Monthly Archives: March 2014

Scarred for Life

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Warning.  Do not ever, ever, ever, ever leave a loved one in a hospital room alone.  Not for one minute.  Do not assume that your loved one will be taken care of. Stay there yourself, have other family members stay with them, and if you can, hire sitters.


Dad had brain surgery.  A scar ran from one ear to the other.  He had a malignant tumor in his left frontal lobe the size of a large orange.  There is some sick irony that a man who talked non stop had a tumor in the language center of his brain.  

Once he left ICU, they removed all those nice tubes that allow you to stay in bed for days at a time. So, four days after brain surgery Dad is on his own to feed himself and get himself to the bathroom. No small feat for a man who is legally blind. The food service people would leave his tray on the bedside table.  Each serving was hermetically sealed in Saran Wrap. I had trouble removing it and I can see. We had to cut his food into bite size pieces and feed him like a baby.  He sort of was like a baby during this time.  You had to interpret his limited, confused vocabulary and try to guess what he was trying to say.

Dad had a hard time letting us know when he had to go to the bathroom.  Why they removed the catheter I will never know.  They did the same thing with me after my recent surgery. It really does add insult to injury. No wonder they have those uncomfortable plastic matresses. Anyway, Dad couldn’t give us much lead time.  There’s no way in hell he could have pushed the call button had we not been there. And, by the time a nurse came, it would have been too late. 

So, the first time he frantically gestured that he needed to go RIGHT NOW, I looked at my sister.  You’re a doctor.  You do this.

So she did.  She took the milk juggy thing, put the right parts in the right place and waited for Dad to do his business. There is no dignity in being sick.  Lines are crossed. Roles are reversed.  You see your Dad’s junk. When he was finished, Melisse came back to where we were sitting, turned to me and with wide eyes said “I am scarred for life.” 

As it turns out, Melisse should have given me a lesson before she left. On my first turn with the jug, I closed my eyes and shoved it in the approximate vicinity. Next thing I know, Dad and I are both getting sprayed. Oh my gosh. The damn thing had a lid.






Pardon my French

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Don’t you just love icebreakers, table topics. I was at a Lenten Bible Study last week and the pastor asked our table to introduce ourselves by saying which leading character from a movie we would like to be.  Most of the people said heroic, Christian type characters like Corrie Ten Boon or that runner from Chariots of Fire. Exemplary figures whose self sacrificing courage made the world a better place. Rick said Hawkeye from Last of the Mohicans. I could have told you that. He has seen that movie dozens of times. 


I sort of panicked. I’m not a movie buff and I don’t have any movie heroes. I’ve never really had any heroes to speak of, unless you count Jane Pauley.  Back in the early 80’s I would watch her on the Today Show as I got dressed in my little banker’s suit each morning. I thought she rocked.  But, under the pressure, I forgot all about Jane. All I could think of were characters who are completely self centered, driven to excess, hard as nails, pardon my French, bitches. I love them.  I want to be them. You see, in real life, I am a people pleaser, the teacher’s pet, the one driven by a sense of obligation so strong that I sacrifice my own health for the sake of others. In my make believe life, I’d like to throw caution to the wind, be mean and not care, step on the little people on my way up, be single mindedly ambitious and go for broke… Kick ass.

I chose Sigourney Weaver in Working Girl.  I know the Melanie Griffith character is the sentimental favorite, but heck, Katherine Parker is so deliciously mean. Actually, I could have picked Scarlett O’Hara (Melanie is such a wimp), Meryl Streep in the Devil Wears Prada, Glen Close in Damages (I know it’s a TV show not a movie, but I LOVE her), either Thelma or Louise, or my personal favorite, Lucy Van Pelt.  I’m not sure what the pastor thought about my selection.  I felt like the other people were trying to make good first impressions. But after all I’ve been through, frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn.

