Get your knives and forks out, heat up the gravy and pass the cranberry sauce: this Turkey’s gonna be carved a little early this year.
Too much plaque in the old arteries for a balloon angioplasty or stent, so today they’re going to crack my wishbone, and rearrange the delicate little pipes around my heart, borrowing the necessary replacements from wherever they can find them.
My O.E.M. stock is already limited, because the artery from my right calf already lives in my left arm, but they seem to think there are plenty available.
A week to recover in hospital, then six weeks at home- no driving, no lifting anything over 5 pounds.
And, hopefully, one thousand five hundred sixty weeks of no more bacon…
I balked at the news, delivered by the Surgeon himself, because… you know how they say “always change your underwear because you might be in an accident”?
My underwear was fresh out of the drawer when I came in for the simple test that launched this drastic diversion in my anticipated path, but my apartment’s a bit of a mess- dishes in the sink, an empty Martini glass and shaker full of melted ice beside it. Ashtray with a couple of butts in it, and a homemade apple pipe somewhere in the mix. I’d started rearranging some furniture in the Living Room, so there are mirrors on their sides on the floor. There are papers in a pile on my desk and the non-perishable results of my latest foray to Costco on the kitchen counter: a crack in the facade of neatness that I try to maintain when I have visitors.
In other words, not all my drawers were clean.
I asked if I could have two hours to return home to sort those things out- denied.
They didn't want me out of their sight, from the moment they increased the speed of the Treadmill and my Blood Pressure shot up to 195 over… whatever.
I asked if I could move my car, because it was in a 1 hour zone- denied.
I asked if I could have ten minutes to go outside; breathe the fresh air and kiss the Good Earth one final time- denied.
Damn- I’m wasn’t gonna get that one final cigarette.
That’s right: I’m still that stupid.
Stupid enough to have no will or Trust because my spouse and I haven’t lived together for ten years, so the imminent change of our “marriage status” has kept me from creating one- however, I have no problem passing everything to her, as our enmity towards each other will pass along with me.
So many usernames and passwords for accounts that will need to be closed. I’m making a Doomsday Book for my Bestie with all the info and granting him Power of Attorney- not because I don’t trust my Estranged, but she works too hard as a Public School Teacher and doesn’t deserve the inevitable fight with T-mobile and Netflix over closing a dead guy’s account.
I’m scared- really truly frightened. My Surgeon is a Rock Star in his field: Harvard, PhD from Oxford, Stanford Med School, then back to Harvard to teach Cardiac Surgery.
I have three teams behind me: Prep, Procedure and Recovery, and they’ve all been perfectly clear about what their plans are.
However, they didn’t deem concerned about my plans. I mean, I came to the test on Thursday with a car full of stuff for my daughter’s 22nd birthday party the following day. I was going to deliver them to my Estranged’s house, help decorate, then return to my apartment to prepare the Honey Mustard Slaw and Mac Salad, and finish cleaning my underwear.
Friday was to begin with the flap steak being cut and plunged into the marinade, then the veggie options cleaned and sliced. We had Afternoon Tea Reserved- an unbroken birthday tradition for as long as I can remember and one which even Covid didn’t prevent: I couldn’t fly to NYC for her Day (she was a Junior at NYU then), as I had done the two years prior, so I reserved a table for her locally, while I prepared an entire Tea Service for myself (including homemade scones and Devon Cream). We toasted her Day, pinkies raised, over FaceTime.
But not this year. She was of good cheer when she Lyfted over to pick up my keys, especially because Tea on Friday was still on our radar. An overnight stay in the hospital, a quick angiogram, maybe a couple of stents, and I’d be on my way by noon.
She cheerfully returned to my apartment to pick up the perishables, but when she returned to pick me up the next day, God was already laughing.
Off I go to the OR...
Friday, Nov 5, 2021 · 9:08:07 AM +00:00 · cracktactor
Please except my apologies- especially all of you who have taken the time to respond with such kind words of support. When I began this diary, just over a week ago, I meant it to be am observation about how quickly a day, week, month or lifetime can change course, due to unforeseen circumstances, along with the conclusion that ‘wearing clean under wear” isn’t merely an Old Wives Tale about appearing elegantly dressed in an ER, but more an aphorism about the necessity to fulfill obligations in a timely manner- a suggestion to “get ‘her done”, so to speak.
When I walked into the Cardio Clinic last Thursday, I had no reason to believe I’d be there longer than twenty minutes, as I hadn’t been having any symptoms of heart disease; other than getting a bit winded walk-in up the stairs to my apartment. I don’t have a heck of a lot going on in my life, so prepping for my daughter’s birthday the following day was a big deal; especially since it was her first at home since she’d been at NYU for 4 years, and I’d been joining her there for the celebration, except for last year, when we FaceTimed her Tea Party. She really loves my cooking, so I went all out for the menu, but didn’t do any of the prep after my Wednesday Costco run, thinking I’d have a day and a half to take care of it- I haven’t been out of the hospital since...
I started to update the Diary early on the morning of November 1, explaining why my wristband had an October 28 date on it while I was writing of events occurring at a later date- I’d though I’d have time for the update, since I was admitted on the 28th, but knew I wasn’t scheduled for surgery until the 1st, so the days in between were about hanging out with the kids, a visit from my Bestie and getting some necessary documents signed and delivered into my file before the Anesthesiologist sent me off into dreamland.
But, once again, the timeline was off: my 4 am departure to the OR actually started 2 hours earlier, when they showed up to shave all the hair of my chest and legs, wipe my entire frame down with anti biotic cleanser and repeat the process once I arrived at the Cardio Prep Station outside the OR. That was the last I saw of my laptop for two days. Even though I’ve retrieved all my belongings and am in the same room I will occupy until I’m discharged, There is no way for me to find the level of erudition I require to finish this essay: save for the gratitude I expressed earlier and the reassurance that the double bypass was a complete success and would give me more carefree years of a fully functioning heart than a simple balloon angioplasty would have provided. After two more days of trying to come up with interesting observations about the process, and some of the amusing aspects of our pathetic medical care delivery system, my brain simply refuses to shift out of first gear, and I don’t wan’t to waste any more of your time with my rambling right now- perhaps in a week or so…
However, the main reason for me writing this update is to, once again, thank all of you who responded: especially those with whom I’d never crossed words with here. When total strangers take the time to express support for an author, I realize what a generous, caring community this is; a community of which I’m honored to be a member...