Six years ago, my eldest brother had been diagnosed with a liver disease. He was told that if he didn’t stop drinking, he had six months to live. If he did, he may have a year or two. Of course, receiving this news was devastating, but not a surprise. He had been a heavy drinker most all his life and it was finally catching up to him. My father was elderly and no longer able to travel, so I decided to invite his family to join him for the long Easter weekend. I figured it may be the last time my father would see his son and the last time we would all be together as a family. I bought plane tickets for those who needed them, which included my sister.
Family gatherings have always made me nervous. Me being an only child with siblings, I don’t have a lot in common with them. Not that I’m a teetotaler, but I have never been as heavy a drinker as they are. My best defense was to play housemaid during family visits and spend most of my time hiding in the kitchen, preparing meals and cleaning. All the loud drunken behavior made me angry, but this was not my house so what was I to say or do? Instead, I hid like I usually do at social gatherings. Most folks don’t realize that I’m an introvert and a loner. I’m very happy being alone, doing my own thing and very defensive if I feel like I’m being forced into being more social than I choose to be. Therefore, the idea of my family converging on our home had me on edge.
About a week before their arrival, I began experiencing shortness of breath while at work, especially walking the distance from my car to the store which was a couple of blocks. Me being the workhorse that I am, I brushed it off and kept plowing away. However, as the days rolled on, I became more and more concerned about my health. So much so, that when it came time to walk back to my car, I would ask someone to go with me, just in case. I told my assistant at the time that I felt like I was dying. She told me that I was just nervous about my family’s impending visit, but I scheduled a doctor’s appointment for my next day off, the Friday before Easter.
My regular physician was not available, although I did see him in the office that day, so I had an appointment with another doctor from the group. The nurse took my vitals, but they were not spoken to me and then the doctor and his young intern arrived. I told them about my history with a heart condition, I told them about my shortness of breath and I also told them about how I had been cleaning in the basement recently. They conferred and both decided that what I was dealing with were allergies. I was prescribed a nasal spray and antihistamines and that they would take a few days to kick in.
This diagnosis didn’t sit right with me, I really was having a hard time with the shortness of breath, but I figured maybe it was just stress and I was being a hypochondriac. I picked up the prescriptions, went home and began my family visit by picking up folks at the airport. I cooked, I cleaned and did my best to remain calm by hiding in the kitchen and doing laundry. Bringing the basket back upstairs was very, very difficult for me and something told me to take my pulse. It was 40 and that didn’t seem good so I called the doctor’s office and asked what my pulse had been when I was there. I was told, “40, but that’s good.” That seemed low to me, but I’m not a doctor so I kept on cooking and cleaning and managing through our family visit.
I also took walks, but only around the block because I didn’t feel like I was only suffering from allergies. No matter my pace, the highest my heart rate would go was 48. I called my friend who is a pediatrician and she told me that if I felt worse, to go to the ER. I didn’t feel worse, just not better, so I rode out the weekend cooking and baking up a storm, but never feeling well or improved. I was pleasantly surprised to wake up in the morning and still be alive. I thought a lot about a friend who had passed a year earlier from a heart issue and I wondered if she was trying to tell me something. I kept thinking, “Check your pulse, check your pulse.”
On Monday, I called the doctor’s office again and asked what my pulse had been on a previous visit. I was told 75 and insisted on seeing the doctor immediately. In my family’s usual form, they thought I was being over dramatic and my sister said, “Why don’t we go out to lunch after your doctor’s appointment.”, so she went along for the visit. I was hooked up to an EKG and it was determined that I needed an emergency pacemaker. The bottom half of my heart was no longer working, the top part was doing all the work and keeping me alive. My sister drove me to the hospital. I tried to remain calm, but all I could think about was that my chest was going to be ripped open and something the size of a smoke detector was going to be put in. We drove along in silence until I decided to make a phone call.
