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.

(continued from “ICU, do you see me?“)

I got no deeds to do, no promises to keep
I’m dappled and drowsy and ready to sleep
Let the morningtime drop all its petals on me
Life, I love you, all is groovy

Simon & Garfunkle

Normally, if I wake up in the middle of the night needing to take a piss, I stumble out of bed and into the bathroom. An easy activity.

When you’re in ICU, with too many damned wires attached to your torso, and an oxygen monitor on your finger, getting out of bed is an impossibility.

Thankfully they replaced the bedpans.

With compostable, biodegradable jugs.

I was not looking forward to this. Hell, I’d been holding it in for several hours because of it. Not that I could miss; the spout was large enough to fit, well, you know. (And ladies, I’m sure you’ve had a similar experience when in the hospital, and I have no idea how you accomplished this. Kudos.)

No, it was the feeling of defeat.

I was bedridden. I’d had a heart attack (or not, depending what hour you asked the doctors), and no way in fuck they were letting me be vertical, let alone use the loo by myself.

It took a few minutes to relinquish control.

I’m just glad the night nurse didn’t come in to check my vitals at that exact moment. Though she did more than a few times during the night. I wore the blood pressure cuff for the first 12 hours. Did I mention my blood pressure was 180 when they brought me in? (I know I could go back and check, but I’m not in the mood to.) I drifted in and out of sleep until the day staff came on and woke me up at 8:00 am.

Breakfast was a fun-sized box of Cheerios, coffee (?!), a banana, and apple juice. (Lunches and dinners typically swapped coffee for tea, and some kind of chicken with rice (or, in the case of Tuesday, Salmon and rice).)

As vivid as Monday night was, which seems strange as you’d think suffering a possible heart attack would make your recollections less reliable, I don’t remember a lot about Tuesday. I remember they brought in an ultrasound machine — twice — to look at my heart and then my left calf (I’d complained of pain in my lower extremity and they were concerned about blood clots), visits from various doctors, residents and their Cardiologist. They told me it wasn’t a heart attack but they weren’t sure what landed me in hospital. They offered (false) hope that I would be going home by the end of the day.

Other than that, and I was bored.

So goddamned bored.

Thankfully, Marlo had brought my phone charger so I could remain connected to social media to wile away the time. I ended up using a crap ton of data, as WiFi was non-existent on the 7th floor.

One memory I will never forget (and this is classified as TMI, but I’m gonna tell it anyway): an hour or two after breakfast, I needed to take a shit. And there was no way in hell I was gonna remain horizontal and use a bedpan.

And there was no way in hell the nurse was gonna let me walk (20? 30? feet) to the bathroom. A compromise was struck: if I could stand and take a few steps, I could sit on a raised chair with a hole cut out of the seat, with a bedpan underneath. But it was to be a few feet from the bed. At least I could face the window, with a curtain drawn for privacy.

Oh right. I couldn’t strain or push. So, it was gonna happen, or it wasn’t. End of story.

Yeah.

It didn’t happen.

Not until the afternoon anyway, when the on-duty nurse allowed me to use the bathroom proper. They even had movable handrails. God, that was satisfying.

They were pretty insistent that I wear socks, because I was still unstable on my feet. As I hadn’t brought any (I didn’t put socks on that day), they gave me a ‘no slip’ pair for the rest of my stay.

Later that afternoon, I got another visit from one of the doctors. A specialist wanted to take another look at Monday night’s scans and the ultrasounds.

An hour later, he told me the specialist had ‘concerns‘, and I wasn’t going home after all.

(Concluded in I know you are, but what am I?)

(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.