I have been a bit lax lately on posting new shit. I have had other things on my mind. First of all, nearly lost Judy to severe atrial fabulation which reared its ugly head after getting dehydrated from a bout of food poisoning from eating fast food chicken. Arby’s “we have the meats” has taken on a new meaning in our lives. Eventually her heart went back in rhythm after nine days in the hospital and electroshock. Then she developed Parkinson’s like symptoms due the drug they put her on. Eventually her symptoms were so pronounced that she could not drink wine without spilling it. We had a choice. Take her off the drug and risk a recurrence of AFib or quit drinking bubbles. Easy decision, cold turkey, gone. As the drug slowly worked its way out of her body, the shakes slowly improved. During this time my heart murmur got steadily louder resulting in a diagnosis of atrial stenosis. This is the result of the atrial valve, the one-way valve that is between the left ventricle and the aorta getting progressively calcified so that it no longer functioned well. If heavily calcified you suffer from shortness of breath, dizziness, fatigue, and don’t fell like yourself. Boy was I lucky to find this out as I was about to quit scotch.
The extent of calcification is determined by an echo cardiogram. In this test you lay on your side, shirtless in a darkened cold room where a young Asian woman vigorously jabs a numb chuck covered in KY jelly into your ribs while telling you to hold your breath. Then at the end of this procedure they inject something into you that looks like hand lotion to the accompaniment of weird sucking sounds coming out what appears to be a malfunction karaoke machine.
A day later I got the result of the test. Had a meeting with several doctors and a nurse. The consensus was that I was to get a tavern. A tavern?? Always wanted to own a tavern but it seemed a bit bazar that I was going to get a tavern when I needed a heart valve. Then the truth hit me like my cat Malcom on the way to his food dish. I was going to die. The tavern was from make-a-wish. I had always wanted to die with a $500 single malt in my hand while surrounded by dozens of friends who paid for it, just I thought I would be a bit older.
My mind slowly came back from the shock, and realized they were no longer taking about a tavern but a TAVR.
“Is that like a small tavern?
“No, it’s a Transcatheter aortic valve replacement.”
“That’s a shitty name for a tavern. Taverns need to have catchy names that describe their owners, like for me it could be Lumby’s, Limpy’s, Baldy’s, Fatty’s, and Ed’s.”
“Listen carefully, ITS NOT A TAVERN, IT’S A NEW HEART VALVE that’s abbreviated as TAVR and why is Ed a descriptive term for you?
“Erectile disfunction. So, I don’t even get a minibar? Bummer.”
Then the doctors explained to me what a TAVR procedure involved. First, they puncture both my femoral arteries in the groin area. WTF. I have seen Band of Brothers about sixteen times. Hoobler finally got his Luger that he had been looking for since D-Day only to shoot himself with it during the battle of the bulge. He bleeds out in a matter of seconds even with doc trying to stop the bleeding immediately. Later I learned that he had shot himself in a single femoral artery and then Captain Nixon said, “once you get shot in the femoral artery, your dead, nothing you can do.” The docs were going to cut open both of mine and shove cameras, balloons, and other crap into the holes and run them up into my heart. All that crap was way bigger than a Lugar bullet. But I kept my mouth shut as they said they do this procedure about 400 times a year and that almost everybody survives, with only a small risk of stroke (1%). That risk is low because they also are going to cut into the main artery in my right arm and put little kitchen sink drainer baskets in my carotid arteries to catch any debris that might break off when the TAVR expands and shoves the bad aortic valve into the walls of my left ventricle. Wow! Not only are they trying kill me with wounds to my groin, but they are also going to slice into my arm in another attempt to kill me. And then they said that there were still more possible bad outcomes. There was a 5 to 10% chance of me needing a pacemaker. One of the docs explained in language I could follow.
