Mrs. Brock, you have a good heart. And arteries.

June of 2009.

I won’t say I was scared.  It was sobering.  Being terminally flippant, and I did joke through this experience consistently, I was brought to a point of uncertainty in which I felt I had to say a few things to a few people such as “Please clean the house before you tell everyone I died.”

I have also been thoroughly enjoying Facebook and have renamed it.  The preacher combines Facebook, Twitter, and My Space into one word — MyTwitFace.  Pretty good.  I’ve already decided Twitter is for the birds and will disconnect the next time I think of it — too much potential for too many people to know too much about me.  I’ve never looked into My Space since I have a blog and that too is too universal and subject to stalking.  But, like I told my mom when she worried about me being single in Minneapolis, when they get me under the street light, they’ll lose interest.  If they kidnap me, it will be The Ransom of Red Chief all over again and you could be in for some unexpected cash.

Facebook, however, has more of an exclusive club atmosphere and I am enjoying it a lot.  I can fondly change it from Facebook to Chatterbox. Or how about Party Line?

I’ve posted bottom line comments to my Chatterbox stating a stellar outcome to my heart cath  — clean and pretty, if you consider the bloody pump pretty at all, mine is in Cardo Man’s words, beautiful.  So.

I arrive on time, sit and wait.  Answer questions, go to another area, sit and wait.  Take my clothes off, put on a gown, answer some of the same questions — “Are you or could you be pregnant?” to which I replied “I bet you people love to ask that”, get plugged into monitor, lay and wait.  (Butt goes numb but it ain’t seen nothin’ yet) Go to procedure room, have things attached, an iodine wash where the leg is attached. It won’t look good in a swimsuit. I get draped, wait for CM to show. He poked his grinning face in the doorway at exactly 1:03 and cheerfully chirped “How are you?” How do you answer that one? “Oh, fine.” Ready to be punctured.

They claim I was sedated but what I think really happened is that Joy Juice Judy has her thumb on the trigger and dispenses it in increments —  the longer the procedure, the more she mashes the trigger.  CM pierced the femoral artery which I did not feel and started pumping in the dye. When I say “pumping” I mean he jumped up and lightly punched down on the entry site every time he wanted to see the arteries show up on the screen.

This is as gory as it gets.  The screen was even black and white.  I was able to watch and it was pretty cool to see the inside live.  I was wide awake according to me at the time meaning I had no idea how much Joy Juice Judy jammed.  But I’m pretty sure she was ready to shoot more if CM called out “hey, there’s some good stuff gumming up this one, gimme a stent!”  Instead he proclaimed me clear, replayed the video for me, turned me over to the plugger-upper guy, whipped off the glove and headed out the door before I could say “was it good for you”…. not even dinner?

At 1:35 they paraded me on my regal roley bed back to the beige curtained chamber of boredom where my audience awaited my return.  CM blew in, shook hands, said I had a beautiful heart of an 18 year old and arteries he could drive a truck through.  “So what are the chest pains and the other symptoms about?”  “Well, it isn’t your heart, so you know you’re not going to die from them.”   Now the investigation can continue at a more relaxed pace.  He went on to say he loves putting in stents — a man who enjoys his work, I guess because doing so helps those who need it — but could find no excuse to do so on me.  (sorry)

After he left and our friends left, it was just Honey and me, no TV.  He brought a book, I brought a book, the lady on the other side of the curtain was snoring, I couldn’t prop the book, snoozed off and on, and I wasn’t allowed to so much as flex my right leg for four solid continuous unbroken hours.  I can’t tell you how profoundly that lack of movement affects the posterior region to the point where you say what posterior region?

At 5pm I was told I could sit up until the RN was sure nothing was going to spurt, after which she let me walk to the potty after which I could get dressed and sign off on all the instructions regarding showering, eating, etc.  I am to sit or lay all day today, take a shower this afternoon if I want to (ya think so?), carefully remove the dressing late tomorrow, look for all sorts of weird anomalies like, oh, maybe green and blue streaks, redness, hard surface from internal bleeding. Okay, and have a nice day, then.

All is well so far at 1:20 Saturday.  And before I sign off here, I went to the email and read that our good friend Bill Blevins, a WWII vet, lost his fight against heart disease.  Last month when I went to the ER, our friend Jim was upstairs undergoing his own heart cath and was administered stents.  This time, but different hospital, I was undergoing my test while Bill was being taken to another ER.  I came home to the house last night, he went Home to his mansion in heaven this morning.

We all say how wonderful that day will be when we see Him face to face, but we want to go together.  Until that great day of the Rapture of the Church, we say goodbye one at a time.

Goodbye, Bill.  We’ll miss you, we’ll take good care of Peggy, and look forward to seeing you again in God’s timing.

One thought on “Mrs. Brock, you have a good heart. And arteries.

  1. Once again, you are ready to run the race, finish the course the Lord has laid out for you. Hmm! What could this mean? A change of location. Maybe. And maybe soon.

    Like

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s