Nov 15: The Monster within
It's a Saturday night. I'm home, on call. And it's time to do this. Because it needs to be done. Because so much of what came after started from the beginning. Because it might help someone else. Since the blog wasn't started until just before my second surgery, there isn't a lot except the basic medical stuff for prior to that time. So that means there isn't anything documented here about my early feelings. It would take way more time and space than I currently feel like devoting for an entire explanation. But, inquiring minds want to know: What happened when I first knew I was sick?
There is a reason this is surfacing now. There have been two friends who have been diagnosed with previously unknown heart problems in the last few months. And a patient in the office a couple weeks ago, follow-up from an ER visit. In his late 50's, pretty healthy. He was scheduled to get an echo before his stress test, and the tech came out and told me that he had really bad mitral regurgitation. When my boss, ME, went in to tell him I saw the same play of emotions over this poor guy's face that I had felt: he had no idea, it came out of left field, he comes in for a couple tests and ends up being told that he needs open heart surgery. The emotional reactions these three people had were similar. So, combine all this together and there is a pretty predictable result: Flashbacks for Laurie.
In my case, I knew I was screwed staring at the echo screen that day, seeing it at the same time ME saw it. February 16, 2004 at 2:45 pm. Most people would describe my reaction as shock: no crying, no hysterics, so calm that ME kept repeating things to me because he didn't think I understood him. Perhaps some of it was shock, but years of training in EMS taught me a lot: no emotion, just handle the current crisis. Letting yourself fall to pieces shows a lack of control and is not acceptable. And, for me, putting things in a seperate category, not exactly third person, but emotionally removed from the conversation, the diagnosis, the treatment. Questions, information, be pragmatic. But, inevitably, there comes a time when the emotion has to be dealt with.
The disbelief. This is not happening. This is a bad dream and I need to wake up. I am clearly not understanding what this doctor is telling me correctly, because there is no way he just said what I think he did. They have to be mistaken. It has to be a mistake, because this is not happening. How could this happen? How could I not know? This is my body, there is simply no way that something this serious was occuring without my knowledge. This is not happening...you get very repetative because there are only so many word variations that can get through the ginormous fog that has just settled in your brain. You always think, if not consciously, that while there is nothing and no one in this world that you can ever completely understand at least you have yourself. And then you find out that it's all been an illusion--you really don't know anything. Surprise! Fooled you!
For many, the reactions after a serious diagnosis are similar to the stages of dying: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, (and maybe)Acceptance. You get mad at your body: how could you have done this to me? How could you betray me like this? Then, you start with: OK, if I do this for you, you're going to get better and this will all go away, right? We'll go back to normal, right? And then the recognition that there is no longer a 'normal' as you have known it. Nothing, ever again, will be normal. You will never be normal.
And it's your heart. Your heart. That thing that is really, really important. It can't be. Can we make it something else, something a little less essential? (There's a lot of backtracking through those stages.) Can I trade? How about a foot or a leg or a hand or an arm or ANYTHING ELSE. Really, really not thrilled with what's behind Door #1, may I see the other choices, please?
And you want to do what? Stick probes and tubes down my throat? Thread catheters in my groin and shoot dye into my core? And then you're going to do WHAT to my chest?
YOU HAVE GOT TO BE FUCKING KIDDING ME!
And the pills. Medication every day. I'd taken pills for years: asthma meds, allergy meds, BCPs, meds to sleep occasionally. So why is it so upsetting to take another pill? It's just a pill. Except without this pill you will die. Really. Not exaggerating. But, my clinical brain says, why would anyone complain about that? Stop griping and be glad that you have something wrong with you that can be helped by a pill--a lot of people aren't that fortunate. But that isn't the reality in your brain. All the other pills may have made you feel better, but you weren't dependent on them. Then they give you a pill that you absolutely, positively have to take. Because without it you will die. And that is different. It shouldn't be, but it is. Your life now depends on that little pill (or pills) every day. And you resent it. It is the physical reminder that, no matter how good you might feel or look that day, you are sick. You aren't 'normal'. That you aren't in control. And you won't be ever, ever again.
Sounds ludicrous, doesn't it? But when you discover that the one constant in your life is no longer a constant, the mind starts to freak out. Strange thoughts start to occupy your mind as you try desperately to process what is going on: There's something wrong with my heart and I'm really, really sick and nothing is ever going to be the same again. That scary monster that used to lurk under your bed when you were a kid is back, only this time the monster is inside you and a bedtime story isn't going to make it go away.
That's enough for one sitting. Now I need to go take my rat poison--the blood thinner Coumadin. Without it I will get clots on my metal valve which will break off and cause a stroke and/or blindness and/or kidney damage. Without it I will die. The extended release Tylenol isn't an absolute, but it dulls the chest and right back pain. And, after stirring all this up, that lovely little pill that helps shut off all the thoughts bouncing around in my head. (That pill is wonderful--and, yes, always used in strict moderation.)
