. I can eat right-handed, a skill that can come in handy at a crowded table We lefties always look for a corner seat to avoid the battle of the elbows; now I can sit at the middle of the table if need be.
I have gone the whole summer without getting my left hand wet. I fished (spinning rod) several times with Griffin, the older grandson, who here for nearly two months, but I couldn't paddle, so we settled for fishing from the dock. I'm counting on it being healed by November, when I'm supposed to go paddling in the Okefenokee with some friends. If it doesn't, I guess I'll just tied a bag around my hand.
And, at long last, I can type with both hands. I haven't written much of anything for the past four months because I was reduced to typing with my right hand. Now I'm typing with nine fingers.
There is, of course, a lot that I still can't do – I'm eager to get started on some rehab to help take care of some of that – but, by golly, I got that fly tied to the tippet this morning, and that was enough to make me feel like I'm going in the right direction.
Hope your summer is going well.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
I managed to tie a small fly onto a tiny tippet. Never mind that it took 15 minutes to do it. Never mind that the fish were not the least bit interested in what I was offering them. I, by George, tied a tiny improved clinch knot.
My left thumb still has not fully healed. The plastic surgeon will decide early next month whether he needs to graft some skin onto a small spot that has stubbornly refused to heal thus far. But my only bandage is a large Band-Aid, and although my fingers are stiff from having been in a splint and the part of my thumb that still moves is equally restricted, after four long months I am beginning to think I may be able to resume being a left hander. I managed to put my left hand in my pocket the other day, something I had not done since May 21, and I am able to hold a pen in my left hand and move it to produce something that looks pretty much like my handwriting. I did manage to write my name with the right hand. It had a cramped look, like the signature of someone who has learned to write his name but who really can't read and write. When I had to write some checks on an account that I am the only signatory to, I stopped by the bank to make sure the checks wouldn't be rejected as forgeries. My friend at the bank put a note on my account that if anyone had a question about my checks they should consult with him. Another reason for loving a small town.
The temporary incapacity does have some advantages, as my older son, who always sees the glass half full, would be quick to recognize. I can eat right-handed, a skill that can come in handy at a crowded table We lefties always look for a corner seat to avoid the battle of the elbows; now I can sit at the middle of the table if need be.
I have gone the whole summer without getting my left hand wet. I fished (spinning rod) several times with Griffin, the older grandson, who here for nearly two months, but I couldn't paddle, so we settled for fishing from the dock. I'm counting on it being healed by November, when I'm supposed to go paddling in the Okefenokee with some friends. If it doesn't, I guess I'll just tied a bag around my hand.
And, at long last, I can type with both hands. I haven't written much of anything for the past four months because I was reduced to typing with my right hand. Now I'm typing with nine fingers.
There is, of course, a lot that I still can't do – I'm eager to get started on some rehab to help take care of some of that – but, by golly, I got that fly tied to the tippet this morning, and that was enough to make me feel like I'm going in the right direction.
Hope your summer is going well.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
I've Gotten Away With It Before
The following was written Sunday, but I could not post it for lack of an internet connection: I am writing this with one hand while sitting in a room in UAB Hospital in Birmingham.The other hand, swathed in bandages, is being held vertically higher than my heart to keep fluids from building up in the thumb doctors sewed back on Friday night.
It was a near thing. The surgery resident who was attending me had consulted with his boss and was already numbing the area around my dangling left thumb, preparing to amputate right there in the emergency room, His pager summoned him. His boss apparently had taken another look at the X-rays and decided it might be possible to save the thumb. I don't know whether he knew that I am left handed.
The upshot was that a surgical team spent four or five hours putting back together nerves and blood vessels, and I am tethered to an IV pole that is infusing me with antibiotics and blood thinner to try to prevent the vessels and capillaries from getting plugged up. The surgeon stopped by earlier this afternoon and said things are looking pretty good, though nothing is certain. He explained that he could not save the nail bed and that he pulled a flap of skin up to cover the missing nail. If it works, the thumb will be a little shorter with the first joint fused.If the flap fails, the thumb will be shorter still. As so often is the case, there was no indication that disaster was looming, On Friday morning, I was working alone in my neighbors shop on some Adirondack chairs for our front deck. I have worked with tools and wood almost all of my life. I know the safety rules, and like many others, I have skirted the safety rules from time to time without suffering consequences.