Play Date

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Rick is cheating on me.  Not technically.  I encouraged it. Pushed him, really.  You see, I can’t do the things Rick and I used to do for fun. We’re out here in Carmel with the golf courses, the beaches, the mountains and all I can do is gaze longingly.  I have ridden in the golf cart while Rick plays.  I have taken a shortened walk around the base of the mountain while Rick hikes up and back. We meet at the car.  I take a book with me while I wait. This is not really working for me. Sort of like pouring salt in the wound.

And it’s is not fair to Rick. So, I am on the lookout for playmates for him.  This morning he is  hiking with our friend Jen. They got up early this morning and I slept in. I’m drinking coffee, watching the golf tournament on TV, surfing the net. And I’m perfectly content. Truth be told, all those fun things we used to do had become less fun the past couple of years. There is a thin line between challenging and grueling, between exhilarating and too much. Before I knew there was something wrong, I knew there was something different.  I didn’t look forward to our many activities. I dreaded them. So, I’m OK that he is cheating on me this morning and that I am still in my pajamas, drinking coffee and writing this.

Second Chances

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Do you ever think  about tipping points?  I do. Whatever you call it, the break even point, the point of no return, the inflexion point, the crescendo.  It is the point at which things change course. They stop being one thing and start being another.  It is sometimes the straw that breaks the camel’s back. Usually, you only know the tipping point in retrospect.  

I am an active person.  A couch potato would probably still not know she has a heart condition.  My heart works well enough to meet my needs when I am not exerting myself. But because I work out with a trainer three times a week and have for decades, I know the moment that something is off.  When a 10 pound bicep curl becomes suddenly difficult. When I have to lower the speed on the treadmill in order to catch my breath.I can almost guess my heart rate at any given time, just like I can almost guess my weight each day when I get up. I push myself and I pay attention to what my body is telling me.

So, how did something like this blindside me? I’m guessing the cells of my heart have been weakening over time, but the strong cells were able to compensate for the weak ones until they weren’t.  At one specific moment in time one cell made all the difference.  One bad cell replaced one good cell and that was all it took.  The tipping point.

I attended a cooking demonstration the other day.  Chef Pedro showed us how to properly cook scallops.  I’ve cooked scallops and they are tricky.  Very difficult to get just right. Pedro showed us how to brown each side to just the right color until there is only a small white line of uncooked scallop in the middle.  Take them off heat at just that moment and they will continue to cook to perfection on the plate.  That is the tipping point.  But, if you somehow miss that moment of perfection, cook them one whole minute more and they will become edible again.  Not perfect, but edible.  They get a second chance.  Have you ever heard of such a thing?  I’m not sure how this relates to my heart or to anything for that matter, but when Pedro talked about this scallop having a second chance, it brought tears to my eyes.


 

Show Me Yours and I’ll Show You Mine

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Last week I went to see Dr. Doyle to have my bandage removed and to have the new Mac Daddy checked out. While I was settling in with my Architectural Digest, a black lady in one of those motorized wheelchairs came in by herself.  That’s unusual because people in wheelchairs usually have someone with them, a grown child or a spouse, sometimes a paid caregiver. This lady was alone and I felt sorry for her because in addition to having a bad heart, she couldn’t walk. 

 A middle aged man was already there, silently waiting his turn; that is, until the woman in the wheelchair broke all the rules, she spoke. She wheeled over in our direction. I thought she wanted a magazine. Then she asked if either of us had a pacemaker.  In unison, we both said, “why, yes we do.”  

This was uncharted territory.  Never in twelve years have I ever spoken to anyone in the waiting room.  We wait in silence mostly. It’s a somber club of unlucky souls whose hearts have literally gone haywire. Most people who have heart rhythm problems are pretty well educated about them. There are a thousand ways your heart can mess up. No two people have the exact same issues. Most people with pacemakers can recite their diagnoses like a red badge of courage.  I know this not from the waiting room, but from my neighbors and friends, and of course, the Internet.  

