Cancelled

"The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on; nor all your Piety nor Wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it." - Edward Fitzgerald

Late Wednesday afternoon I got a call from the scheduler in the pacemaker clinic at Mt. Sinai.  She asked if I wanted to postpone my surgery until next week?  I said no so she confirmed my space for Friday.  I woke up yesterday with more anxiety than I've felt in years.  I don't remember feeling so anxious since my first breast cancer surgery.  At least I only had one more day to wait until it was done.  Around 2 o'clock I got a call from a doctor in the pacemaker clinic.  In a very perfunctory manner, she advised that my surgery was cancelled.  Apparently, they are busy and I'm not a priority.  She didn't give me any opportunity to ask questions or comment.  She said someone would call me to reschedule.  I hung up the phone and cried like a baby.

It was noon today before that call came.  I have been rescheduled for Tuesday.  I advised the scheduler that if they again cancel my surgery they will have to pick me up from the psych ward.  She promised it won't be cancelled again.  I hate to be cynical but that assurance and $3.25 will get me a ride on the subway.

It's going to be a long five days.

No Laughing Matter

“All propaganda has to be popular and has to accommodate itself to the comprehension of the least intelligent of those whom it seeks to reach.” -  Adolf Hitler

In a few days it will be Super Tuesday in the U.S. and as it sits now, it looks as though Donald Trump is unstoppable. There may be those who think I have no right to an opinion on U.S. politics but as the U.S. is our neighbour, best friend and world superpower, I believe we all have a right to an opinion.

Donald Trump has been great for late night TV.  He is a buffoon and he has provided us with so much to laugh at.  At the beginning of his candidacy, I don't think anyone believed he could be a serious contender.  He proved us wrong.  Even as he turned up his racist, sexist, hateful rhetoric, he has soared in the polls or maybe he soared because he has.  Somehow, that we laughed at him,  made his hatefulness seem more benign.

 Take out the words "Muslims" and "Mexicans" from his speeches and replace them with the words "Jews" or "Homosexuals".  It wouldn't seem like a stretch to believe those remarks were made by Hitler.  The things Trump is saying are not benign.  He is not a loveable creature. He is dangerous.  It's not funny anymore.  It's time to stop laughing.

Results - The Sequin

Like the frog in a pot of simmering water, I seem not to have realized the metaphorical temperature was being turned up on my declining heart function.  I will be getting a pacemaker on Friday.  Strangely enough, I am calm for the first time in weeks.  I don't like it but at least I now know the path forward.  My brother-in-law Stan, commented this afternoon that it is a good thing I'm a tough nut.  I'm not so sure about the tough part but I think he's got the nut part nailed. 

If you are so inclined, prayers and good energy would be much appreciated.

Results - The Sequel

"The doctor must have put my pacemaker in wrong.  Every time my husband kisses me, the garage door goes up." - Minnie Pearl

Just when I thought it was safe to answer the phone, I got a late afternoon call today from my doctor's office.  My cardiologist wants to see me tomorrow morning.  In my dysfunctional heart of hearts, I know this is not good news.  I was somehow supposed to be comforted by the secretary's words that he is the best pacemaker specialist in the city.  Good to know.  Just the same, it's going to be a long sleepless night.

Results

 "Good news is rare these days, and every glittering ounce of it should be cherished and hoarded and worshipped and fondled like a priceless diamond." - Hunter S. Thompson

After several weeks and more than a couple dozen tests I finally got my results today. When it comes to the functioning of my heart, I am very far from normal but I am normal for me and that's good enough.  There is no pacemaker in my immediate future, no futzing with my heart that is broken in theory but works just fine in practise.  Doctors are still unable to explain how a sixty year old woman can be adequately sustained by a heart that beats only 37 times a minute but here I am, active, busy and doing just fine.

If you ask an engineer to explain how bees can fly, you will probably be told that theoretically, they can't.  Their wings are far too small to lift and carry their too large, too heavy bodies.  The thing is, bees don't know they can't fly so they do.  I am like a bee.  I didn't know when I was young that my heart could not sustain an active life.  By the time I found out, it was too late.  I was already living it.  Sometimes it's better not to know and sometimes it doesn't matter if you do.  When in mid-air, it's best to just keep flying.

Wired

"Formerly, when religion was strong and science weak, men mistook magic for medicine; now, when science is strong and religion weak, men mistake medicine for magic. " - Thomas Szasz

My annual check-up a couple of weeks ago has me spiraling into the depths of medical hell.  I have had  nine tests in the past two weeks including being wired to a two week Holter monitor and I'm scheduled for three more.  This 60 thing is hard.

As I have had lifelong issues with heart disease, some of these tests are routine for me.  My every year includes at least an ECG and Cardiac Echo.  They're not much of a big deal.  But I'm aging and like all the parts of my old body, things are slowing down.  My normal resting heart rate is now below 40, a number which sends most doctors and technologists into a tizzy but my wonky heart has always been more of a theoretical problem than a practical one.  Nonetheless, my doctor wants to figure out if it is time for the pacemaker I've been trying to avoid for the past thirty years.  In an attempt to figure it out, he ordered a two week Holter Monitor.  Essentially it is a small machine that is attached to my chest with three electrodes which I carry around in a pouch slung across my shoulder.  I've had it for nine days now and though I move the electrodes every day, my skin is breaking down from the stickers and tape that are part of the process.  I have big purple patches that aren't vanishing.  I suppose I will figure out how to deal with the skin damage when I finally take the machine back.  

A couple of days ago, my cardiologist added a perfusion cardiac stress test to the list of coming events.  I had this test a couple of years ago and hoped I would never have to do it again.  The requirement of living without caffeine for a few days before the test is hard enough but it is the other parts I most dread - an IV into my tiny, fragile veins which never recovered from chemo and running on a treadmill until I'm ready to faint while technicians berate me for not trying hard enough because they can't see the evidence of a sufficiently rising heart rate.  Usually it is beyond their understanding that my heart rate is never going to get there.  They want to see it reach 95.  I've never even been in the 70s.  

It is not that I am ungrateful that my doctors are taking care of me in the way they know best.  I wonder though if they understand how hard it is to go through all this testing.  Is there some magic to a two week Holter Monitor?  Could the same results not be achieved in a week?  When the technician gave me the monitor and instructions for its use, she gave me a small piece of sandpaper and advised that I should sand down three patches of my skin each day to ensure a good connection of the electrodes.  Seriously?  I didn't do it and the monitor shows the connection of the electrodes has been strong.  The machine itself is a bit bigger than an I-Pod but the back of it is not smooth and in the flimsy and coarse pouch they provided, it managed to abrade the skin underneath where it hangs resulting in a large and painful blister.  The wires of the machine are taped together in several places, the edges of the tape scratch and mark the fragile skin of my chest and abdomen.  There has to be a better way.

I think though that it is the constant reminder of my mortality that I am struggling with the most.  I am so not ready for another test of my endurance.  I don't want more surgery.  I don't want more pain.  I don't want new limitations.  And yet, I know I will face it all if I must.  When I was diagnosed with cancer ten years ago, I decided denial was a great strategy for getting through it.  I will have to find a new strategy this time as I'm finding it hard to retreat to denial with wires across my chest.