I had a hole in one once. In Ireland of all places. Rick was there. He saw it. So did all the other patrons of the pitch and putt where we had rented our clubs, donning our street clothes and tennis shoes. I readied myself on the astro turf of the first hole. Adjusted my grip on the 20 year old pitching wedge and let go a mighty shank. It never really got airborne. Just shot across three fairways and rolled into the cup of the fourth hole. Drinks are on me.
I haven’t reported on my health in a long time. This blog was supposed to be a chronicle of my disease, Cardiomyopathy, and the resulting Heart Failure. It turns out, my health is not all that interesting. The excitement of Emergency Rooms, surgeries and new-fangled medical devices has been replaced with stupid little pills that cause weight gain, dizziness and constant trips to the bathroom. This makes for dull reading.
But to keep you updated, which is after all the goal, you should know that I recently had a round of tests to see how my heart is functioning. Everything is exactly the same as it was a year ago. That is good news. At one time, I was hoping for improvement. But no decline is good.
For those of you in the medical field, or who will google this, my EF is 22 and my MVO2 is 16.6. These numbers suck, but they’re holding steady and I am able to live a relatively normal life.
My life is different, make no mistake about that. I spend a lot of time waiting in the car. I have handicap license plates. Gone are hikes, 18 holes of golf, sometimes even running into the store. Yesterday, I did some volunteer work that had me standing for three hours. I spent the next three hours at home flat on my back. But I’m still here, still alive and kicking and I am grateful.
And I no longer think about dying all the time. That is the biggest change. I spent most of last year thinking my time horizon was short, very short. But now I just don’t think about it. I just live.
So, you’re updated. As my brother said, I’m above ground and above ground is good.
Is it just me, or has social media opened up a Pandora’s box of envy? I see friends sailing around the Caribbean, attending parties, having reunions, buying houses, playing with their grandchildren, winning golf tournaments, attending concerts. Without me…. OK, I know I just got back from The Masters. Cry me a river. It’s not logical. I don’t pretend that it makes any sense at all. But I’m not at The Masters today. I’m watching back to back episodes of Family Feud and eating Lean Cuisine. Alone.😉
Sometimes when you think things can’t get any worse, they do. I’ve been feeling somewhat out of sorts all year, with the heart thing and all. Then, the past two weeks I’ve been fighting the flu. OK, it’s probably just a cold, but that sounds so lame. This has been a full-blown, sore throat, low-grade fever, runny nose, stuffy nose, coughing mess. I’ve been confined to my house mostly. I don’t want to infect anyone else, and quite frankly, I am too disgusting to be out in public. Besides the sniffling, coughing, hacking, honking, gross shit I’m doing, I have two raw sores under my nostrils from the incessant blowing. Like my mother used to say, I’d have to feel better to die.
We’re only in Carmel for a few more days, so I decided to muster all my strength and take a walk along Scenic Drive overlooking Carmel Bay. If that can’t get your spirits up, I don’t know what can. I changed from the pajamas I’ve been living in all week to some Target sweatpants and a hoodie. I donned a pink bucket hat and sun glasses, a fanny pack and some tunes. Off I went. I had to sit down to rest every so often, but so what. The view is killer.
I was on the return part of my route. I was considering whether or not to spit. Carmel probably has spit police like Hong Kong or is it Singapore? Plus, it’s OK for runners to spit, but I was barely walking, more like strolling. Even for a Wednesday, there was a beehive of activity. A FedEx driver was taking a break, enjoying the scenery. Cars lined the street, filled with day trippers and walkers like me. I decided not to spit. Over the music in my ear buds, I heard someone say “you’re gorgeous.” I figured it was a young couple enjoying the late afternoon sunshine. This is one of the most romantic spots on the planet. I sat down to catch my breath and to take in the view. A guy was running toward me, saying something. I took my head phones off and he said, “didn’t you hear me?” “No, what? Are you talking to me?” He said,” you’re beautiful. When you walked by my car, I called out. You’re gorgeous”. “Oh, I did hear that,” I confessed. “I didn’t realize you were talking to me.”