The lady in the wheelchair was visiting Dr. Doyle’s office for the first time.  She evidently had not gotten the memo about proper waiting room etiquette. She had ended up in the hospital after passing out.  It had taken several weeks to stabilize her and while in the hospital, she had a pacemaker put in. She had no idea why she needed the pacemaker, she didn’t know her underlying heart problems and she didn’t know how to properly care for herself.  As she told us her story and her concerns, the man and I exchanged worried glances.

The more she talked the more the man and I both knew that she was in big trouble.  She had not read her hospital discharge instructions.  She had not taken her round of antibiotics. She was using her left arm and exerting herself too much. She was afraid her pacemaker was breaking through her skin.  Before you knew it, we were all three pulling our tops open, exposing our scars.  The man’s scar was old and faint, how mine will look in a couple of years. Mine was still bandaged up from the surgery and so was hers.  We assured her that her wound was healing properly and would look like the man’s in no time.

The lady got called in first and the man and I continued to talk. He developed congestive heart failure 18 years ago when he was 47. He used to get so tired at his job as an electrician that he would hide in the bathroom to rest. A cocktail of medication has kept his heart failure at bay, increasing his EF from 20 to in the 40’s.  I said, excuse me, you’ve had congestive heart failure for 18 years. I had no idea you could live that long. He assured me he had. I told him I just got diagnosed with it. We traded war stories. 

I told Dr. Doyle about the waiting room tete a tete.  I told him I wanted the same drugs the man was taking. He said that there was more to the man’s story. Something about heavy drinking, then not drinking…  I didn’t care.  I just focused on 18 years, 18 glorious years. When I asked him about the woman in the wheelchair, he said that some people can’t be bothered to take care of themselves. I had never thought about that before.  About people who don’t follow the rules (Clearly she’s a rule breaker. We’ve established that).  No wonder Dr. Doyle sometimes seems fed up with it all.  He can only do so much.  

Ainsley checked out my new pacemaker and it is working like a champ.  Dr. Doyle made some tweaks to the settings and had me test drive it.  I walked up three flights of stairs in the building and was only mildly winded. I’d say that was a victory.  He thinks my heart might be a little smaller, which is also good news.  He can tell this by feeling under my rib cage. Go figure. Not very scientific, but good enough.

We won’t know anything for sure until I have another echo cardiogram in about six weeks. I am as hopeful as I’ve been since this whole thing started right after Thanksgiving.  I am going to the gym later this afternoon and see what happens on the treadmill. Once my incision heals, I plan on lifting weights and playing golf and doing whatever else I want until my body tells me I can’t.  I might redecorate my living room, go on a diet, volunteer at church, plan a trip, take a class at Rice, call a friend for lunch. Live.  And I have the wheelchair lady and the electrician to thank for that. I’m so glad she didn’t get the memo.  

I Want Candy

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How long do you hang on to greeting cards?  Some are so special that you might not ever throw them away?  How about cards from your husband?  How long do you keep them?  You don’t very well open them up, read them, “oh thank you honey” and then toss them in the trash right in front of him.  I think Jerry Seinfeld did an episode on this. I usually leave a card sitting out for a few days as a visual reminder to Rick that it meant something. He probably just chalks it up to my messiness.  I’m not sentimental.  Neither is he. 

The last card I got from my mother before she died was for Easter. When you opened it some animated character sang, “I want candy”.  I love candy.  Mom loved holidays. She sent cards for every occasion: Halloween, birthdays, Christmas, Easter, anniversaries.  She did holidays up right. Decorated the house. Had seasonal food. Bought presents. Wore thematic outfits.  Sent cards. The whole shebang. 

Until I was in my early twenties, I bought a special outfit for Easter. It’s what you did.  It was the start of the Spring season-you can now wear white. We wore new dresses with Easter bonnets and gloves to church on Easter Sunday. And then we’d come home to hunt for Easter eggs.  Mom went all out. None of those plastic Easter eggs with quarters in the middle.  For days before Easter she boiled real eggs and we would dye them with that smelly vinegar based dye. She and Dad hid them all over the yard.  On Easter morning we woke up to tremendous Easter baskets filled with candy, candy, and more candy. The Easter bunny was alive and well at our house.  Mom was an extravagant giver.  It’s how she showed her love.  

