by Jo Robertson
Did I get your attention with that dramatic title? And the equally dramatic pictures above and below -- a three-way bypass heart and Jomama in the hospital sans makeup?
Here's how it went down: I was at the dentist, tilted back in the chair nearly upside-down when I felt the unmistakable pressure in my chest that I knew from previous experience was angina.
I got out of there fast and drove home.
Ridiculous, right? Yes!
I should’ve gone straight to the hospital, but I didn't, knowing my mother-in-law, who’d just arrived from out of state, was mired in holiday preparations. I popped five aspirin, lay down on the bed, and promised myself I’d call 911 if the pressure didn’t subside.
See, this is the thing about heart attacks. You always think it isn’t THE ONE even while your logical brain screams, “Dial 911, you TSTL heroine in a badly written romance novel!”
The pressure remained steady, so I calmly told my mother-in- law that I wasn’t feeling well and was going to go to the emergency room.
Yes, I drove myself to the hospital while experiencing chest discomfort. To be fair, the hospital is less than five minutes from my house.
The cool thing about hospital emergency rooms – and maybe the only cool thing about them – is that if you even breathe the words “cardiac patient,” (I’d had a previous angioplasty), they scoop you up and buckle you down like Frankenstein’s monster.
They run tests, start IV’s, give you the good drugs if you wince even a wee bit. The tests were sketchy, (WOMEN OFTEN PRESENT ATYPICAL SYMPTOMS), but the cardiologist wanted to keep me overnight.
Just to be sure.
IT WAS CHRISTMAS!! Protesting heartily, I allowed myself to be admitted. By now I was feeling quite good from my five-aspirin cocktail high. The brain tricks you into believing no pain equals no danger.
Silly brain.
When my family descended en force and brought the holiday to me, I knew I wasn’t getting out of there unless I executed a prison break. They were far more worried than I, of course.
The angiogram showed five blocked arteries, each seriously narrowed.
Not good.
It was now December 24 and every sensible cardiac surgeon was celebrating with her own family. Dr. Fitzpatrick would not let me go home. I’d never celebrated Christmas without my family. We were all devastated. And the worse part was I felt fine!
No fair!
But all my wonderful new babies, sons and daughters in law, and other grandchildren serenaded me with Christmas carols. Nurses and patients alike stopped by to join in.
See, what they do in open-heart surgery, called a CABG, is incise your chest from the sternum to the middle of the stomach. They break the chest bone, pry apart the ribs, stop the heart and hook it up to a machine, cut your leg from crotch to knee and knee to ankle to pull out the veins like linked sausages. They use these veins as by-pass “arteries” to replace your blocked ones.
Snip, snip. Stitch, stitch. Luckily, you're way under the anesthesia for all this.
When they’re finished they jump start your heart, metal-clamp the breast bone and suture the flesh, and viola!
Everything swells horribly (see how fat my leg is above) – your face, eyes, and leg. The pain is enormous, and to add insult to injury, the nurse makes you sit up within an hour post-op and cough . . . and cough . . . and cough. It’s sheer torture. The Spanish Inquisition should’ve taken notes.
The preparation for the surgery was psychologically freaky. They remove everything from you, clothes, glasses, wedding ring, books. You feel stripped bare, naked in the same way you must’ve felt when you came into this world -- alone and abandoned.
I couldn’t read. I couldn’t sleep. The hours were excrutiatingly long until the nurse prepped me, made me scrub my body vigorously three times. I shivered uncontrollably. You know, that kind of shaking when you’re going into shock? You feel cold, but the room isn’t?
And of course you worry that something will go terribly wrong, and you're achingly aware of your family waiting the long hours in the waiting room for the results. Mine arrived at 6:00 a.m., babies and all, but didn't get word of the results until noon.
We care for our Banditas and Buddies, whose hearts are so big they deserve to be super healthy. Don’t make us come after you with a stick – or worse, Aunty Cindy’s whip.
So, what’s your worse injury or surgery? Are you one of the lucky ones who’ve gotten to this stage in life without a broken bone or a tonsillectomy? It’s nearly the end of Go Red for Women month, so let it all out. Everything's mum in the Lair.
We're giving away an AHA Go Red pin for one commenter today!
Source URL: http://gbejadacosta.blogspot.com/2011/02/journey-into-darkness.html
Visit Gbejada Costa for Daily Updated Hairstyles Collection
Did I get your attention with that dramatic title? And the equally dramatic pictures above and below -- a three-way bypass heart and Jomama in the hospital sans makeup?
Good. Because today’s post isn’t light or romantic, and is only a bit funny.
December 22, 1999. This is me holding one of my four grandbabies born that year. Each one had problems that required extra hospitalization, and my mother had died in July, so I'd experienced stress I wasn't even consciously aware of.
December 22, 1999. This is me holding one of my four grandbabies born that year. Each one had problems that required extra hospitalization, and my mother had died in July, so I'd experienced stress I wasn't even consciously aware of.
Here's how it went down: I was at the dentist, tilted back in the chair nearly upside-down when I felt the unmistakable pressure in my chest that I knew from previous experience was angina.
I got out of there fast and drove home.
Ridiculous, right? Yes!
I should’ve gone straight to the hospital, but I didn't, knowing my mother-in-law, who’d just arrived from out of state, was mired in holiday preparations. I popped five aspirin, lay down on the bed, and promised myself I’d call 911 if the pressure didn’t subside.
See, this is the thing about heart attacks. You always think it isn’t THE ONE even while your logical brain screams, “Dial 911, you TSTL heroine in a badly written romance novel!”