“Pretend you are a DC-10 with a malfunction cargo door. We are going to replace that door with a new one while in flight. The location of the flight controls in the DC-10 were badly designed by aviation engineers as they went right around the cargo door. When a malfunctioning cargo door blows out it tends to take out the flight controls and the plane crashes into the Artic Ocean on a polar route flight. Even if a miracle occurs and some of the passengers survive the fall they will soon freeze to death or be eaten by polar bears.”
“So, God was a mediocre engineer?”
“Pretty much.”
Now I finally understood. That doctor and God were going to have a long and painful talk.
The stroke risk is from the calcium from my faulty valve breaking off as the TAVR expands. These little rocks should be trapped by the little kitchen sink drain screens, but it also pushes against my flight controls located in the heart’s fuselage right next to the expanding replacement valve. If the flight controls go out, I don’t crash into the Artic, but my heart could stop. Same thing only worse as I won’t have time for my life to flash before my eyes. But the docs have a plan for that possibility as well as they are going to jerry rig a temporary pacemaker in my carotid artery, just in case. And now I find out the 5-10% pacemaker chance now escalates to 25% as I have an age-related electrical problem in my heart already. God screwed up again? Damn! I almost wish that the tavern deal was real.
The TAVR itself is a combination of an expandable mesh which supports tissue from a pig or cow. I thought I should get a better choice of materials, more befitting my personality. Tiger, bear, and the king of beasts came to mind. Judy suggested that Jack Ass would be more appropriate, so I settled on pig. After 51 years of marriage, I have learned when to shut up.
But before I got to have my femorals and radial arteries punctured they have to make sure that I am a good bet for the procedure. They need to know if my arteries are big and straight enough and that I don’t need the arteries in my heart replaced. First, I need to get a cat scan. I argued that as I have Malcom in my life already that this test is not needed. (I know! That was really a stupid joke, sorry I even included it, but you never know if a Trump voter reads my blog so WTF). A cat or more properly a CT scan involves lying on your back while it moves you in and out of what appears to be a miniature “Star Gate”. The machine talks to you the whole time telling you to hold your breath till you turn blue. After a bit, you arrive back in the same galaxy you left from like the trip never happened.
Next test is an angiogram. This is a bit more involved. They ran a camera up my right radial artery an into my cardiac arteries to determine if I needed bypass surgery. I was awake the whole time. They said I would be but wouldn’t remember a thing and if I did, I would think that the test was only a few minutes long. Nope. Awake. Alert the whole time. According to my nurse anesthetist son this was because of the amount of scotch I drink. Lucky for me they did this test because they found that my left anterior descending artery (AKA, the widow maker) was 70% clogged. Most people don’t find this out till they drop over dead. But as I was undergoing an angiogram, they were able to fix it right then and there with an inch of stint. They tried to explain to me how a stint works. I think it’s kind of like wrapping duct tape around a kinked garden hose. I know that’s not right, but its works for me and it doesn’t take as long to explain as the DC-10 story. Everything went well with the only error which was on my part. After I was wheeled back to the recovery room I whispered to Judy, “I wonder how long I can milk this for?” I guess I should have drunk a lot more scotch.
Got released from the hospital that evening. I was told to pretend that my right arm was broken. They even gave me a sling to reinforce the idea. Told me not to do anything with my right arm for a week or so. I couldn’t even drive the car. I didn’t really get that one as I drive one handed most of the time. What was really of concern was how I was going to wipe my ass with only the left. Poor Judy had to drive home in the dark during a pouring rainstorm with leaves plastered on the road which obscured the road lines. To make matters worse she had not driven in over a year due to the aforementioned fake Parkinson’s. She panicked for a bit but was soon back in her Mario Andretti formula one mode.
Three weeks later I was in for the TAVR procedure. First, they had to test me for Covid. In the PCR test they take a skinny Q-tip and shove it as far as possible up your sinus removing a tiny piece of your brain. Pretty sure this test was developed by the Egyptians as they used the same basic technique in mummification. I had to have this done three times, once before the angiogram and twice before the TAVR procedure due to a lab screw up. King Tut was dead when they did this on him, the lucky bastard, I was not.
