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.
Just Passing Through 