Until Friday. A moving saw blade, a hand too near it, and a mangled thumb. No one was around, so I wrapped my T-shirt around my hand and walked home. My wife was not at home and I couldn't reach her on her cell phone, so I found some gauze and tape and wrapped my hand and drove to the Russell Medical Center emergency room. They quickly determined that I needed to go to UAB and made arrangements. I had plenty of time during the ambulance to reflect on my own folly, and I am no less chagrined by hearing the doctors stories about power tool accidents much more catastrophic than mine. I've had time to consider, too, that it is not just guys with tools who grow dangerously complacent after years of getting by. Recent reports about inattention in airline cockpits have stirred concern. And I suspect that the many of the people aboard that oil-drilling rig in the Gulf of Mexico were doing things they've done for years. The consequences of my complacency were great enough. Complacency on a larger scale can be truly catastrophic.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
It was a near thing. The surgery resident who was attending me had consulted with his boss and was already numbing the area around my dangling left thumb, preparing to amputate right there in the emergency room, His pager summoned him. His boss apparently had taken another look at the X-rays and decided it might be possible to save the thumb. I don't know whether he knew that I am left handed.
The upshot was that a surgical team spent four or five hours putting back together nerves and blood vessels, and I am tethered to an IV pole that is infusing me with antibiotics and blood thinner to try to prevent the vessels and capillaries from getting plugged up. The surgeon stopped by earlier this afternoon and said things are looking pretty good, though nothing is certain. He explained that he could not save the nail bed and that he pulled a flap of skin up to cover the missing nail. If it works, the thumb will be a little shorter with the first joint fused.If the flap fails, the thumb will be shorter still. As so often is the case, there was no indication that disaster was looming, On Friday morning, I was working alone in my neighbors shop on some Adirondack chairs for our front deck. I have worked with tools and wood almost all of my life. I know the safety rules, and like many others, I have skirted the safety rules from time to time without suffering consequences.
Until Friday. A moving saw blade, a hand too near it, and a mangled thumb. No one was around, so I wrapped my T-shirt around my hand and walked home. My wife was not at home and I couldn't reach her on her cell phone, so I found some gauze and tape and wrapped my hand and drove to the Russell Medical Center emergency room. They quickly determined that I needed to go to UAB and made arrangements. I had plenty of time during the ambulance to reflect on my own folly, and I am no less chagrined by hearing the doctors stories about power tool accidents much more catastrophic than mine. I've had time to consider, too, that it is not just guys with tools who grow dangerously complacent after years of getting by. Recent reports about inattention in airline cockpits have stirred concern. And I suspect that the many of the people aboard that oil-drilling rig in the Gulf of Mexico were doing things they've done for years. The consequences of my complacency were great enough. Complacency on a larger scale can be truly catastrophic.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
Saturday, October 4, 2008
A Lovely Season on the Lake
There are few topics more boring to others than one's health, so I will simply report that the bypass surgery was a success and that I am facing a longer period of mending than I would like. Why is patience something that I never quite master?
On to more interesting matters.
For those of us who live on the lake, this is a lovely time of year. The weekenders and vacationers have, for the most part, disappeared. With so many schools systems beginning their year in August, activity on the lake begins slowing down well before the traditional Labor Day season end.
By this time of year, the lake activity is almost nil during the week and limited on weekends. The fact that the water level fell and then came back up contributes to the lack of traffic this autumn. Many people assumed the water was down for the winter and put their boats away.
Even though I am months away from paddling my kayak or maybe even riding in a boat, I find much to appreciate about the lake.
I was up before dawn and sat with my morning coffee watching the hummingbirds defy gravity and physics as they did their best to keep their the feeders for themselves, even though there is enough for everyone.
nbsp; I stepped out onto the front deck for a few moments. The only man-made sounds I could distinguish were low and far away. The sun was catching beginning to light the trees across the slough. Each morning the trees are showing more color.
I don't know how colorful the autumn will be. Very often drought makes for more colorful leaves it seems, and I don't know whether that or the moisture we had toward the end of summer will have a greater influence. In either case, we will appreciate what nature offers us.
Each evening the sun drops over the ridge closer and closer to the Smith Mountain fire tower. We judge the season by the relationship of the sun to the tower, and soon I will be taking sunset photos with the sun silhouetting the tower.
My wife showed me a photo in the home section of one of the newspapers recently. It showed a fairly extensive yard makeover, and I must say it was very attractive.
But in the photo, at the back of the garden, was a fence and beyond that roofs of other houses.
I am content to look from our windows and see the native azaleas and hydrangeas that grow where they want to without much human intervention, and to see beyond them expanses of water.
Especially now.
Bill Brown can be contacted at billatthelake@gmail.com.
On to more interesting matters.
For those of us who live on the lake, this is a lovely time of year. The weekenders and vacationers have, for the most part, disappeared. With so many schools systems beginning their year in August, activity on the lake begins slowing down well before the traditional Labor Day season end.
By this time of year, the lake activity is almost nil during the week and limited on weekends. The fact that the water level fell and then came back up contributes to the lack of traffic this autumn. Many people assumed the water was down for the winter and put their boats away.
Even though I am months away from paddling my kayak or maybe even riding in a boat, I find much to appreciate about the lake.
I was up before dawn and sat with my morning coffee watching the hummingbirds defy gravity and physics as they did their best to keep their the feeders for themselves, even though there is enough for everyone.
nbsp; I stepped out onto the front deck for a few moments. The only man-made sounds I could distinguish were low and far away. The sun was catching beginning to light the trees across the slough. Each morning the trees are showing more color.
