It’s Tuesday the 8th and I’m in bed by 7:30. On a normal evening I would be relaxing after
dinner and feeling good about the day’s run.
It’s not a normal evening. My
heart is doing its version of the Macarena or the Rhumba. It’s pretty much a middle-aged white guy
version of one of those dances; or any dance for that matter. You see, middle aged white guys are supposed
to be notorious for not having rhythm; I’m a prime example. And so that about describes what my heart is
doing; it’s beating to no particular beat; out of rhythm. It’s a condition known as atrial fibrillation. Those of us with a more intimate knowledge of
the disease refer to it contemptuously as a-fib.
The usual drill when this happens is that I get myself to
the ER and announce to the triage nurse that I’m in a-fib. This is where the only positive aspect of
a-fib comes into play. Since it’s a
heart issue I get an express pass into the a room while all the other unfortunates
with sore throats, coughs, sprains and minor fractures watch; the royal
treatment in a shitty manner of speaking.
I get in the room and given THE GOWN. You know;
the one that flashes your butt. Luckily I’m able
to keep my sweatpants on. I’m then assigned
a nurse and I say my first prayer of the day; “Please let her be cute.” (Look
if I’m going to be here a while I need all of the scenery I can get). After that my nurse comes in and HE (Yup,
burned up the first prayer) asks me the usual battery of questions.
“Are
you in pain?” “No.”
“Short
of breath?” “No.”
“Lightheaded?” “No.”
Take it from me; there is a litany of questions. Sometimes I’m grilled by a series of
people. I could swear that there have
been occasions when someone drifts in and runs through the queries and then I
never see that person again. Who in the
hell was that? Someone with nothing to
do? Someone doing a survey?
After that a nurse takes an electrocardiogram and then
tells me, “You’re in a-fib.”
“No!” I reply in mock surprise. “And I thought I was just
faking it so that I could get to the front of the line because my hemorrhoids
are bothering me.” (Well, not really).
After that another nurse comes in and plumbs a vein for
blood. The last time this happened he
told me, as I winced from the ham handed stab, that the good news is that I won
the good vein award. Well that certainly
made it all worthwhile.
Anywhere from 5 minutes to an hour later, the doctor
comes in and tells me, “You’re in a-fib.”
No shit.
The doctor then runs through his list of questions, many
of which are repeats of the ones I’ve already answered one or more times.
Then the doctor mulls over whether or not to do a
cardioversion. You know, applying the
paddles, “CLEAR”, ZAP. The heart is
shocked to “reboot” it.
Then I go home.
That’s the usual drill.
I’m not doing the usual drill tonight.
Tonight I’m staying home; mulling over what I’m going to do in the
morning.
I’m really about at the end of my rope with this. I’ve lost track of the cardioversions. The first a-fib was maybe 10 years ago. I’d had too much to drink and in the middle
of the night my heart decided to scare the crap out of me. It didn’t scare me enough apparently. I toyed around with it over the years. Doctors said that I could have alcohol but in
moderation. This is where I learned that
moderation for one doctor is a binge for another. And so I got various versions of what my
limits where. I always opted for the
high end. I did a sort of fool’s math
and reasoned that three glasses of wine, well maybe equals two Maker’s Marks on
the rocks. And so the fool rolled the
dice for years. Most nights I got
through with no episodes; even though I spent the night paranoid that my heart
would roll snake eyes. And some nights
it did and I went through the routine.
Thirteen months ago – the day before Thanksgiving I had
three glasses of wine and wound up in the ER again. The doctor didn’t cardiovert me and I was in
a-fib for five days until my regular doctor saw me and got me back in rhythm. Those were the last glasses of alcohol I had
(save the Sunday sip of sacramental wine).
Two days before this last Christmas I went for a run. Seven minutes in and something wasn’t
right. I stopped. “Oh no. Please no.
Please, please, please God no.” Fingers
on the carotid artery. “Damn, my heart’s
beating fast from running; can’t tell if it’s out of rhythm.” I started walking back, dreading that
exercise might be a trigger. “Oh please
God, no.” In the end of course my prayer
wasn’t answered and an hour or so later my nurse prayer got the same negative
response.
Eight hours in a busy ER waiting for that shocking
experience. It went back to normal; what
they call sinus and no I have no idea why they call it that. After consults with my doctor and
cardiologist we decided that caffeine would be the next to go. The doctor tried to play the one or two cups
of coffee game and I shot back, “No. We’re
removing all ambiguity.” The doctor
cleared me to run but I run under a cloud now. The runs since then have been accompanied
by a foreboding; the dread that in midstride my heart would fuck me again.
