A first diary, dedicated to all women.
The beating heart. Life's force, love's home, where passionate dreams reside.
Heart disease kills women at an alarming rate. Know your risk factors, your numbers, and the signs and symptoms of a heart attack. Because it really CAN happen to you.
From my June 2009 journal, uncensored and in all its grammatically incorrect glory:
It's 4:30 in the morning. I'm trying to figure out what woke me so suddenly.
Oh god, my chest feels like it's exploding from the inside out. My jaw aches. There's pain in my arms and in my back. Everything hurts.
I can't get comfortable. Maybe some hot tea?
I go downstairs and fix myself a cup. On the couch, in the dark, I sip and worry and feel it all. Something is so very wrong. But surely I can fix it. Right? I eat a couple spoonfuls of yogurt. It doesn't help. Could this be, you know, my heart??
The sun's coming up, the pain rages. I'm scared, but still determined. Wyatt's awake now, concerned, and I brush him off...I don't feel well, just go to work and I'll call you later. I love you, kiddo.
I need to keep busy, to prepare. So I buy groceries, take them home, and put them away. Run to the library and drop off a DVD that's due day after tomorrow. It's raining, and Wyatt's forgotten his umbrella, so I stop by his workplace to give him mine. I'm going to the doctor, sweetie, don't worry, just finish your day and we'll talk later.
I stash a book in my bag, because there's always a wait in the ER. Ha! And in a last ditch effort to ease this pain, I go to the grocery store again, and down half a bottle of Mylanta in the parking lot. The pain is getting worse.
In the parking lot outside the ER, I am stealth. Watching people come and go, telling myself to just go in. I don't want to walk through those big glass doors. Because I'm scared, defeated and completely helpless. My heart is breaking, I know I'm dying. Right here, right now, in my car alone and in the rain. I sob and wail. And then I get out and walk slowly towards the entrance. Please, please help me. Before I give up and turn around. Before it's too late. More than any other moment, this feels like the beginning of the end. I don't want to walk...I want to crawl.
The friendly woman at the desk offers kind words and a smile. Hello, how can I help you?
Am I in the right place? The ER? It's empty.
Yes, this is the ER. Are you here to be seen?
Yes, please.
Have you ever been a patient here before? No? Can you fill out this form? It's just one page.
Sure. I take the pen and begin.
Why are you here today?
I've been having pain in my chest and jaw for several hours. It really hurts. (There, I said it, out loud.) She looks up and stares into my eyes for a second too long. I see a hint of alarm. This is bad and we both know it.
Well, why don't you come with me right now? You can finish the form later.
She walks me behind the desk and into a small cubicle. There's nothing there but a stretcher, an EKG machine and a guy reading a magazine. He invites me to have a seat, lie back, slip off my shirt, and pull my pant legs up a bit...just a quick EKG, okay? Yes. God, my heart is pounding, pounding, and it hurts so bad. He attaches the pads and leads, 12 in all. I love his coolness; his quiet efficiency. Ready?
Yes, I'm ready.
It takes less than 10 seconds for the machine to capture, analyze and print out what's going on with my heart. It takes less than 5 seconds after that for him to turn and shout to anyone who can hear: "She's having an MI. We're moving NOW!"
People come running. My world erupts.
I'm rolled into another room. A big, scary room, all bright lights and fast-moving nurses and techs. An oxygen mask, more monitors, my clothes being pulled off. A blood pressure cuff on my left arm, a tourniquet tied tightly on my right.
Ma'am? I'm putting some medication under your tongue. Don't chew it, just let it dissolve.
Yes, okay.
Are you having chest pain right now? Yes.
How bad is it, on a scale of 0 to 10, 10 being the worst pain imaginable? Three, it feels like a 3. I'm lying; this pain is a 10.
Are you having trouble breathing? No.
Do you have any history of heart trouble? No.
Are you allergic to any medications that you know of? Penicillin.
Are you employed? What do you do? I'm a nurse, in labor and delivery. A moment of silence follows and conversation stops for just a second. They realize I'm one of them. That any one of them could be me.
Do you know where you are? Yes, I'm at the hospital.
Do you know what day it is? Yes, it's Thursday, June 4, 2009.
I lift the oxygen mask and say...Now, ask me who my president is. I can tell you!
And I whisper to the nice nurse, Am I going to die?
She looks at me, confident and oh-so-sure: Well, we're taking good care of you. We're working hard to fix what's wrong. I notice that she doesn't just say NO, you're not going to die.
But thank you, anyway.
We're putting an IV in your right arm, and need to start another in your left, okay? Just stay calm and breathe.
