The Bloody Doors Off

(continued from “I’m still here“)

I’ll say this. When you’re presenting possible heart failure, the doctors and nurses move fast.

Which, of course you want. Seconds matter.

I got there when, 7:30 pm? We’ll say 7:30.

The hand-off was instantaneous. The paramedics already had my health card, and fortunately I was already in their system (from when I was having ocular migraines). (I didn’t realize they had my old address on file until I was discharged, and no one had followed up.)

I was lifted off the stretcher and onto a medical bed. Eyes still closed, I felt the speed at which they wheeled me through the Emergency entrance to an elevator, and up to the 7th floor to the Cardiac wing.

Then they started taking my clothes off.

The shirt, obviously, because they had to attach those stickers over my chest, thigh. Hook me up to the wires that connected to the machines that monitored my condition. (This included the most expensive machine, and the machine that goes ‘ping!’)

The pants were next. Made sense.

And then the underwear.

Maybe that’s why my blood pressure hovered at180. (At most, it should be 135.)

But I doubt it.

My eyes were open by this point.

Modesty prevailed; there was a blue sheet covering the crown jewels. But I was still showing some skin. Because they had a choice to make. To insert a catheter in my wrist, or my groin. Either option meant a tiny camera was travelling to my heart to get a good look at what was happening.

The nurse was prepared to shave me.

But the wrist prevailed.

A local anaesthetic later, and they had a clearer picture.

That dark patch in the upper right section of the artery? 40% blockage.

Not enough for a stent.

Their initial observation? Not a heart attack. (At least in the conventional sense, it turned out. I’ll get to that in a future post.)

But they definitely weren’t sending me home that night.

I was wheeled back to my room. They took blood. Kept an eye on my oxygen.

Marlo dropped off my CPAP with security (visiting hours were over for the night). (Author’s note: she dropped off the CPAP with a nurse from Cardiac ICU, who met her downstairs in front of the hospital.)

The night nurse checked my vitals again, then turned off the light.

She stood vigil outside for everyone in the ICU as they slept.

Like I could sleep.

(Continues in ‘The 59th Street Bridge Song‘)

It’s what I texted my wife in the wee hours Tuesday morning.

Some time after the paramedics had taken me to St. Michael’s Hospital.

“I’m still here.

I’m not going anywhere.”

It was like an elephant sitting on my chest.

At first I thought it was an anxiety attack. But there was no trigger.

I was simply sitting at my desk, having a conversation with my wife and a friend.

A few minutes went by. It wasn’t going away.

Someone — I can’t remember who — suggested that I lie down. (Author’s Note: I have been reminded that it was my wife who told me to lie down.)

So I did. And I took a Propanalol, which in theory should lower my blood pressure.

Not that I used it for blood pressure. It was prescribed mainly to help calm me during severe anxiety attacks.

Only this time. It didn’t.

Our friend had made their leave and my wife joined me on the bed. She’d been trying to get me into an after hours clinic, with no success. She asked whether I wanted to contact TeleHealth or call 911. I chose the former.

“Your call is important, please stay on the line… due to an increase in volume (or a decrease in funding thanks to Doug Ford) … If you want us to call you back, press one now.”

So we called for paramedics instead.

They arrived soon after, two men whose names I’ve sadly forgotten.

Two things I can tell you about them: 1) one of the paramedics had a sleeve tattoo on his right arm, and 2) it was their first shift working in tandem.

They entered the apartment, came to my side, checked my vitals.

They were unsure it was a heart attack. (Author’s note: Marlo has informed me that they indeed say it was possible I was having a heart attack.)

I was unsure it was a heart attack. (Author’s note: clearly I hadn’t heard what they said, otherwise I’d have been freaking out that much more.)

To be safe, they were going to take me to Emergency.

I lucked out that it was St. Michael’s. It’s closest to us. Michael Garron Hospital, while completely serviceable, was in East York. Much farther to travel.

I had the foresight to ask for my cell, and my slippers. Because my feet were bare. I wasn’t even wearing socks.

(Note: this would be the second time I would be admitted to St. Michael’s and not have a pair of shoes.)

I did not think of asking for my CPAP. I was naively hoping it would be a very short stay.

They guided me to the stretcher, and wrapped me in an orange sheet.

In that moment, I closed my eyes, and didn’t open them again until I was in the Cardiac Intensive Care Unit.

(Continues in “ICU, do you see me?“)

Oh! It’s not just an earworm.

There’s an idea here.

A spark.

My brain is trying to tell me something.

It’s telling me to get ready.

Get ready to write.

That just hit me. Best book title. Ever.

I’d buy it.

And I haven’t bought a new, first-edition hardcover in.

Six years?

I had to refrain from posting on social media earlier tonight.

For some goddamned reason, I hit a “look at me! i’m funny! tell me i’m funny!” patch.

Shut that down, pretty fucking quick.

And oh yeah.

It’s Thursday.

How the actual fuck is it Thursday?

All evening, I’ve been convinced it was Friday.

Even though Picard was airing on CTV SciFi earlier. Clear indicator (for me; maybe not you).

checks the time on the computer screen

What the actual fuck. I started writing this post… three hours ago.

Completely lost the thread.

Alright, I’m done for the night.

Here. Enjoy this song that’s been stuck in my head all bloody week.

I mean.

What the actual fuck.

So this week has been a (minor) clusterfuck. Don’t get me wrong, most of it has been positive. Work is creeping in, and Spring is threatening outside (though I suspect Winter will have one last blast before it hibernates for 7-8 months).