“I’m Michael”. He extended his hand and we shook. I told him my name. His opening line was about my accent. Not a bad pick up line. I told him the accent was from Tennessee, even though I’ve lived in Texas most of my adult life. He asked what I did and I told him I was retired from banking. He said I looked too young to be retired. I coyly said I was older than I looked. He said he was 40 and I couldn’t be that old. I said, try adding 20 years. ha ha. (more like 17, but I was light-headed). We chatted for a few minutes. I was enjoying it, probably too much. How long should I let this go on? I finally said, “I’m retired from banking and I’m a house wife.” “Oh, you’re married.” “Yes, I’m married.” He excused himself and I completed my walk.
My head was spinning. How long had it been since someone tried to pick me up? A long time. I think the last time it happened was at Costco. This was better. But it was scary, really. How this stranger had so much power over me. How he made me feel so special, so alive. How I probably talked a couple of minutes too long before confessing that I’m married. How flattered I was. How the beautiful setting intensified the whole thing. Then the skeptical part of me kicked in. I felt used, targeted, stupid. Was I that easy a mark? Does this guy come here every day? How often does he get lucky? Maybe he’s a serial killer.
Or maybe he’s just a nice guy who liked what he saw. Maybe I’ve still got it. Maybe things are about to get better. Maybe I need to hear those words more often.
It happened at Supercuts just before Christmas. Rick was waiting for his haircut alongside no other than Dr. Doyle, my long time cardiologist. The fact that these two successful men were waiting in line for a $15 haircut is another story for another time. So is the fact that Rick gets his hair cut every ten days.
I was a little surprised that Dr. Doyle even connected Rick to me or that he would be conversant with my case out of context. He must have thousands of patients. But I have been seeing him for 13 years. I’m younger and fitter than his average patient. I visit his office at least three or four times a year, sometimes as often as two or three times a week. He’s performed four operations on me, numerous in-patient tests, as well as meeting me a couple of times in the ER. So, I guess I’m a memorable patient. Plus my case has not exactly been text book.
I don’t know all the details of what they talked about. Rick didn’t tell me and I didn’t ask. But just a few days ago Rick brought up their conversation. He said that Dr. Doyle told him that he wished I would embrace my wellness. While that sort of threw me for a loop, it didn’t really shock me. Dr. Estep, my CHF cardiologist, more or less told me the same thing.
Cardiomyopathy is an unpredictable disease. It goes in fits and starts. You can deteriorate rapidly and then level off for long periods of time. There seems to be no explaining or anticipating the course it takes.
For me, 2014 was a year of digesting. I spent most of the year getting my head around the fact that I have cardiomyopathy, a degenerative and incurable condition. I was quite overwhelmed at first. And also quite distraught. So, on the recommendation of my good friend Heather, I started blogging about it. I had a lot to say. Then I said it all, so I started writing about my family. I wasn’t sure how much time I had left, I was in a hurry. I wrote a lot.
Then a funny thing happened. I didn’t die. In fact, here I am. It’s 2015. On Monday, I turn 57. I made it another year. And I haven’t gotten worse. I have leveled off. Praise God!
So, I’m taking the doctors’ advice. I am embracing my wellness. Look out 2015. I’m back.
I am conservative in almost every way. I believe in the American Dream. I’ve lived it. My great grandfather or his grandfather or somebody, came over here from Germany. They drifted west doing manual labor, mostly logging, clearing trees. Eventually they found some good farmland on the Mississippi Delta, borrowed money from the seller, bought their own patch and the rest is history.
I like to think the American Dream is available to all people in equal measures. My passion, money and time go toward educating young people so that they too can experience the American Dream. So, when I read or see something that seems to imply that this dream may not be everyone’s dream, that makes me too sad. I close my eyes. I close my ears. I turn away.
Yesterday I experienced my own injustice. I was the victim of a crime. At my very own country club, someone expertly lifted my wallet out of my purse in a room full of people. Within an hour, they had made a passport with my name on it and the female thief’s photo. There were at least three of them, a woman and two men. They hit the Galleria and had a field day. They spent over $25,000 in shops I have never set foot in. Hard working people don’t waste their money on Gucci or Louis Vuitton. But the real violation didn’t happen to me. It’s what happened to Christopher and Adam.