So, I had this Easter card that sang “I Want Candy.”  I kept it on the bulletin board in my study and every so often I would open it up and listen to the funny song and look at my mother’s beautiful signature.  I did this for five yeas. Every couple of months, I’d open it up and listen and feel happy. Then one day all it did was click. Click, click, click. I closed the card and reopended it just to be sure. Click, click, click. It was over. It was time. I tossed it.

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TV Worth Watching

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We live in a unique era of television.  There is some of the very best and very worst out there for our entertainment. Some of it is pornographic, gruesome, dark, pollution of the soul.  Some of it, on the other hand, is superbly written, challenging, uplifting and dead accurate.  Last week’s episode of Parenthood was spot on.  It portrayed to a tee what it is like living check up to check up.  

For most of the world, probably including extended family, the pronouncement that you are cancer free is the end of it. Hallelujah.  Praise God. All those months of chemo, radiation, surgeries worked.  It’s over.  Close that ugly chapter and start a new one. 

But that’s not the reality.  The show focused on Kristina who is a breast cancer survivor, a mother and a political activist.  A mover and a shaker.  She is the soul of her family as so many women are. She is her husband’s rock. She is what makes the family work.  She has her six month check up.  No biggie.  But it is, and the show brilliantly portrayed all of the emotions and consequences of that.

First of all there is the club you have inadvertently joined and have grown comfortable being part of: the captive audience in the doctor’s waiting room.  You look around at the cast of characters. No body talks.  That’s the unwritten rule.  But you look and you compare and you judge.  At least I do.  That person reeks of smoke, how dare they take up space on this planet.  That person is fifty pounds over weight.  Each person’s self destructive behavior is a personal affront to you because you are doing everything in your power to get well but these slackers deserve to be here. Not you. Then there are the ones in wheel chairs or walkers who have attendants.  They are your future.  They are the enemy.  As you wait for your name to be called you are sizing up the competition. Yes, somehow they are the competition in this cosmic chess game of who lives and who dies. OK, these are my thoughts.  Not Kristina’s.  She is compassionate, she makes friends with her fellow patients. Meets them for lunch. Visits them in the hospital. I can learn from her.

Then there’s the waiting for test results.  Again, the producers of Parenthood knocked it out of the park. Kristina has internalized her anxiety.  It’s her life after all, and she has learned to compartmentalize.  She has a young baby, so she must try to focus on the day at hand.  Adam, however, cannot.  Each tick of the clock is an eternity for him.  He dissects the doctors words.  He said a couple of days, that means two, right.  He watches the clock for 48 hours.  Then he starts holding his breath.  When she finally receives the phone call with the good news, Adam breaks into tears. Hard, sobbing, snotty tears. It was some of the most moving and accurate TV I’ve seen. Rick and I looked at each other with understanding.  Words were not necessary.

But the aspect they really handled insightfully is how illness robs you of your future.  Kristina and Adam want to start a charter school for their autistic son Max.  When she is healthy, Kristina has boundless energy and she is a person who walks the talk.  She not only cares about certain causes, she acts upon them.  Adam initially tried to reign her in.  He didn’t want her to expend her limited energy on things that might cause stress and run the risk of her cancer returning.  It’s just un friggin believable the role stress plays in our lives.  It creates fertile soil for cancer to grow and God knows what else.  But Adam loves Kristina so he chooses to support her activist endeavors.  (She ran for mayor and lost).  But in this episode, he and Kristina are challenged by Max’s English teacher about their long term commitment to running a charter school. To the healthy viewer, it’s as simple as that.  But it’s not about that at all. It’s all about Kristina. Will she be alive that long?  Do they plan their lives beyond the five year survival window?  Do they make long term commitments? Do they have long term goals?  By the end of the show, the answer to this question is “yes.”  Adam and Kristina decide to live their lives as if they are going to live. But the show didn’t leave it at that with some schmaltzy ending. They made it crystal clear that this entire hellacious process will be repeated in another six months and another six months after that.  They won this battle but the war rages on.  

