The Bloody Doors Off

(Continued from “59th Street Bridge Song“)

The conclusion to Paul’s Big Cardiac Adventure should be pretty brief.

(Ron Howard: “It wasn’t.“)

Honestly, not a lot happened after the events of the previous post. After finding out I was staying overnight, they also informed me that I’d be moved from the ICU into the regular Cardiac ward. Exactly when, no one could initially tell me. (They were probably waiting for a bed to open up.)

I ate my meals. I doomscrolled social media. I posted several updates. (I was bored.) Vacillated between blankets and just a top sheet. (I couldn’t keep a consistent internal temperature, though I never had a fever.) There are no televisions in the ICU, and no WiFi, so I wasn’t going to stream anything. Nurses came to check my vitals, dinner was served. (I think this was the salmon and rice dish.) Around 6pm, they confirmed that I’d be moving at 10pm. My belongings, already in large plastic bags, were placed over my feet on the edge of the bed.

Forgot to mention: earlier in the day they’d hooked me up to a mobile monitor so I could be ambulatory. (This aided in the afternoon’s fulsome shit.) They could still monitor me from the Nurses’ Station if I chose to go for a walk. I didn’t, only because I didn’t feel steady on my feet for a stroll outside my room.

Sure enough, the digital clock struck 10pm and a nurse and orderly arrived and transferred me to the new ward. (I’m going to use a science fiction reference, you’ve been warned.) If the ICU was the Starship Enterprise NCC-1071D, then the Cardiac ward was the 1970s Battlestar Galactica. The ICU was pristine (I imagine it had to be, but still) and everything was shiny and new. The Cardiac ward was serviceable but had clearly seen better days.

They kept my bed, switched it out with the one already in the room. (Covid protocols, perhaps?) The nurse seemed surprised, at any rate. And yes, I’d gone from a solo journey to having a roommate. At least I had the window. (Only to discover in the morning it faced Victoria Street, and the back wall of Massey Hall. Not much to look at.)

I swear, he looked like a heavier Chief Miles O’Brien from ST:TNG. (Again with the science fiction references.) I’d posted the same thought on Facebook, which was incorrectly construed to be the actual actor. (Totally my fault.) But the resemblance was uncanny.

Each bed had a television.

Holy fuck, I was tempted.

If the powers that be decided I had to stay through Wednesday, I was gonna charge for the TV. (There was no way in hell I was gonna miss Survivor.) Another restless sleep followed, as faux-Miles had sleep apnea (he apologized for snoring the next morning) but St. Michael’s couldn’t give him a sleep study even though he’d been a patient there for a week and wasn’t leaving for at least another seven days (bureaucracy, apparently).

Wednesday’s breakfast was coffee (thank the gods that didn’t change), a hard-boiled egg, and a warmed up (but NOT toasted) multigrain bagel with a butter packet and raspberry jam. A ‘milkette’, an apple juice box and a banana rounded out the meal. The bananas weren’t very ripe.

Texted with some friends and my brother Kevin, who said if by 11am I hadn’t been discharged, he would drive downtown to visit. Sure enough, 11am passed, the nurse had informed me that I should text her for my insulin if lunch arrived before she returned with the needle, and no one had mentioned the possibility of leaving, so I invited him to keep me company (and bring me a Tim Hortons coffee, because lunch meant orange pekoe tea).

And then I learned faux-Miles, talking with his mother, wasn’t innoculated against Covid and didn’t want the vaccine. (He also didn’t take flu shots, but that was due to his egg allergy.) That didn’t put me at ease. Neither did his fascination with scratch tickets. (Wait,, that was his mother.) But I digress.

(By the way, they were both very nice people, once we struck up a brief conversation, so no hating because of his Covid stance.)

In between, they provided a face cloth, towel, liquid soap and a biodegradable/compostable basin so I could wash myself. (It was NOT pretty.)

Lunch was served. I’d eaten most of it (black beans and rice with pieces of chicken; seriously, what was with the near constant diet of chicken? At least when I was committed in Ward H at Michael Garron hospital, they once served cabbage rolls and mashed potatoes) when Kevin arrived.

Empty handed.

The Tim Hortons I remember being in the hospital’s ground floor at Victoria and Shuter was apparently no more. But he more than made up for it when he offered to drive me home when I was released.

We still had a good visit. He and I talked of many things. It really helped pass the time.

It was after lunch when the day nurse dropped by to check my blood pressure, and tell me there was word I would be discharged this afternoon.

The doctor came around to do his rounds shortly after 2pm. He informed me that, prior to their earlier declaration, I had indeed had a tiny heart attack. TINY. It seems a small piece on the bottom of my heart is not beating in rhythm with the rest of the vessel, and that triggered it.

That knocked me back on my heels. I’d been dreading being told something like this after they’d done the catheter scan, and was significantly relieved when they discarded that and also cleared me of blood clots. So that came like a gut punch.

“Hey kid. You had a heart attack. Like your mum. Only you got lucky.“

I asked questions, what I could and couldn’t do. I’m sure I missed something.

He told me they were increasing my cholesterol medication (from 5mg a day to 40mg, holy shit) and would also be on a beta blocker for the next year, at least.

And the Cardiologist who saw me on Tuesday?

Apparently he’s taken me on as an out patient.

He also confirmed that I was officially discharged. I was given a detailed report of my stay at St. Michael’s, prescriptions, and an updated inventory of every medication I take. (The list is two pages. Sorry, not sorry.)

The nurse removed the electrodes (I had to peel off the stickers), and took out the tube thingy that they used to give me the IV drip and other medications. I retrieved my clothes from the locker, and changed in the bathroom.

I’d previously packed up my CPAP machine. I grabbed the case and slung it over my shoulder.

And walked out the door.

Like I told Marlo.

I’m not going anywhere.