You see, at first my friends and the club staff did not believe that my wallet had been stolen. How could it have been? The four of us playing mahjong never left the room. We were there the whole time. After the book club ladies left, no one else was in the room. No one except for Christopher, who was our waiter. Chris is black. He’s from Nigeria. Double whammy. You know how it is with those Nigerians and credit card fraud? We called Chris in to see if he noticed anything unusual. If he saw anything. We were trying to gather as much information as possible. Pick everyone’s brain. I could see it in his eyes. The worry. The resignation. The fear. It broke my heart. Christopher is a wonderful guy. It never occurred to me that he might feel threatened by being asked to help.
At this point, everyone was still trying to convince me that I must have left my wallet at home. Then I remembered that I had tipped Adam, the Hispanic valet, on my way in. I was hoping that he had not left for the day, because he could verify that I did have my wallet when I got to the club. I gave him $5.00 when I got there because we often play mahjong late into the afternoon after he’s gone home. We stood beside my car and chatted for a few minutes. Fortunately he was still around and the club manager brought him into the lounge area where it happened. Adam told everyone basically the exact same thing I had told them, word for word. He saw me get my wallet out of my purse, hand him a five dollar bill and put my wallet back in my purse. I did not leave it in the car or drop it on the ground, although the club staff and my friends searched my car a half dozen times. I was so thankful to Adam for corroborating my account of things. If not for him, no one would have believed me. But when Adam first walked into the room, I saw the same look in his eyes as the one Christopher had. Fear.
There is so much to tell about this particular theft. It was a professional job, no doubt. I am out only one trip to the DMV to replace my driver’s license and the $300 cash I had in my wallet. Chase Bank is out quite a lot, although they don’t seem too fussed. American Express is the real hero here. They alerted me to the fraud almost immediately. They are the reason I looked for my wallet to begin with. They shut down their spigot before the scumbags could spend any money.
I am not the victim. No, I sort of am. But my pain is temporary. My inconvenience small. I already have a new American Express card, thanks to over night delivery. I have ordered new checks, a new debit card, and spoken to the customer service coordinator who will help me alert all the vendors about their automated payments. I have received my “Fraud Kit” from Chase and I am good to go. I’ll be alright. But I won’t be the same. I saw the world that Christopher and Adam live in. A world where when something goes missing, they are afraid.
This is not my story. It was told to me by a dear, dear friend. I’ve been mulling over my place in the universe. I’ll write my thoughts on that soon. But as I thought about the fact that I’m not where I expected to be, I’m still here, I thought of this cute anecdote. Enjoy.
My friend’s daughter, Amber, travels a lot on business. I mean A LOT. And she goes to really cool places like Berlin, Turkey and China. Sometimes she takes her family with her; sometimes she leaves them at home and my friend helps babysit. She’s the grandmother of the year.
When Amber went to China, she decided to take her five-year old, Beth, with her. It was the trip of a lifetime and she wanted to share the experience with her daughter. Hopefully she was old enough to make some memories.
But she was only five and we all know that traveling long distances with a small child can be trying. So, Amber did some research and decided to give Beth melatonin for the long plane ride. It’s natural, right? A milk derivative. Not exactly an ambien, but hopefully effective in shortening the trip for little Beth and making the red-eye more pleasant for the rest of the people in their cabin.
She explained to Beth that they were going on a long plane ride and that it can be difficult to sleep on the plane. That she was going to give her a pill to help her sleep and that when she woke up they would be in China. Beth was excited about going on a trip with Mommy and if taking a pill was part of the deal, she was on board. Being the thorough, prepared mother that Amber is, she did a test run of the melatonin before the trip, making sure that Beth tolerated the supplement and that there were no adverse side effects.
The morning after taking the melatonin at home, Beth was not her usual, cheerful self at breakfast. Amber and her husband watched her closely for any signs or symptoms and thought maybe the pill had had the opposite effect, keeping her awake all night. They asked her, “Beth, honey, did you sleep all right? You seem a little bit out of sorts this morning.” She looked at them with absolute disappointment on her face. “It didn’t work. The pill. It didn’t work…. I’m not in China.”