Next, I had to shed my sweats and comfy t-shirt for a hospital gown. Who ever invented this garb needs to be shot, then hauled into the court yard to be eaten by rabid dogs. There is no way I, as a man can tie up this garment as the straps are in the back. Even though many of us old guys could use a bra to shore up our sagging pecks, if we did, we would put the ties in front. How women to this on a regular basis it beyond my comprehension. Judy helped me with the ties and I got into bed to await the next indignity.
Then I was shaved. A male nurse came into with an electric razor. I had to untie the gown for him to have access to my groin area. He then proceeded to cut all my pubs in silence. I tried to make little jokes about how I want a cute female nurse to do this but was met with complete silence. Either he had heard it all before or was being punished for some unspeakable offense. When he was finished, he removed my bottom sheet. Then a cute nurse came in and washed me down with warm and moist paper towelettes. Ok. She was 50ish but at my age that is pretty cute.
The femoral poker (AKA the surgeon) came in next and went over the TAVR procedure again, complete with an impromptu sharpie drawing on the sliding glass door of the recovery room. It was a little more scientific than the DC-10 analogy but useful in that this is where I learned that I had a higher risk of needing a pacemaker. I also found out at that time that I was not going home that day, nor the next as they needed to watch me longer that the usual TAVR victim.
Soon I was in the operating room. This was not exactly what I expected from watching hospital shows on TV. This was more like an industrial warehouse with high ceilings, large pieces of equipment on railroad tracks on the ceiling and a crew of technicians, one of which did not like John Denver’s “Country Roads” cause it made him puke. I thought that my life should pass before my eyes. Remembering all the good things that I had accomplished, the kids I had helped bring into this world, and the love I had received from Judy, the kids, and yes even that rotten cat Malcom. Instead, I found myself staring at a plastic grate in the ceiling wondering if this was all there was as it slowly blurred, and I faded from this earth.
Next thing I remember is being wheeled back to the recovery room and wondering I this could be the basis of a great ride in a generic Disney Land. As they moved me to the sheetless bed, I was told to lay flat on my back and not to move for the next 4 hours. I have not been able to lay on my back for 5 minutes for the last 40 years and now I have to do it for 4 hours or I could die!!! Shit!! Maybe they should give me another Covid test. The good news was that I didn’t need a pacemaker, so far anyway, maybe later…
Somehow, I managed to lay flat for the 4 hours. Then the nurse came in. What now, water boarding? No, I had to get up and walk. Thank God! Maybe I would fall down and bleed to death. But I somehow, I remained upright. A little shaky but I was walking and alive. That also is when I leaned the next bit of bad news. There were no rooms available in the cardiac ward so I would have to spend at least one night in the recovery room. Great. I kind of like staring at the sharpie drawing as I am into the arts. Only problem was that the recovery room had no toilet. I have a bladder the size of a thimble. Every 4 hours or so I had to get up and waddle 50 feet past the nurse’s station to the toilet. That would not have been so bad except for that fucking hospital gown. The one with the ties in back invented by the Marque De Sade. If I did manage to tie it up, I would just have to untie it to piss or poop and also getting back into bed with it tied up was uncomfortable as well. I think waddling to a bathroom while holding a hospital gown shut over your bum should be an Olympic sport as it takes real skill and is far more entertaining than synchronized swimming.
As a final indignity, every 4 hours plus at shift changes a nurse or nurses would have to come in and poke at my groin to make sure it wasn’t leaking. After each inspection I swear I could hear muffled laugher from the nurses’ station directly across from my room. When I accused one of them of it, she said “Oh we would never do that”. Why not everybody else does.