The pressure remained steady, so I calmly told my mother-in- law that I wasn’t feeling well and was going to go to the emergency room.
Yes, I drove myself to the hospital while experiencing chest discomfort. To be fair, the hospital is less than five minutes from my house.
The cool thing about hospital emergency rooms – and maybe the only cool thing about them – is that if you even breathe the words “cardiac patient,” (I’d had a previous angioplasty), they scoop you up and buckle you down like Frankenstein’s monster.
They run tests, start IV’s, give you the good drugs if you wince even a wee bit. The tests were sketchy, (WOMEN OFTEN PRESENT ATYPICAL SYMPTOMS), but the cardiologist wanted to keep me overnight.
Just to be sure.
IT WAS CHRISTMAS!! Protesting heartily, I allowed myself to be admitted. By now I was feeling quite good from my five-aspirin cocktail high. The brain tricks you into believing no pain equals no danger.
Silly brain.
When my family descended en force and brought the holiday to me, I knew I wasn’t getting out of there unless I executed a prison break. They were far more worried than I, of course.
The angiogram showed five blocked arteries, each seriously narrowed.
Not good.
It was now December 24 and every sensible cardiac surgeon was celebrating with her own family. Dr. Fitzpatrick would not let me go home. I’d never celebrated Christmas without my family. We were all devastated. And the worse part was I felt fine!
No fair!
But all my wonderful new babies, sons and daughters in law, and other grandchildren serenaded me with Christmas carols. Nurses and patients alike stopped by to join in.
But here’s the "journey into darkness" part.
See, what they do in open-heart surgery, called a CABG, is incise your chest from the sternum to the middle of the stomach. They break the chest bone, pry apart the ribs, stop the heart and hook it up to a machine, cut your leg from crotch to knee and knee to ankle to pull out the veins like linked sausages. They use these veins as by-pass “arteries” to replace your blocked ones.
Snip, snip. Stitch, stitch. Luckily, you're way under the anesthesia for all this.
When they’re finished they jump start your heart, metal-clamp the breast bone and suture the flesh, and viola!
Then the fun starts. If anyone had told me all the above details beforehand, I’d have run like hell. After surgery you wake up looking like you’ve been in a street fight.
And lost the battle.
Everything swells horribly (see how fat my leg is above) – your face, eyes, and leg. The pain is enormous, and to add insult to injury, the nurse makes you sit up within an hour post-op and cough . . . and cough . . . and cough. It’s sheer torture. The Spanish Inquisition should’ve taken notes.
The preparation for the surgery was psychologically freaky. They remove everything from you, clothes, glasses, wedding ring, books. You feel stripped bare, naked in the same way you must’ve felt when you came into this world -- alone and abandoned.
I couldn’t read. I couldn’t sleep. The hours were excrutiatingly long until the nurse prepped me, made me scrub my body vigorously three times. I shivered uncontrollably. You know, that kind of shaking when you’re going into shock? You feel cold, but the room isn’t?
And of course you worry that something will go terribly wrong, and you're achingly aware of your family waiting the long hours in the waiting room for the results. Mine arrived at 6:00 a.m., babies and all, but didn't get word of the results until noon.
Trust me, you don’t want to go through open-heart surgery. It’s hell all the way around.
So – putting on teacher lecture mode now – exercise, damn it, even if it’s only two minutes on your stationary bike or a five-minute walk the long way to get your mail.
If you smoke, damn it, stop smoking. It raises your risk immeasurably and no one likes kissing an ash tray.
If you don’t eat veggies and fruit, give them a try – one new one a week, or a month; every little bit helps. If you eat lots and lots of red meat, switch to chicken and fish, even if it’s only one meal a week.
So – putting on teacher lecture mode now – exercise, damn it, even if it’s only two minutes on your stationary bike or a five-minute walk the long way to get your mail.
If you smoke, damn it, stop smoking. It raises your risk immeasurably and no one likes kissing an ash tray.
If you don’t eat veggies and fruit, give them a try – one new one a week, or a month; every little bit helps. If you eat lots and lots of red meat, switch to chicken and fish, even if it’s only one meal a week.
We care for our Banditas and Buddies, whose hearts are so big they deserve to be super healthy. Don’t make us come after you with a stick – or worse, Aunty Cindy’s whip.
So, what’s your worse injury or surgery? Are you one of the lucky ones who’ve gotten to this stage in life without a broken bone or a tonsillectomy? It’s nearly the end of Go Red for Women month, so let it all out. Everything's mum in the Lair.
We're giving away an AHA Go Red pin for one commenter today!
Romance Writers of America and the American Heart Association have partnered to raise awareness of heart disease in women. Visit Go Red for Women to learn how to fight heart disease.
Sign up for the Go Red Better U Program and receive two free romance e-books. From Feb 1 through May 31, 2011, receive one free romance e-book when you sign up for the American Heart Association's Better U Program and one after you complete week six of the program. And look for the Eat Smart for Your Heart limited edition magazine (that features this offer) on newstands and in a grocery store near you.Go Red for Women is trademarked by the American Heart Association, Inc. Romance novel downloads provided by Belle Books.
Healthy Heart Tip for Today: You can make many of your favorite recipes healthier by using lower-fat or no-fat ingredients. These healthy substitutions can help you cut down on saturated fats, trans fats and cholesterol, while noticing little, if any, difference in taste.
Visit Gbejada Costa for Daily Updated Hairstyles Collection