Hope this helps someone at some point.... Laurie
There is a reason this is surfacing now. There have been two friends who have been diagnosed with previously unknown heart problems in the last few months. And a patient in the office a couple weeks ago, follow-up from an ER visit. In his late 50's, pretty healthy. He was scheduled to get an echo before his stress test, and the tech came out and told me that he had really bad mitral regurgitation. When my boss, ME, went in to tell him I saw the same play of emotions over this poor guy's face that I had felt: he had no idea, it came out of left field, he comes in for a couple tests and ends up being told that he needs open heart surgery. The emotional reactions these three people had were similar. So, combine all this together and there is a pretty predictable result: Flashbacks for Laurie.
In my case, I knew I was screwed staring at the echo screen that day, seeing it at the same time ME saw it. February 16, 2004 at 2:45 pm. Most people would describe my reaction as shock: no crying, no hysterics, so calm that ME kept repeating things to me because he didn't think I understood him. Perhaps some of it was shock, but years of training in EMS taught me a lot: no emotion, just handle the current crisis. Letting yourself fall to pieces shows a lack of control and is not acceptable. And, for me, putting things in a seperate category, not exactly third person, but emotionally removed from the conversation, the diagnosis, the treatment. Questions, information, be pragmatic. But, inevitably, there comes a time when the emotion has to be dealt with.
The disbelief. This is not happening. This is a bad dream and I need to wake up. I am clearly not understanding what this doctor is telling me correctly, because there is no way he just said what I think he did. They have to be mistaken. It has to be a mistake, because this is not happening. How could this happen? How could I not know? This is my body, there is simply no way that something this serious was occuring without my knowledge. This is not happening...you get very repetative because there are only so many word variations that can get through the ginormous fog that has just settled in your brain. You always think, if not consciously, that while there is nothing and no one in this world that you can ever completely understand at least you have yourself. And then you find out that it's all been an illusion--you really don't know anything. Surprise! Fooled you!
For many, the reactions after a serious diagnosis are similar to the stages of dying: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, (and maybe)Acceptance. You get mad at your body: how could you have done this to me? How could you betray me like this? Then, you start with: OK, if I do this for you, you're going to get better and this will all go away, right? We'll go back to normal, right? And then the recognition that there is no longer a 'normal' as you have known it. Nothing, ever again, will be normal. You will never be normal.
And it's your heart. Your heart. That thing that is really, really important. It can't be. Can we make it something else, something a little less essential? (There's a lot of backtracking through those stages.) Can I trade? How about a foot or a leg or a hand or an arm or ANYTHING ELSE. Really, really not thrilled with what's behind Door #1, may I see the other choices, please?
And you want to do what? Stick probes and tubes down my throat? Thread catheters in my groin and shoot dye into my core? And then you're going to do WHAT to my chest?
YOU HAVE GOT TO BE FUCKING KIDDING ME!
And the pills. Medication every day. I'd taken pills for years: asthma meds, allergy meds, BCPs, meds to sleep occasionally. So why is it so upsetting to take another pill? It's just a pill. Except without this pill you will die. Really. Not exaggerating. But, my clinical brain says, why would anyone complain about that? Stop griping and be glad that you have something wrong with you that can be helped by a pill--a lot of people aren't that fortunate. But that isn't the reality in your brain. All the other pills may have made you feel better, but you weren't dependent on them. Then they give you a pill that you absolutely, positively have to take. Because without it you will die. And that is different. It shouldn't be, but it is. Your life now depends on that little pill (or pills) every day. And you resent it. It is the physical reminder that, no matter how good you might feel or look that day, you are sick. You aren't 'normal'. That you aren't in control. And you won't be ever, ever again.
Sounds ludicrous, doesn't it? But when you discover that the one constant in your life is no longer a constant, the mind starts to freak out. Strange thoughts start to occupy your mind as you try desperately to process what is going on: There's something wrong with my heart and I'm really, really sick and nothing is ever going to be the same again. That scary monster that used to lurk under your bed when you were a kid is back, only this time the monster is inside you and a bedtime story isn't going to make it go away.
That's enough for one sitting. Now I need to go take my rat poison--the blood thinner Coumadin. Without it I will get clots on my metal valve which will break off and cause a stroke and/or blindness and/or kidney damage. Without it I will die. The extended release Tylenol isn't an absolute, but it dulls the chest and right back pain. And, after stirring all this up, that lovely little pill that helps shut off all the thoughts bouncing around in my head. (That pill is wonderful--and, yes, always used in strict moderation.)
Hope this helps someone at some point.... Laurie
posted by Laurie @ 10:31 PM
1 Comments:
At 6:32 PM,
Anonymous said…
Laurie,
It helps me undestand some of my parents reaction [little outward that there was] when out of no-were my father was not allowed to leave the hosp from a cath and ended up with quad-bypass.
thanks
Deneen
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