RRN Online Volume 465

April 30 '05

Volume 465

Heart Attack April 24, '05

For several weeks, I had observed a disturbing change in my physical condition whenever I engaged in any activity outside of what is normal for me. Suddenly, I found myself with aches and pains after routine yard work. I expected the sore leg muscles after crouching in flower beds uprooting weeds, but I didn’t expect aches in both arms and a feeling of tightness in my chest after using a "weed-eater" for half an hour.

Initially, I attributed my symptoms to a sedentary winter, a winter longer than normal for these parts of the country. But, with each passing weekend of activity, I realized I wasn’t "shaping up" as expected. I began to consider other possibilities. At some point, I realized that my symptoms sounded a lot like those Dot Bell described a few days before she had heart bypass surgery.

On a Sunday afternoon, Dot had told Barbara that both arms were hurting and there was a sensation of tightness in her chest. Barbara had insisted Dot go to the emergency room at the local hospital, but instead Dot chose to go home and rest. The rest provided relief from the pain, so Dot mistakenly assumed the pain was somehow related to something she had done to exert herself. By the middle of the week, it was evident Dot needed medical help, and by the weekend, she had heart bypass surgery to correct several blockages.

I discovered that rest helped relieve my symptoms, too, so I began to shorten my periods of exertion. If my arms began to ache and my chest felt tight, I simply backed away from whatever activity induced the symptom and either rested or found a less strenuous activity, such as riding the lawn mower. If the symptoms persisted, I would take a couple of aspirin. The aspirin most always performed as expected, and I soon felt better.

There’s no simple explanation to give for my reluctance to see a doctor concerning that which I was convinced was clogged arteries feeding into my heart. It’s easy for some to lay the blame on "male stubbornness." It’s also easy for me to say I couldn’t afford another hospital bill at a point when financial reserves are at an annual low. There’s also a bit of denial on my part that something like a heart attack could happen to me.

I was also reluctant to mention any of my symptoms to my wife, for I knew she would want me to see a doctor right away.

Sure enough, when I sat her down last Saturday and explained what was happening to me, her first words were, "Don’t you think you need to see a doctor, today?"

"No," I stated. "I’m not hurting at the moment, and I have sense enough to quit working if I start hurting. I just wanted you to know what’s going on, and that I intend to see a doctor next week."

Somehow, I resisted the impulse to tell her that I had not told her anything earlier, because I knew what her reaction would be. I also knew that until I went to a doctor I would be subjected to that "look" whenever I so much as sighed. Fortunately, less than twenty-four hours would transpire until that "look" would not be a consideration.

Later, as I hand-washed my car, my arms became heavy and my chest felt tight. Similarly, after struggling to push my riding lawn mower past a hillside hump, the arm and chest pains returned, but soon subsided as I resumed the more normal aspects of mowing. That evening as I helped a neighbor prepare for a backyard crawfish boil I experienced a similar discomfort with respect to my chest and arms.

I awoke around six o’clock Sunday morning aware the aches and discomforts had returned. Lying in bed, I thought about the senselessness of dying from something like a heart attack resulting from inattention to the warning signs. I couldn’t go back to sleep, so I got up, took a couple of aspirin and began to shower. It wasn’t long until Barbara stuck her head in the bathroom and asked what was wrong. I don’t normally bathe until Barbara leaves for Sunday School, and she suspected something was amiss.

"I may have to go to the hospital, if I don’t get better, soon," I shared, above the roar of water splashing on the shower curtain.

"I’m going to call Steve (Dr. Montgomery, our neighbor and family doctor)," she stated, "to see if there’s someone he can recommend we see in Tupelo."

Barbara didn’t connect with Steve right away, but she made preparations to take me to Tupelo, anyway. By eight-thirty, Steve had called back and suggested we go straight to the ER at North Mississippi Medical Center in Tupelo, and we were immediately on our way. In the car, Barbara made a couple of phone calls to family and friends to let them know what was happening.

I’ve been to emergency rooms before, mostly to check on a family member or friend, and was not prepared to be rushed so quickly into surgery. Yet, I had hardly given my name in ER Admissions and stated I had a heart problem when I found myself connected to an EKG unit and having blood drawn. Then minutes later, an ER physician was explaining how some enzyme level in my blood should be 0.08 or below, and mine was 0.14, which indicated my heart was sending out distress signals.