Surprisingly, I am calm. Because I've surrendered totally, willingly and unconditionally. I don't have to fight anymore. So I close my eyes and float away. For a few minutes, I feel something like bliss. I want to stay in that warm, peaceful place. In that place where I can just be. In that place where everyone will do for me what I can't do for myself.
Tears flow, and someone keeps wiping them away. Stop, please. Stop wiping away everything I'm crying for, everything I am. I want to weep, for reasons you can't understand. Because this isn't happening to you, it's happening to me. My tears are telling me I'm still alive.
My eyes are open again, and I see a man walking towards me. He's handsome and looks positively regal in his bright white coat.
He comes to me, and takes my hand. Hi. What do you like to be called?
You can call me Carrie.
Good. Carrie, I'm Dr. Groman, call me George, and I'm a cardiologist here. You're having a heart attack and it's my job to stop it. Would you like to work with me on that?
Yes, please.
Wonderful! There's another cardiologist on his way here, from Johns Hopkins. We'll take you to the cath lab very soon, and he'll fix what's wrong. I know things are happening fast, but we need to move fast, okay?
Okay.
Now, I understand you're a nurse, and that you've been having pain for several hours...?
Yes. About 12 hours.
Well, I'm happy you decided to come in when you did. I'm so glad you're here now. Let's start there.
He squeezes my hand, and I squeeze back. I fall in love.
A nurse says, Carrie? We'll be moving to the cath lab in just a few minutes. Is there someone you'd like us to call?
I make a split-second decision: Wyatt needs to know what's happening, but he needs to hear it from me. After I'm finished in the cath lab. When I'm resting safe and warm and comfortable; alive and well.
I choose to play the odds. Let me hit the jackpot, please, just this once. I stake my life on hearing my son's voice again, and on him hearing mine. I need to hit that jackpot, in a big fucking way.
No. There's no one you need to call right now. I'll make that call. Later.
Are you sure? Yes, I'm sure. Okay then.
And off we roll. Down the hall. Towards the rest of my life.
I hear chatter as we enter the cath lab. People are talking about weekend plans, the Orioles, how much they hope the weather changes soon, their lawns, and on and on. I'm comforted by, and grateful for, this just-another-day-at-work background noise. Apparently these folks know what they're doing, and my heart attack isn't their emergency. Yes, yes, yes. Keep talking, please. Bliss, again. But not for long.
The cold soap, the shave, the drapes, the burning pressure of the needle, the big machine inches from my face...I can't deal with any of it and ask for...something? The nurse gives me a dose of a very potent narcotic. Enough to smooth the jagged edges, but not enough to knock me out. Is this good or bad? I don't know and don't much care: I've felt everything for too long, and welcome the blur of feeling less. Bring it on.
Don't move. Hold very still. Now take a deep breath. Let it out. Do it again. I'm in a tough spot, but I'm about to open this artery for you, Carrie. Bear with me. Hang in there.
Who the hell is this guy talking to?? Not me. Because I'm not here. I'm somewhere else, like, at home, or at work, or with my son or out with friends or taking a bath or doing laundry or at the farmer's market, or doing anything but lying on a cold hard table with a tube in my groin and a camera looking at my heart. I feel insulted and indignant. And then I feel like an idiot. This guy's trying to save my life. Tears flow again. I'm sorry, kind doctor. Forgive me, please. I'll be good and do whatever you say, I promise.
The nightmare continues: A blocked artery, 2 stents, complications from reperfusion, emergent transfer to a better-equipped facility, a second cath, 2 more stents, more complications and a third freakin' trip to the cath lab, 2 more stents, a balloon pump, and all kinds of recovery, rehab and wreckage.
The physical recovery is straightforward and precise. Do this, don't do that, take your meds, see the cardiologist regularly, and call with any problems.
The emotional recovery has been more difficult and elusive. Who am I now? What the hell happened?? Why me, and not the someone who eats McDonald's for lunch every day??
Of course I'm grateful to be alive, but I'm pissed that I have to live with heart disease for the rest of my life. I hate my stupid pillbox, and sitting in the cardio's waiting room is torture. I have nothing in common with the old, withered and debilitated person sitting next to me. Don't look at me, and for god's sake don't ask, "How are you today?" I'm not like you and shouldn't be here. But I am.
Heart disease kills women at an alarming rate. Know your risk factors, your numbers and the signs and symptoms of a heart attack. Be vigilant, assertive, and your own best advocate.
http://womenheart.org/
http://www.americanheart.org/...
http://www.heart.org/...
http://www.nhlbi.nih.gov/...