PART II of the never ending trilogy about my escapades in dealing with a bum ticker. It does have a happy ending, trust me.
I hope you read the previous post before this one, as it will save me a lot of background information.
Atrial fibrillation. A-fib for short and so much easier to say and type even. A condition of the heart that can be asymptomatic, actually is in most people, or you can exhibit symptoms like myself. It can be harmless, or can become a dangerous condition. You would have to know I would fall in the latter category.
I left the story hanging in 2008, when it was first discovered I had A-fib, or an abnormal heart rhythm. Per my doctor’s instructions, I followed up with the cardiologists the very next morning. I’ll call him Dr. Like, which is close to his Polish name, and rather profound since I absolutely did not like the gentleman.
We just didn’t hit it off, could not establish a good doctor/patient rapport. He was an elderly gentleman with old ways. Slow, methodical. Added a beta blocker and a couple other meds that I’ve forgotten over time. Trying to control the heart to stay in sinus rhythm, or a regular heart beat.
A lot of tests, my least favorite being wearing a Holter monitor for 3 day periods every 3 to 4 months. And the annual full week Holter, 7 days of keeping this little machine in your pocket, trying to hide all the wires under your shirt. It looked like I was undercover on a drug deal.
It required a trip to the clinic to have the electrodes attached to your chest. They were color coded by the wires that led from the electrodes to the monitor itself, about the size of an old transistor radio. You know, pocket sized like a pack of cigs.
You wear this 24 hours a day for the required length of time, showered with it on, slept with it on (if you could) and all the while it was recording each and every heart beat. My results were predictable. Over the course of the next 3 years, the amount of A-fib attacks increased and they hung around longer.
Instead of feeling like an hour anxiety attack, my A-fib episodes began to last hours and hours, a full day more often. The symptoms worsened. More rapid heart beats, breathing more labored, and then harder to move or accomplish anything. They came out of nowhere and at any time day or night.
I could sense when I was going into an A-fib attack, I knew. I’d put my fingers on my wrist, take my pulse and announce to the wife:
“I’m in A-fib again.”
“Bad?”
“Bad enough. But let’s wait.” Waiting to run to the hospital, just in case it turned into chest pains leading up to a heart attack.
But it didn’t happen that way. In 2011 I asked my wife to take me to the doctor real quick, as something was wrong. There was tingling and numbness forming on the left side of my face and mouth. Like leaving the dentist after having a wisdom tooth removed.
By the time we got to the doctor it had progressed down my neck until my left shoulder and arm were useless, slumping.
“Oh god, I think he’s having a stroke. I’ll call an ambulance.” That was the only thing I remember my family doctor saying. I do remember the look in her eyes though, you could see her concern, a slight panic in her voice.
“I’ll take him, no need to sit here for 10 minutes.” Mrs. K was taking charge of the situation.
We reached the hospital 15 minutes later, pulled up to the ER where I got out, walked in through the revolving door and up to the triage desk.
“What seems to be the matter?” an older nurse was manning the desk.
“My doctor thinks I’m having a stroke.” By this time my face was fully numb and trying to get those simple words out was difficult. Never mind the disconnect between brain and body.
That was all it took. She picked up the phone while calling over her shoulder and the next thing I know I was whisked away in a wheel chair, right past all the folks in the lobby and waiting room hoping they would be called up next.
Right pass Go, for you Monopoly fans. Head of the class, front of the line.
I was examined right away by the emergency room doctor in charge, fitted with the appropriate bag, injected with whatever meds were on the menu and whisked away for a brain scan.
“Tell my wife where I’m at please.” She had gone to park, a bit of a nuisance, a bit of a hike.
Once the MRI was complete, along with blood work, we waited. Then waited some more. Some feeling was returning in my face, neck and shoulder. I could talk a bit better. I felt like a horse that had been rode hard and put up wet. Old cowboy saying. Meaning I was exhausted, wrung out and left to dry. My left arm didn’t work very well, like it was in an invisible sling and held that way.