I signed a consent form for the heart catheterization, and Barbara was told she would have to wait in the room assigned to me prior to the procedure, as there was no waiting area for family members of those in the Cath Lab. I lost count of the number of times I was asked the same questions by persons attending to me. Do you have a family history of heart problems? Do you smoke? Do you have high blood pressure. Do you have high cholesterol? Are you allergic to any medications? Its seems the government is not the only entity that fails to share information efficiently.

I remember a couple of nurses prepping my groin area for an incision into the femoral artery of my right leg and that the operating table was so narrow they used sideboards to keep my arms from dangling, and I vaguely remember the cardiologists pointing out a blockage on a monitor. But, whatever sedation I was given kept me mostly in a twilight zone, somewhere between a dream and reality.

I later learned that only one artery was blocked, but it was 99% clogged. Barbara showed me a couple of screen shots, a before and after of the affected area.

"You have a collagen plug in your leg," she told me, once I was in a private room. "You have to lie flat of your back and not move your right leg for four to six hours."

A few days earlier, I had seen an article in the newspaper describing a new and improved coronary stent called a medicated stent. Supposedly it had a special coating that prevented platelets in the blood from lodging in the stent and clogging the artery.

"Did I get a medicated stent?" I asked.

"I don’t know," she replied.

Not long after I was moved into a private room, visitors arrived. I don’t remember the order, but I recall Mickey Gentry, Floyd McCullough, as well as Rayanne, Anna, Sarah, and Felicia. Others phoned to express concern and prayer support, and I’m grateful for both the visitors and the callers.

I’m thankful I only spent one night in the hospital, because hospital stays don’t offer much rest for either the sick or their family members. Because of all the tubing hooked up to me and my having to wear a portable heart monitor, I was unable to sleep on either side and thus spent a restless night with interruptions by nurses and aids checking on me, to say nothing of an aching back. Barbara slept sporadically in a chair beside the bed.

Before being discharged from the hospital, I was grilled by various professionals concerning medications I would be required to take, which included blood pressure and blood thinner medications as well as a cholesterol lowering drug. It seems I don’t have high blood pressure or high cholesterol but the medications are both precautionary and productive in lessening the load my heart has to shoulder. For the time being, I’ll humor my doctor.

I made certain to ask my doctor if I had actually had a heart attack. He responded that it may have been mild and I may not have known when it occurred, but I had definitely experienced a heart attack. He also confirmed I had received a medicated stent.

I was also instructed to adopt the dietary guidelines of the American Heart Association and to initiate an exercise regimen, neither of which did I find particularly appealing. However, I’ll probably pay more attention to the types of foods I eat and will definitely take advantage of the walking track/ circular drive in my neighborhood.

Either the technology hasn’t been developed or North Mississippi Medical Center personnel haven’t adopted it, but something should be done about the tendency of adhesive tape to bond with ones skin and body hair. When the nurse's assistants began to remove the two catheters in my right arm the pain was terrific, so much so that neither of them would remove the adhesive pads on my chest to which my heart monitor was attached.

"We’ll let you torture yourself," one stated.

Fighting back the tears, I managed to remove a couple of them before telling the women the rest could wait until I got home.

"Now you know how we feel when we get a bikini wax," one related.

"I don’t think so," I responded, while considering the absurdity of and the lengths to which many women go to make themselves more desirable.

The ten or more pads didn’t come off any easier when I got home and removing them left entire regions on my chest hairless. As bad as the pad removal was, I’ll take it any day over open heart surgery. Anyway, as several friends have pointed out, that which has transpired is proof that I actually do have a heart.

Crawfish Boil At Neighbor's House

Saturday morning, Barbara and I were returning to Dogwood Circle after briefly visiting Miss Virginia Dillard to deliver the latest issue of Bodock Beau destined for distribution to troops overseas, when I noticed an unfamiliar mower and rider cutting the circle. Nonetheless, I waved a thank you as we drove by, out of appreciation for someone else helping with the mowing chore. I presumed the individual was someone Bill Knight had hired to cut the circle.

A half-hour later Bill and Perry Lynn Sewell were knocking on my backdoor asking to borrow some of our patio furniture. I asked Perry Lynn if he was mowing the circle earlier. Bill told me it was Brent Smith, one of our neighbors who lives on Ridgewood Drive.

"We’re having a crawfish boil this evening," Bill commented. "Ya’ll come on over."

