(TLDR: I go on some wild tangent – again – hinting at baring a piece of my soul, but it could also read as bullshit. Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here.)
Mollie and I went to see Doctor Strange in the Multiverse of Madness earlier today.
But this isn’t about the movie.
No spoilers. This isn’t about the movie.
Some asshole in the theatre thought it’d be hilarious to project a red laser pointer at the movie screen. It got so damned frustrating that someone yelled out, “Knock it the fuck off!”
Oh yeah.
That someone was me.
And I’m seriously trying to process this.
Idiot acts out in theatre.
This seriously pisses me off.
It is goddamned insulting and insensitive and my eyes keep getting drawn to the damned thing.
So I express my displeasure verbally.
And when that doesn’t have an effect, I go find a manager.
And now I have to ask.
Have I become a Karen?
I went looking for the manager.
Okay. So now I realize this was long-winded way to make a “Karen” joke. (And my apologies to all the Karens within the orbit that is my life, and for all others as well.
But you have to admit.
It’s kinda funny.
Right?)
But, as better men than I have explained, humour is tragedy plus time. (You’re thinking of the Woody Allen film quote “comedy is tragedy plus time”; turns out, Mark Twain said it first.)
There’s truth behind the ha ha.
I don’t know where that outburst came from. I’m generally more measured, it takes a fair amount to hit my boiling point.
All of a sudden, I feel 55.
April was shit. (Excluding the final few days that led up to Maddy and John’s wedding.)
Work-wise, it was great.
But my health.
Sorry folks.
Storm clouds on the horizon.
The waves may get choppy.
There were struggles.
That night just weeks ago. “We think you’re having a heart attack.”
Well. Duh.
It’s how I’ve been dealing with it emotionally.
And.
Not so good.
I mean. There are restrictions.
Can’t get my monthly testosterone shot now. Don’t know how that will react with my beta blocker.
Can’t take one of my pills either.
In this moment. Right now. It feels like I’m being stripped of invisible armour, exposing me at my most vulnerable.
But I dunno how comfortable I am with that.
And everyone’s got stuff that is purely theirs, and only share with those with absolute trust.
Yes. I realize that by stating I have stuff I will never share on social media won’t surprise anyone.
They’ve probably got the same. Stuff, five people in a world of billions, are privy to.
And that in a circular way, I’m looking for loopholes to insinuate something salacious.
I was in the kitchen, making a grilled cheese panini for my wife. Decided to have a late-night snack.
And that led quickly into my recent heart scare, and receiving not one but two mailed confirmations of my appointment with the cardiologist at the end of the month changing it from a stress test to a phone consultation.
As if they were going to take that away from me.
Like it’s some kind of fucking badge.
I survived a (tiny) heart attack.
And if they took that away, I’d look like an attention-seeking liar.
That’s not the worst of it.
Because I think to myself.
“Well, maybe I should have a heart attack. You know, a small one; no lasting damage, but scary enough for me to start taking better care of myself. Just because I had salad three times last week doesn’t really fucking count because they were Caesar salads.“
Maybe I should.
If that doesn’t scream potential to commit self-harm.
It lasted one second.
Just one.
Long enough for Harold to slip through my defences.
I need a distraction.
Think I’ll finish watching Holey Moley.
You walked into my house last night I couldn’t help but notice A light that was long gone still burning strong You were sitting, your fingers like fuses Your eyes were cinnamon
You said you stand for every known abuse That was ever threatened to anyone but you And why should I know better by now When I’m old enough not to?
I’m not the type of person who stays until the last wedding song. I’m more than happy to slip out after the cake is cut, get some fresh air, and then take the long route home. Especially on a Sunday. In Hamilton. But not tonight, for it’s Maddy and John’s wedding. And I am here to celebrate their love until they kick us out.* We’ve made some great memories today. And dancing with my wife counts in the Top 10.
* We didn’t make it to the last dance. Or the after-party, sadly.
I was filling Marlo’s and my CPAP tanks and I was running a mental inventory of what was happening on Wednesday, when my brain turned to what I’d put in The Boy’sTM lunch in the morning.
That’s nothing new. And it led me on a windy (‘wh-eye-ndy‘) train of thought. Remembering that Woodsworth middle school (grades 7 and 8) did have a cafeteria and now that I think about it, I remember buying the cream puff donuts that came in a clear wrapper and a white cardboard back.
Before that, I used to go home for lunch. For the first few grades I would go to Doug’s house (he lived across the street; we were the best of friends right up through high school, and at one time may have duo-hosted a little television program called “The Doug and Paul Show” (it had a theme song.)
I remember Kraft individually packaged cheese slices pressed between two pieces of Wonder bread. Mayonnaise may have been involved. Oh, and tuna sandwiches. Cut into triangles.
Wait. That’s when my mum hosted the monthly bridge club with the ladies on Painted Post. Little wedge sandwiches and tea and I’m sure there was alcohol involved but I can’t prove it because my mum has been gone over 5 years and last night we lost Auggie and. Just for a minute.
Just for a minute.
I was in a very happy childhood memory.
I wasn’t reminded.
And it passes.
I can expect more of these, I imagine.
Christ, I’m gonna be off my head if anything happened.
We don’t even have wills.
Marlo’s prodding me to fill out a questionnaire and get the ball rolling.
Writing a will means you’ve contemplated your own mortality and don’t want to fuck over your loved ones when you’ve gone.
Why would I ever want to think of that? That hurts.
On a scale of 1 to 10, that was a 6.5.
The elephant on my chest felt like an 8. And now I get an updated appointment letter from my cardiologist changing my in-person stress test at the end of May to a “phone reassessment”.
Are they going to take back their diagnosis?