Tonight I decided to wear my new Asics for the first
time. And so,wearing my new
running shoes, I asked Rainey, “Wanta go for a run?” She answered of course by dancing in place
and wagging the back half of her body.
It was a good run. A little chill
to begin but warmed up quickly. Nice
pace. 17 minutes down the rec path and I
decided to turn around. Save the longer
run for tomorrow. Rainey wanted to stop
more than usual for good smells and I wasn’t into it tonight. It felt too good. 29:19 minutes gone. A little over 4 minutes
left.
“Oh shit. Rainey,
stop.” I didn’t need to put my finger to
my throat this time. I knew. Four stinking minutes. We walked back and the knowledge that now
exercise triggers my a-fib sunk deeper into the pit of my stomach with every step. Now what? I give up alcohol; fine. I give up coffee; fine. I give up tea; fine. I give up chocolate; fine. Give up running and biking? Is this the next step? So I can be one of those old guys you see feeding ducks at the park?
Cora knew right away that something wasn’t right.
No ER tonight. I
ate at 3 PM and so they wouldn’t cardiovert me anyway. Not until at least 3 AM (Twelve hour wait
before I can be sedated). I’m not going
to spend the night in the ER. After more
visits than I can count I’m convinced that the ER is the 10th circle of hell that
Dante missed. It’s a miserable, noisy
place. And to let you in on a little
known secret, it’s full of sick, miserable people to boot. I’d probably go through a nursing shift
change and you know my nurse prayer would be twice denied.
"I'm not going tonight." I told Cora. "I'm sick of this shit. I've done everything right. No drinking. No coffee. No tea. Fine. I'll deal with that. Now, no exercise. Fuck that."
And so tomorrow morning I’ll wake up and maybe my “please
let my heart be back in sinus” prayer will be answered. If not I have a decision to make. I’m not sure that I’m wanting to go to the ER
again.
If you have a medical problem that hits you once, if it's serious enough (such as yours) you spend the rest of your days being sensitive to the most minute indication that it may be about to happen again.
ReplyDeleteYou're at the end of your rope on this, understandable. What may be the next step, even though you'd almost rather do a Jim Fixx than admit it, is to finally admit that you have to give up running. Even though you're about to throw a running shoe against the wall upon reading this, try to remain calm and objective.
I've known you long enough to want to continue that relationship and not do so by visiting your grave. I also know that we're approximately 2 years apart in age. Guess what that means? We're officially into the early stages of geezerdom (geezerhood? geezerness?). Those mailings we have been receiving from AARP since we turned 50 was the first clue. Remember that great Little Feat song line, your mind makes a promise that your body can't fill. Well, it's true and nobody has yet been able to defeat the ravages of time. The jury is still out on whether Keith Richards is an anomaly in this regard.
Amateur athletes frequently take themselves as athletes way too seriously. Runners do it, tennis players do it, golfers do it. Bowlers may be the exception. It must be something about the nature of athletics. Think of all the great pro athletes in our time who stuck around a few years too long because they didn't know when to quit. Willie Mays, Mickey Mantle, Johnny Unitas, Joe Namath, Brooks Robinson, the list goes on. You can look up the Hall of Famers in almost every sport and the list is littered with those who still played even though they were a mere shadow of the great players they were.
Now consider the greats who quit before they were washed up. Sandy Koufax. Jim Brown. Bill Russell. Wayne Gretzky. That list is much shorter. We don't have to remember Koufax as barely able to pitch in his final season. That was 1966 and his record was 27-3 with a 1.73 ERA. Nowhere near washed up.
When we were both young and healthy, we were very much into playing the sports we were best at. For you it was running, for me tennis. Serious back problems caused me to stop playing tennis for many years. I got back into it to a degree a few years ago. Problem was that the back wasn't anywhere near fixed and good again. I would play for an hour or two after a long preliminary period of stretching and jogging around the court to help ward off any more hamstring pulls or calf tears. After coming off the court, I would do some cool down exercises and eat a banana or two, the potassium helps quicker recuperation from the workout (thanks for that tip, Stan Smith). Even so, it would take me sometimes almost a week for the exacerbated back pain to subside. Because of that and the nerve damage in my right leg, I finally said fuhgeddaboutit and put my rackets up for sale.
What I'm saying in a long-winded way is listen to your body. It's telling you to pack it in. Did you throw that second shoe yet? If not, go ahead and fling it. I'd much rather see you walk away from running reluctantly than be carried away from it toes up.