"Thanks, but I don’t eat crawfish," I responded.

"We’ll have plenty of other stuff to eat, so be sure to drop in," Bill assured. "and tell Jason to come out tonight, ‘cause a musician from Nashville will be here.

I didn’t commit to the invitation but felt an obligation to at least make an appearance, because Bill and Stephanie are good neighbors and have been to the last two RRN Fish Fry events.

Late Saturday afternoon I saw smoke rising from a couple of portable smokers and couldn’t resist the opportunity to ask Bill if he had decided to barbecue the crawfish instead.

"No," Bill told me. "We’re having pork loin and chicken, too."

At the time, Bill had his hands full with arriving guests and was trying to keep crawfish and vegetables boiling in two huge pots atop gas burners. Perry Lynn appeared to be in charge of the smokers and was running behind in his efforts, so Q.T. Tutor and I helped stoke the fire and scatter the chicken parts to speed the cooking process.

It wasn’t long until about fifty folks were in Bill’s backyard, liberally consuming beverages and munching hors d'oeuvres, while awaiting the main entrees.

Brent Smith had invited his former college roommate, Pat Roper, an aspiring country music singer living in Nashville, TN, to come down and entertain Bill’s guests. Pat sang a few country songs that I knew, but his repertoire didn’t include Hank Williams, and I don’t know many modern country tunes. Still, he sang and played well, and his music was appreciated by the younger fans of country music present that evening.

Jason had a previous commitment and later told me he showed up at the party about the time Pat was putting away his guitar and equipment. Barbara and I left the scene around nine o’clock, with neither of us trying the crawfish. I watched Stephanie (in photo) demonstrate the proper crawfish-eating technique to a novice, but I didn’t think it was something I wanted to try. Plus, the chicken wings and pork loin were items I knew I liked.

By all accounts the crawfish boil was a success. One thing’s for certain – nobody went home hungry.

Bodock Beau Why God Created Eve

Last week men's thoughts were considered in this space. This week, women reign supreme.

Top Ten Reasons Eve Was Created

10. God was worried that Adam would frequently become lost in the garden because he would not ask for directions.

9. God knew that one day Adam would require someone to locate and hand him the remote.

8. God knew Adam would never go out and buy himself a new fig leaf when his wore out and would therefore need Eve to buy one for him.

7. God knew Adam would never be able to make a doctor's, dentist, or haircut appointment for himself.

6. God knew Adam would never remember which night to put the garbage on the curb.

5. God knew if the world was to be populated, men would never be able to handle the pain and discomfort of childbearing.

4. As the Keeper of the Garden, Adam would never remember where he left his tools.

3. Apparently, Adam needed someone to blame his troubles on when God caught him hiding in the garden.

2. As the Bible says, It is not good for man to be alone!

And finally, the Number 1 reason why God created Eve . .

1. When God finished the creation of Adam, He stepped back, scratched his head, and said, "I can do better than that."

Women's T-Shirts Observed At The Ocean City, Maryland Beach.

I Childproofed My House, But They Still Get In.
(On The Front) 60 Is Not Old. (On The Back) If You're A Tree.
I'm Still Hot. It Just Comes In Flashes.
At My Age, "Getting Lucky" Means Finding My Car In The Parking Lot.
My Reality Check Just Bounced.
Life Is Short. Make Fun Of It.
I'm Not 50. I'm $49.95 Plus Tax
Annapolis--A Drinking Town With A Sailing Problem.
I Need Somebody Bad... Are You Bad?
Physically Pffffft!
Buckle Up. It Makes It Harder For The Aliens To Snatch You From Your Car.
I'm Not A Snob. I'm Just Better Than You Are.
It's My Cat's World. I'm Just Here To Open Cans.
Earth Is The Insane Asylum Of The Universe.
Keep Staring.....I May Do A Trick.
We Got Rid Of The Kids. The Cat Was Allergic.
Dangerously Under-Medicated.
My Mind Works Like Lightning. One Brilliant Flash And It's Gone.
Every Time I Hear The Dirty Word "Exercise" I Wash My Mouth Out With Chocolate.
Cats Regard People As Warm-Blooded Furniture.
Live Your Life So That When You Die, The Preacher Will Not Have ToTell Lies At Your Funeral.
In God We Trust. All Others We Polygraph.

Contributed by Cheryl Radford

Share this article with a friend.

Home