My coffee maker broke down earlier in the week. Pain in the ass, but there are workarounds. A neighbour on our floor lent me her Bodum while I waited for the new model to arrive. And yesterday, it showed up.

Huzzah.

But then the kitchen faucet threw a hissy fit and began geysering (yes, that’s a word; I say so, therefore it shall be) when you turned either tap on. I spent a fuck of a long time today trying to figure out IF it could be fixed (it’s a Pfister model and the neck doesn’t detatch, only the handles do) and what part would be needed. So I spent considerable time talking with 3 plumbers (after our building go-to said they weren’t available until next Wednesday) and sussing out a game plan.

I spoke with the manufacturer as well, as they have a ‘lifetime’ guarantee. Only they won’t just send out a complete new model. No, they will send out a part they think would fix the problem, and if THAT doesn’t work, then they’d send out another part that MIGHT work. After that, then they would replace the whole unit.

And oh, said part won’t arrive for 7-10 days.

7-10 days without a kitchen sink.

Fuck no. I am not washing pots in the bathtub goddammit.

One of the plumbers says, hey we have a few Moen taps in stock that we’ll install temporarily (at no charge) until you get the part needed. That becomes a leading option. But we still would be looking at multiple visits by the plumber to test out the replacement part.

An idea forms. It’d be cheaper just to order a new bloody faucet. So I check on Wayfair, find the same model (not on sale this time, crap) and put it in my cart. It says delivery by next Wednesday. I comparison shop with other similar models to see if I can get a better deal. While I could save money on price, it’d take weeks to a month for any of them to arrive.

Fuck it. Let’s get this model.

But that still means 6 days without a kitchen sink.

So I pull the trigger and tell the aforementioned plumber that we’ll go ahead with the temporary install.

But of course it’s midnight by the time this is decided and it appears he’s gone to bed. So, if I’d made this decision 6 hours ago, he could’ve come out first thing in the morning. Now? I’m not sure if I can get him in before Monday. Which means potentially 3 more days without a kitchen sink.

Oh yeah, I buried the lead. I’ve been dealing with massive anxiety the entire time this has been going on today. Dunno why. Just decided I wasn’t stressed enough, I guess.

I fucking hate adulting.

Now is the time for difficult questions, and conversations.

I took a nap earlier, and awoke to these questions swirling in my brain.

You know what? I can’t write this post. Not right now.

I was going to ask whether, a la Reddit, AITA for even considering having this monologue. For weighing the prohibitive financial cost, and time, and stress, against the argument to keep fighting.

Doesn’t matter the answer; in my heart, I feel I am.

I’m also beginning to suspect it’s the right thing to do.

And if that doesn’t make me an asshole, I don’t know what does.

Never thought I’d be writing an afterward to any of my posts, let alone this one.

But if anything, it lends credence to the thought that life isn’t a true straight line, from beginning to end. It loops, and curves, and backtracks.

Thirty-five years. And almost a year since I revisited that part of my past, and knew I’d made peace with it.

Thirty-five fucking years.

And this morning, she sent me a Facebook message.

It took me fifteen minutes to respond.

But I’m glad I did. It was good to catch up.

To learn she’d had a good life so far, even with recent heartbreak.

It provided some shelter from the storm raging in my brain.

Which I’ll talk about later.

I’ve been back and forth about writing this particular post.

It’s been twenty-four hours, give or take.

Harold played a mind fuck on me last night.

It was so insidious, I wasn’t even aware it was his hand on the wheel.

“Brutal” is the only word I can use to effectively describe the monologue in my head.

He’s a very effective writer.

Harold knows where the bodies are buried.

And he’s more than happy to dig a spot for you.

Ugh.

Yeah, this is far as I’m gonna go.

I don’t need to relive that particular memory.

I’m done.

I just can’t.

The far-right has taken hold in Canada, disguising a “freedom protest” against Covid vaccines and mask mandates as an excuse to try to intimidate/overthrow the federal government.

Putin has invaded Ukraine, and apparently half of all Americans have forgotten what World War II was about, and if they’re not kissing his and Trump’s ass, they’re busy jamming legislation to investigate Trans kids’ genitals and take away abortion rights. Trump even called the invasion “genius”, and this is the guy the Republicans want as the leader of the largest “free” nation in the world. Even the Russian populace is revolting against this aggression, and so far, almost 1,500 protesters (and that’s a legitimate reason to protest, #flutruxklan) have been arrested.

I can’t write worth shit. It’s not just a writer’s block. I have zero interest in writing plays, short or long. Once-enticing online workshops just feel “meh”. Blog posts are few and far in-between. I’ve even lost interest in running Sing For Your Supper, a monthly online (for now) new short-play reading.

Even baseball. One of the few joys I can look forward to lifting me up from the winter doldrums is Spring Training. But the players are currently locked out by management and even though both sides are at the mediation table, it’s doubtful they will come to an agreement before Monday, and will threaten the start of the season.

To top things off, our beloved dog Auggie is sick. The vet doesn’t know the cause. She drained almost a litre of fluid from her belly last week, and it’s filling up again. It could be her liver, her heart, or … yeah. And it’s expensive as fuck. I have not entertained the idea of a GoFundMe because I haven’t contributed to others whose pets were sick, so why would you for us? We need to shoulder this burden on our own.

I’m sick of it.

Well and truly.

The passion is gone.

Maybe it’ll come back tomorrow.

The night is heavy, and full of wolves.

But there is no joy in Mudville — mighty Casey has struck out.