Why are rich women so damn skinny? I go to a Bible study at one of the local country clubs. I know, it sounds like an oxymoron, but I guess even the country club set needs to hear about Jesus. No, seriously, it is a fabulous ministry and the Bible teacher is truly outstanding.
But, if you didn’t know it was a Bible study, you might think it was an anorexia support group. My goodness, you have never seen a better dressed group of skeletons. Women of all ages, some dressed in tennis outfits, some in their work clothes and others in designer jeans. And so many of them painfully thin. You’d think those who could most afford to eat would not be starving themselves to death. Houston, we have a problem.
Jackie and I threw a Halloween bash complete with a pumpkin carving contest. We were two months into our new jobs at First City National Bank in Houston following grad school. It’s hard to top the years we spent in Austin, but those first months in the training program at First City were a close second. It was a twenty something’s paradise. Camaraderie, intellectual stimulation, nightly happy hours and a paycheck. What more could you ask for?
We rented a house close to Memorial Park. It was our first year as grown ups in the working world. But we still had one foot in our youth, unwilling to take ourselves too seriously. We didn’t need much excuse to throw a party and gladly shared our spacious digs with friends and acquaintances. On Halloween, we had a party and invited all of our friends, old and new. There were UT friends living in Houston, friends who came in from Austin and Dallas, and of course, all of our new First City friends. It was a wild party. Risher won the best costume, coming as Beethoven’s fifth. He wore tails, with a fifth of bourbon attached to his head.
The next day, our elderly neighbor, Mrs. Howdeshell, rang the doorbell. My first thought was that she was there to complain about the party. Then I saw the pie in her hands. For us? How sweet. We chatted a while. The usual neighborhood gossip, and I thanked her for the pie. She told me she was glad to do it. After all, we were the reason she had so much pumpkin. She had found the discarded jack ‘o lanterns from our carving contest. They were in our trash can by the side of the house. I tried to keep a straight face. It was, after all, pretty resourceful. You know how that generation is. Having lived through the depression and all.
We’ve been through this drill a dozen times before. Don’t eat or drink after midnight. Get up before dawn. Do not drink coffee. Do not eat bagel. At least for me. ugh. Rick drives us ten minutes to the Texas Medical Center. We valet. It’s the only way to go. We head straight to Dunn Tower, tenth floor. We’re on auto pilot. We know the way. Rick even gives directions to an older lady pushing her husband in a wheel chair. And so it begins. The hurry up and wait.
I’m a lucky girl in so many ways. So many countless ways. I live down the street from three hospitals that each have world class heart tranplant units. We have good health insurance. We have enough money. I have few responsibilities to worry about. I have emotional and spiritual support. And I have Rick. My secret weapon. My everything.
He was already trained for the job when I met him. It was one of the things that attracted me to him, but also something I never dreamed I would need. Along with his brothers, he nursed both of his parents through prolonged illnesses when he was in his early twenties. Most of the heavy lifting was before I met him, but seeing him interact with his invalid mother convinced me that this is the man I want to spend my life with. He showed compassion without pity. Not many people can do that. He also demonstrated something else that I value, a keen sense of obligation and duty. That is necessary when the magic wears off and anyone who’s been married longer than ten minutes knows that it does wear off.
Yesterday was a day of tests. Artery pressure tests and a myocardial biopsy in the morning and an echo cardiogram in the afternoon. Mostly it was the in between parts. The waiting in one room or another. It’s boring. But Rick does not complain. He takes off work and he sits quietly by my side. We are not big talkers. Never have been. But he’s there. With me. He tells the nurse not to start the IV in my hand. I prefer the forearm. It hurts less. He warns them about my low blood pressure. He writes down verbatim what the doctor tells him about my tests. He waits.
And it fucking breaks my heart. This man does not deserve to go through this again. He’s already served his time. But he does it and he does not complain. Ever. In addition to doctor duty, he has had to adjust his life to living without me. He’s lost his best pal, his drinking buddy, his hiking companion, his golf partner. He watches TV at night because I’m not interested in going out. But he does not complain. He will hear nothing of it. He’ll get mad when he reads this post. But I don’t care. I hate it. I hate what this disease is doing to him as much as I hate what it’s doing to me. But this is what life has dealt us. And we take it. One day at a time. Together.
Just Passing Through 