The Garden of Eden

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I read about Joe Harris in the Houston Post when there still was a Houston Post.  I preferred the sports writers at the Post. They were more blatantly pro Houston Rockets than the writers at the Chronicle.  I never forgave the Chronicle for surviving.  I subscribed to it for a few years until I realized that our take on sports was not our only difference of opinion.  

Joe Harris was a caddie at Memorial Park.  He lived in Galveston in one of the poor, black neighborhoods.  In addition to the Silk Stocking District and the beaches, Galveston has some serious ghettos.  It was in that world that Joe Harris was shot in the head in a drive by shooting. 

In addition to loving golf, Joe was a painter.  Although I never saw his early paintings, I hear they were beautiful landscapes. The shooting left Joe completely blind. Funny thing, Joe continued to paint. Most blind people lose all memory of sight after eight years. Joe didn’t. That sets him apart. He only paints two things now. The Garden of Eden and golf holes.  He paints on sand paper and uses his fingers to apply the wax based paint.  

When I read his story, I had to have one of his paintings. It hangs in our powder room and it reminds me daily of the power of the human spirit and the wonder of our maker. It’s a lesson I’ve needed a reminder of lately.

Bitch and Ball Buster Part II

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I was furious when I opened David’s present under the tree. “Melisse, look and see what is in your package from David.” Yep, two bottles of wine, one “Bitch” the other “Ball Buster.” In case there are any children reading this, I can’t repeat what I said next. Only that Melisse covered her kids’ ears and my mom rolled herself into her bedroom crying. “He said they are really good bottles of wine.” She actually knew about it.  Can you believe that?  David has always been Mom and Dad’s favorite and I had to make a split second decision. Christmas was riding on it.


I followed Mom into her bedroom. I got down on my knees so that I was at eye level with her in her wheel chair. “Mom, I beg you to stop crying and come back into the living room so the little girls can open their presents. It’s all my fault, I know he was just trying to be funny. It’s my fault, I don’t understand his sense of humor.” I wanted to vomit.

She finally stopped crying and wheeled herself back into the living room and we all finished our happy, little, family Christmas. The girls opened their American Girl dolls and assorted paraphernalia. Peace had been restored. Afterwards, Rick and I grabbed our bottles and went back to the Peabody Hotel where we were staying.  In those days I was prone to drowning my sorrows. Well, mom got one thing right, that wine did taste pretty damn good. And that was it.  The final Christmas.  Mom died the next year.






It’s Busterated

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Melisse and I were strolling her young daughter down the streets of DC when Evelyn shouted “It’s busterated. Fix it! Fix it! Fix it!”  For the life of me, I can’t remember what got broken.  Some toy, doll, sippy cup.  Who knows.  But it was busted and Evelyn was frustrated and she invented a new word.  Rick and I adopted that word into our lexicon because there was a need for it.

My heart is busterated.  Today is the one week anniversary of my surgery. Try as I might, I just do not know if I feel better, worse or the same.  Probably the same since I can’t tell.  I was waiting to blog about my heart until I had something more definitive.  I was hoping that when I woke up from the anesthesia it would be like having a new pair of glasses.  Ahhhhh.  That’s what the world looks like.  But it hasn’t been like that.

I’m still recovering from the surgery.  It doesn’t get any easier as you age to put your body through that kind of trauma. There’s sleep deprivation, pokes and prods, round the clock invasions, low blood pressure, uncomfortable mattress.  And I can’t even begin to guess the thread count on what they call sheets.  

So, I’m home now listening to my heart.  Gauging my breaths. Driving myself crazy.  I have hosted my own pity party, I have gone down dark roads I had no business being on. But I have not stayed there.  I have taken a shower, I have gotten dressed, Rick has driven me around, we met some friends for dinner, I have a friend coming over today for lunch to give me a refresher course in knitting.  Life goes on. Yes, my heart is busterated, but it is still trying as hard as it can and I must too.