I don't know how colorful the autumn will be. Very often drought makes for more colorful leaves it seems, and I don't know whether that or the moisture we had toward the end of summer will have a greater influence. In either case, we will appreciate what nature offers us.
Each evening the sun drops over the ridge closer and closer to the Smith Mountain fire tower. We judge the season by the relationship of the sun to the tower, and soon I will be taking sunset photos with the sun silhouetting the tower.
My wife showed me a photo in the home section of one of the newspapers recently. It showed a fairly extensive yard makeover, and I must say it was very attractive.
But in the photo, at the back of the garden, was a fence and beyond that roofs of other houses.
I am content to look from our windows and see the native azaleas and hydrangeas that grow where they want to without much human intervention, and to see beyond them expanses of water.
Especially now.
Bill Brown can be contacted at billatthelake@gmail.com.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
In The Blink of an Eye...
Countless songs describe how quickly things can change, The song that says it most directly to me – “things change, rearrange in the blink of an eye” – is by the Moonalice Band.
(You can listen or download a copy of the song and other of the band’s music at www.moonaliceband.com)
We’ve had many blinks of an eye moments this year, and things certainly have changed and rearranged.
The first was back in the winter when my wife, Adelaide, fell down the stairs at our house – 16 of them. Miraculously, she survived without permanent injuries, but it has taken months of recovery, and that process continues. Things change.
Then two weeks after what is usually a routine surgical procedure, I began hemorrhaging, and made two trips to the emergency room in a single day. Rearrange.
The resulting anemia left me weak and frustrated. It took an agonizingly long period for the red blood cells to regenerate, and I spent the summer only as a spectator.
I slowly recovered, though, and had enough energy to attend the Biennial Roundup of the Usual Suspects that I wrote about in an earlier post, although there were a couple of times when I just ran out of gas.
A couple of weeks after our return I stopped by the doctor’s office to get a prescription renewed. She asked about our trip, and when I told her that I’d hit the wall a couple of times, her ears perked up. You know, those can be the symptoms of heart disease, she said, and we ought to get it checked out.
I respect her skill, so I had a calcium scan the next day. We hadn’t gotten home from that good before she was on the phone saying that I needed to come see her that morning.
&nb The scan results put me in an extremely high risk category, she said and made me an appointment with a cardiologist.
Here I was riding along with the top down, so to speak, and I got hit by a log truck.
In the blink of an eye.
More tests, including a heart cath. The result was not what I had hoped for, so, barring the unforeseen – boy aren’t there a lot of unforeseens in life – in the next day or so, a surgeon will bypass the clogged arteries and we will begin adapting to still more changes in our lives.
There have been countless blinks of the eye that have been immeasurably great. But not so many this year. So we will be happy to put a close to 2008 and look forward to some of those great ones next year.
“Things change, rearrange, in the blink of an eye.”
Bill Brown can be contacted at billatthelake@gmail.com
(You can listen or download a copy of the song and other of the band’s music at www.moonaliceband.com)
We’ve had many blinks of an eye moments this year, and things certainly have changed and rearranged.
The first was back in the winter when my wife, Adelaide, fell down the stairs at our house – 16 of them. Miraculously, she survived without permanent injuries, but it has taken months of recovery, and that process continues. Things change.
Then two weeks after what is usually a routine surgical procedure, I began hemorrhaging, and made two trips to the emergency room in a single day. Rearrange.
The resulting anemia left me weak and frustrated. It took an agonizingly long period for the red blood cells to regenerate, and I spent the summer only as a spectator.
I slowly recovered, though, and had enough energy to attend the Biennial Roundup of the Usual Suspects that I wrote about in an earlier post, although there were a couple of times when I just ran out of gas.
A couple of weeks after our return I stopped by the doctor’s office to get a prescription renewed. She asked about our trip, and when I told her that I’d hit the wall a couple of times, her ears perked up. You know, those can be the symptoms of heart disease, she said, and we ought to get it checked out.
I respect her skill, so I had a calcium scan the next day. We hadn’t gotten home from that good before she was on the phone saying that I needed to come see her that morning.
&nb The scan results put me in an extremely high risk category, she said and made me an appointment with a cardiologist.
Here I was riding along with the top down, so to speak, and I got hit by a log truck.
In the blink of an eye.
More tests, including a heart cath. The result was not what I had hoped for, so, barring the unforeseen – boy aren’t there a lot of unforeseens in life – in the next day or so, a surgeon will bypass the clogged arteries and we will begin adapting to still more changes in our lives.
There have been countless blinks of the eye that have been immeasurably great. But not so many this year. So we will be happy to put a close to 2008 and look forward to some of those great ones next year.
“Things change, rearrange, in the blink of an eye.”
Bill Brown can be contacted at billatthelake@gmail.com
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