“Minor paralysis, common in stroke victims. He got off fairly easily considering.” I overheard the nurse telling Mrs. K. Considering? Considering what I thought?
“Hopefully he’ll regain full feeling and use in the next few days or weeks.” she added.
I was more than thankful, grateful, to have such a loving and caring wife by my side through all this. And every other disaster that seems to befall me.
(As an aside, the missus had commented on the ER doc, how nicely dressed he was, how courteous with great patient concern and care. She liked his Gucci shoes. One year after the incident we read he had been arrested and charged with child pornography, distributing and receiving child porn over the internet.
Stripped of his medical license and sentenced to spend the pre-trial wait at his parents home. No cell phone, no computers, and under house arrest with an ankle bracelet. I hope it matched his shoes.. Looks can be deceiving right?)
It was near 10:00 pm when the doctor came back in the room, woke up the computer, and pulled all sorts of images up on the split screens.
“Your husband had what we call a TIA. That’s short for trans ischemic attack. Some folks call it a mini stroke, but from the CT scans you can see a small patch of gray here in the right frontal lobe. I’m not a neurologist or stroke specialist by any means, but there appears to be some leakage in that area.”
Okay, didn’t sound too bad.
“He should slowly regain use of everything, might not be perfect but pretty close. I’m hopeful the left arm will regain full use and feeling but…“ There’s always a damn but. “But he needs to go to the Stroke Clinic for followup. “
“When should we make the appointment?” my wife asked him.
“Oh, I already made it for him. 7:00 am. Dr. N will see him and do a real thorough follow up. Make sure he is there, this is an extremely serious matter.” With that the ER doc said we were free to go home, get some rest, and return bright and early.
I was exhausted, as was Mrs K, and by the time we got home at midnight we both wanted nothing but a good night’s sleep. But we didn’t sleep well, the events going through both our heads over and over. It could have been worse, we kept saying.
The next morning I was back at the hospital at 6:30, not wanting to be late for this one. I was by myself, figured there wasn’t a need for both of us to waste another day sitting and waiting.
I was brought into an examining room right at 7:00, and Dr. N came in promptly.
“Good morning Kyd, you don’t mind if I call you by your first name I hope.”
Dr N seemed like a very pleasant individual, easy going. Somewhat quiet, but you could tell he was focused on me and my current health issues. Real concern. He spent a lot of time asking a lot of questions. Health history, family history, lifestyle.
I’ve been over all the ER notes and charts and scans, and would concur with their diagnosis that you had a TIA, or small stroke.”
“Since you’ve lost weight and quit smoking, good for you by the way, I fully believe the problem is with atrial fibrillation. Do you drink alcohol at all?”
“I used to be a real heavy drinker, now maybe 5 or 6 just guessing.”
“A day?”
“Oh no, that’s a year.”
“Had me worried.” The doctor answered. “The lack of blood flow throughout your body isn’t good, especially with lack of oxygen to the brain and the risk of developing a blood clot.”
“I’m going to change some of your heart meds,” he went on. “Increase the dose of the beta-blocker, but add a blood thinner, Pradaxa. This should help in overall circulation, but it’s going to slow you down a bit.”
“I’m concerned that if the A-fib gets worse, your odds of a real full blown stroke are going to increase. Not that you’re a walking time bomb but…”
What is it with everyone and their buts?
So began the real decline in my health. Suffering from PTSD wasn’t enough. Chronic depression wasn’t enough. Being a transsexual wasn’t enough. Trying to drink myself to death wasn’t enough. Maybe I brought this on myself, my living was killing me. It had taken a toll on everything else. The amounts of meds I was now on didn’t help, of that I was 100% certain. Still am.
I felt like I had fallen into a giant net, a never ending spider web of doctors, medication, tests and more tests.
There was help to come though in the form of a pioneer heart surgeon who was skilled at eliminating A-fib completely. The best in the country I was told. It just took a long time to get there.
I had to die once or twice…the next and last part of the story.
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