Ain't Nothin' Like the Real Thing: Heart Attack

Tuesday, January 15, 2008

Oh No, That's Gonna Hurt...

I have been to the doctor about 10 times since Christmas because of a cold, then a virus, then a sinus infection. In a nutshell, I am miserable.

However, I didn't know exactly HOW miserable I was going to get. The doctor blindsided me today. It went something like this:

"um...Lara....we ran some blood tests because you've been unable to shake this infection you have."

I nod. I know it -- it's doctor speak. I'm fine. But here comes the question that sends the hairs on the back of my neck to a 90 degree angle.

"Do you have a history of diabetes in your family?"

I stared for about 10 seconds, then hung my head ala Thomas Magnum. Resigned. Aware. Cooked. Busted. Cornered.

"Yes...."

"Well, your fasting glucose is....blah, blah, blah and your A1c marker is blah, blah, blah. Your markers have been going slowly but steadily upwards...and you are now considered diabetic."

Yup. Ambushed.

Now I know enough to know that this isn't a death sentence. It could have been much worse. It was found early and hopefully I can be controlled with diet and more exercise. But this news comes on the heels of a special anniversary this year: 10 years since I had a heart attack. 2/14/1998 -- Valentine's Day -- My heart gave out. But I survived and I'm here and FINALLY, when I'm just beginning to get the thumbs up from life insurance agents, I get kicked out of the ballpark again.

Man, I hate it when that happens.

Monday, October 29, 2007

Hospital Holiday

Sure. I miss my Thursday Thirteen and then I missed the entire next weekend because I took a Hospital Holiday on Friday and Saturday.

As a rule, Hospital Holidays are awful. Food sucks, you can't get decent cable channels, no one lets you sleep and the beds are just forensic autopsy tables with a white sheet over them. Room service is atrocious and you have to sleep with strangers with only a thin sheet hanging between you and whatever bodily functions they need to discuss or operate.

The lady next to me moaned the entire time. She kept calling the hospital operator (not the nurse's station) to ask for a bedpan for her hotel room. Everyone from the hospital operator to the nurses thought she was a prank caller and no one answered her requests until she started screaming that she had an accident in the bed.

I have already put in special requests to those closest to me that if I ever get like that, they have my permission to drive me out into the country, kick me out of the car and leave me for dead.

All I wanted to do was have my tests, rest and go home. While I felt extremely sorry for her, I wanted her to remember that midnight is NIGHT and is the typical time for a trip to REM sleep, but she didn't quite understand that. Well, not until 5 am when she shut off the light, the TV and fell into a blissfully undisturbed sleep, while I was awakened by my doctors and the need to go have tests.

I wondered though, did she plan on living in the 1940's during her dementia and waiting for Errol Flynn to pick her up for their date at the Brown Derby? You know, my friends and I have PLANS for our dementia. This frightening incident awakened me to the fact that we need to be prepared for a Dementia Plan B, in case I can't remember who George Harrison is, Anne can't remember Sir Paul and Colleen can't recall who the hell that boy from Brooklyn was whom she thought was so HOT.

This is a sad state of affairs. I had been looking forward to my old age, sitting in the rocking chair, fully mentally immersed in the 1960's London music scene, with George driving us back to our house in Esher in the new mini. Now, I face the fact that I might be screaming for a nurse to deliver a bed pan to my hotel room and then rotating only these 2 thoughts: #1 -- I WANT TO GO HOME and #2 -- I DON'T WANT TO GO HOME.

And you are completely right. My roomie did nothing to help my panic/anxiety attack, chest pain and shortness of breath (my standard hospital ER diagnosis). However, the tests show that my heart is fine. My panic isn't so fine, but I'll keep working on it.

I will also contact Anne and Colleen. We must begin preparing Dementia Plan B. Perhaps I could convince Colleen that I could take the boy from Brooklyn.....