Then there was the food. They had a limited menu in full color with tasty sounding foods like an apricot glazed pork chop, build your own burger and tomato basil soup. I love tomato basil soup with a grilled a cheese sandwich. They even had a grilled cheese sandwich which I could have on sour dough bread. I love sour dough bread. OK, I am going a bit overboard here, but I hadn’t eaten in 24 hours and for me that is near death from starvation. I called the number listed on the menu and a pleasant voice on the other end answered, “room service”. Fucking room service! I never had room service in my life! Always wanted to have the soft knock on the door, “room service”. Then the gaudily dressed waiter wheels in the tray with the fancy silver cover on it, whips it off to display the finest in gourmet delights prepared by cordon blue trained chef just for me.
I ordered meat loaf and mash potatoes and gravy. Didn’t want to appear too much a foody on my first room service expedition. Although I was tempted by the apricot glazed chop, as I was pretending my right arm was broken (again) I was a little worried about cutting the chop using my left now matter how sharp the fine cutlery was. My nurse had suggested that I order breakfast as the same time as they get a lot of calls in the morning and sometimes it is hard to get through in the AM. Wow, room service with a high demand.
An hour later room service arrived. No silver cover? Black Styrofoam? The mashed potatoes where reconstituted, OK, I really don’t mind that, and the meat loaf was tasteless. Every try to open salt in one of those paper salt tubes with one hand. Finally managed to get it open with my teeth like pulling the pin on a grenade, which by the way they never do that in real combat. Then I awkwardly tried to shake a bit of salt on the grey matter mislabeled as meat loaf, only to spill the whole fucking thing on it. I was so hungry I ate it all.
Next morning, I had pancakes, peaches and coffee. Two mornings without coffee and I was ready to kill Juan Valdez and fuck his mule for a cup even if it was Folgers. Two perfectly looking cakes, not enough butter, but I am really hungry, and an adequate amount of fake maple syrup. I grew up on this for breakfast as it was something my mother could cook that was edible. Using my left hand, I pushed though the top cake only to have it stop halfway though the bottom one. How do you ruin pancakes? I mean, HOW DO YOU FUCKING RUIN PANCAKES???? The bottom cake was glue to the plate so securely that at first, I thought that this was prepared like pizza, and they forgot to remove the cardboard. Nope that’s not it. I did come up with a theory. Remember the space shuttle and all those heat resistant ceramic tiles that were glued to it. Ever wonder what happened to all those tile engineers after NASA scrapped the program. Now I know. Too bad they can’t unlearn a skill.
Next, I ordered tomato basil soup and a grill cheese on sourdough. This was not the tomato basil soup I get at Costco. It had chunks of something in the soup that may have been tomato, or it may have been parts of the carton, not sure which. The grilled cheese had the same problem as the pancakes. Bottom piece of bread glued to the plate. My final meal I learned what to order. Cheerios, peaches, and milk. Can’t fuck up cheerios or peaches, both in sealed plastic cups. The milk was skimmed. I was so hungry I ate it all including all of the milk. Do you know why barns are painted red? And yes, this has something to do with my cheerios breakfast, but you will need to wait for that a bit. Barns were painted red because farmers as cheep SOBs. Farmers use what ever is at hand that cheap and abundant. One thing they have in abundance is milk with the cream for butter removed, skimmed milk. After feeding the hogs they still had buckets of this inedible liquid. But by mixing it with a little rust (iron oxide) and a bit of linseed oil for penetration they had a cheap red paint for their barns. I am speculating here a bit but the French my have added a bit of cow poop for texture. Thank God the shuttle tile cooks at the hospital left out the rust, linseed oil and cow shit. Or did they?
That morning I got let out for good behavior. My first stop at 10 AM was Carl’s Jr. This is the kind of food that got me in trouble in the first place but after room service I was willing to take a bit of risk.
I have had a bit of fun writing this and want to say if I have offended anybody at the hospital, I am sorry. Everyone treated Judy and I better than we deserved. It was not a lot of fun but their caring and care were exemplary. I could say that I looking forward to my next visit….OH HELL NO.