It’s barely been 2 weeks (no, less, 10 days maybe) and I’ve been living with this thought of “okay, I had a teeny heart attack, but I’m good and I just need to take better care of myself and holy hell what if it had been worse and I was still in hospital and Marlo and The BoyTM had to … with Auggie … and.
And my phone beeps.
I return to the present.
But first, one last thought of the sandwiches. And my mother’s laugh as they do Bridge-y things on the first Tuesday of each month.
Brandy, our family poodle, was 11 when he was hit by a truck in Tillsonburg.
I wasn’t there to say goodbye. That always bothered me.
It took me over 15 years to allow a new pet in my life.
He was a stray kitten my nephews had named Tigger. They couldn’t care for him properly, so I adopted the rascal. He used to climb on my bedroom furniture and knock over any loose change at 3 in the morning.
He was still very young when he got crystals. My girlfriend Suzi footed the bill for his operation because I couldn’t afford it. He survived close to a year, choosing to hide in our bedroom closet after she and I had rented a one-bedroom condo.
It was quick.
Willow was adopted soon after. A black and white domestic short hair cat, she lived to be eight before she suddenly took ill. I took her to the vet; there was no real option. We said goodbye in the exam room.
During Willow’s time with me, I adopted a tortie that I named Roo. (Can’t have a Tigger without a Roo.) She also lived to about 8 years old. Roo also became sick. There were no warning signs. I found her in the hall closet, wrapped her in a blanket and frantically searched for an emergency vet.
She died before I could dial the number.
There’s a pattern here.
My furbabies, to this point, had quick endings. (Hannah and Izzy are going to be 14 this year, and I swear they’re still on the first of their 9 lives.)
It wasn’t prolonged.
The grief hit immediately, and hard. But there was no time to really think about it.
I ‘adopted’ Auggie when I became a part of Marlo and the Boy’s lives. I’ve had the privilege of being her “Papa” since 2017.
Friday evening, after a lot of discussion with both my wife and a cardiologist at the Animal Hospital where Auggie was diagnosed with severe heart disease, I found a mobile palliative veterinary service that cater to geriatric care and end of life in a setting of your choosing.
I took the Quality of Life Scale, because there was a part of me that still hoped.
When the punch to the gut faded, I filled out their online form. Surprisingly, I received an email response around 9pm, even though their hours said they closed at 6pm on Fridays. They gave me their availability. Marlo and I discussed it and accepted the time offered.
They called Saturday morning to confirm, and spent 10 minutes taking me through all that would happen, including the aftercare.
I wanted so badly to change my mind.
But without her pills, Auggie’s time is extremely limited. Her belly will resume filling with fluid, breathing will become even more difficult. Auggie’s energy is already waning. She lost half a kilogram in a matter of weeks.
And we can’t let her suffer.
But even now.
I don’t want to go to sleep because that means Monday will arrive when I wake up.
Then I remind myself that it’s already after 12 am; Monday is here, fuck my feelings.
The vet said they would call again this morning, to make final arrangements.
I feel like a monster for going through with it.
And a coward if I back out.
I know we can’t.
We must do what is absolutely best for our missus.
Tonight, I discovered just how much I dislike the feeling of crumbling feta cheese on my fingertips.
This will be my fifty-sixth rotation around the sun later this year, and only now am I learning this fact about myself.
And I believe it to be an important enough discovery to blog about it.
Huh.
Also just noticed that, when I don’t have my dentures in, I like to press my thumb against the roof of my mouth, along the ridges.
I’m in a sensory-enhanced mood tonight.
Izzy’s soft mewlings at my feet.
The sound of the dishwasher.
The clack of the keyboard as I type this. That’s a two-fer right there.
Even rubbing the sleep out of my eye just now.
Dizzy spell a moment ago.
Couldn’t go twenty-four hours, could I?
Watched Auggie walk in circles for two minutes, while outside looking for a place to pee. Then spent another minute standing by the open door. Like she wasn’t sure why she was there.
Eh. I’ve got nuthin’ else.
It was really about that realization over touching feta.
It’s been one week since you looked at me Cocked your head to the side and said, “I’m angry” Five days since you laughed at me Saying, “Get that together, come back and see me” Three days since the living room I realized it’s all my fault, but couldn’t tell you Yesterday, you’d forgiven me But it’ll still be two days ’til I say I’m sorry
One Week, Barenaked Ladies
A couple of decades ago, I was freelancing for The Scott Mission. I remember being in the break room when someone there announced that a little known local band named Barenaked Ladies wanted to do a benefit concert for them.
The Mission politely turned them down, citing the name of the band. I don’t know who was the ultimate recipient of their generosity.
Funny how things like that stick in your memory.
It’s been seven days since the start of my Big Cardiac AdventureTM and I’m not sure how I’m processing. I had a fucking heart attack, there’s no denying. Luckily it was ‘tiny’ (to use the doctor’s words) and I’m recovering decently (excluding Saturday night’s trip to the ER). Went to the dentist this morning for a filling, and goddamn my blood pressure was perfect. It’s never been that good. And I’m only taking half a beta blocker each day.
Nobody’s treating me with kid gloves, and they shouldn’t. There is some gentleness involved, but it’s more random acts of kindness than anything (a good friend checking up on me, a neighbour offering to take down the recycling).
I’m able to work, and the stuff coming in so far is definitely not stressful. Sleep hasn’t been the best but it’s better than when I was laying in a hospital bed, listening to the odd Code Grey (or other random colours that I had no idea the meaning of).
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.
Breakfast of champions.
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.
My first thought.
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.
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.
Heart rate is fine; blood pressure is still a little high.Good lord, I missed my bed. This was so damned uncomfortable.Master has given Dobby a sock. Master has presented Dobby with clothes. Dobby is free!
The Bloody Doors Off 