I called my doctor friend and she told me that everything was going to be okay, this was something they could fix and that a pacemaker was now the size of a credit card. She asked me if I wanted her to be there. Yes, yes I did because she was always the calm, cool and collected one when it came to these types of situations. She would be able to tell me in layman’s terms what was being said and done to me and that was exactly what I needed. It was good that my sister was driving me to the hospital, but her typical self centered insanity would not be what the doctor ordered.
The ER was a little busy, but we went right in. My friend met me there as well as my youngest son and John, my boyfriend. My sister left and went home to be with dad and the rest of the family, but they would check in from time to time. My friend told my son to take notes about the names and types of doctors I was being seen by, which he did in a manner only he can do. My sister returned and started to talk about how this was all affecting her and what she thought. Thankfully, I was taken into surgery. Most everything else is a blur, but happily the pacemaker saved my life that day.
I arrived home from the hospital the next day, just as my family was about to leave to go back to their separate homes. We took a family photo, me still wearing my hospital ID bracelet, they wished me well and poof , they were gone. As the dust settled, everything appeared the same. Dad sitting in his recliner asking what was for dinner, there was laundry to do, but fortunately they had cleaned up after themselves. However, everything had changed, I had almost died and had a sizable recovery time ahead of me. If not for me doubting the diagnosis, I probably would have perished with days. I could write about lessons learned, signs and omens, or about how John remained at my side and how I thought that confirmed his love for me, but now those points all seem mute.
Simply put, it was not my time. I have a lot of work I need to accomplish, many more lessons to learn and so many more stories to tell. My brother is still alive and has been in rehab a number of times. It is his life to destroy, but his alcoholic wife passed shortly after my father did four years ago, go figure. My relationship with John is no more as well as my relationship with my sister. Neither situation is breaking my heart. If you have been reading my blog, you know about John. Let me tell you a little something about my sister.
For the sake of storytelling, I’ll call my sister Jezebel, which is what she always names her cars. A few years ago, I was going through my desk and I found the notes that my youngest son had taken during the ER experience. My god how I love this child and how his brain works. There are times it can be infuriating, but then again he is my mother’s curse. She told me, “One day you’re going to have a child just like you and you’ll see, you’ll see.” He, is that child and one of the many reasons I still have work to do and stories to tell. Here are the pages from his notes of that faithful day.
On the first page, there is a list of doctors and their specialties, just as he was instructed to write down. The second page states that the electrical signal isn’t reaching the pumping mechanism and has a drawing of a heart with lines through it and what I can only assume is a toilet plunger. Page three, he writes, “Boredom setting in…” and he has drawn a picture of himself standing by a bare tree near a body of water with the sun setting. Page four, referring to my sister, “Jezebel has decided to grace us with her presence. Oh boy… Her existence is proof enough for me that there is no god.” Page five, notes about the doctor’s statements. Page six, back to my sister, “Jezebel is now telling us her life story. Is she really so dense? Is it really so hard to pick up on everyone’s nonverbal hints and ques? She is lame in more ways than one.” Page seven, “It occurs to me that this pen and notebook are not mine. Maybe I should stop venting through them. There isn’t really much else to do though.” Page eight, “Jezebel likes to imagine my mother being in her cult. It’s beyond irritating. “I prayed for her and she seemed to calm down.” It was probably because she was giving Jezebel “The Look”. followed by an adorable representation of my look of disdain. Page nine, he continues to write about his dislike of my sister comparing her to an ill mannered pet that is making everyone uncomfortable with her drivel. He also states that there are people that everyone would benefit from not having met, and she is one. Page ten, his to do list which includes eating, exercise and trimming his nails, “They’ve gotten rather long.” Page eleven, my hospital room number followed by, “A Poem about Jezebel – No relation. I’m of no relation to her. That thing. It’s impossible.”
This is my child. My pièce de résistance ! You were right mom. As always and thankfully, you were right. I hope I made you smile as much as this kid does and always will.
Happy Easter and please, be well.
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