Serious as a heart attack: A true life story

Serious as a Heart Attack

My tale and lessons learned from surviving a "widowmaker" heart attack

BY CARLTON REESE

I’m a male and there’s something about that Y chromosome that chokes off rational thought during moments of vulnerability.

Forgive me for my ignorance – how was I to know what a heart attack felt like, since I’d never experienced one? Until recently, all my knowledge of heart attacks came from watching Fred Sanford clutch his chest and yell, “I’m comin’ Elizabeth; this is the big one!” I’d heard it felt like a sledgehammer hitting you in the chest and knocking you to the ground – profuse sweating and shortness of breath to follow, pain in the arms and neck closely in tow.

When I felt a pain in my chest a week before Thanksgiving, it never occurred to me this could be a heart attack. It felt muscular and relegated to a small area of the sternum – my expert diagnosis was that this was not how heart attacks happened; not enough drama here to claim a heart attack was taking place.

The initial pain was a slight pressure, as though I had torn a muscle – nothing that would cause too much concern or keep me from my appointed rounds. Within 20 minutes, though, the pressure had grown to where I felt the need to “walk it off,” then eventually crawl into bed. I had felt something similar a month earlier and within an hour the pain subsided. I figured time would settle this pain as well.

Two hours later, the pain remained, but the neck and arms felt unscathed and no shortness of breath. I’m breathing normally, the arms and neck feel fine and only a pinpoint section of my chest was undergoing any pressure – certainly this is no heart attack. Then the sweating began, profuse as the menu of symptoms goes for heart attacks. Perhaps now was the time to take this seriously as something beyond a muscle tear.

The pain had taken a strange turn toward a place I had never been. I was now bathing in my own sweat and writhing on the bed, wondering if the only way out of this pain was through collapsing unconscious or even dying. Thoughts such as this had never before entered my mind, but here I was thinking if I had to choose between suffering this pain or ending it all, the latter wasn’t such a bad option.

I remembered how a certain comfort level is achieved after vomiting, so I induced this methodology on several occasions. Don’t be shocked, but this actually works … for about five minutes, then it’s

I was still under the guidance of the meds and determined I could remove these wires on my own in order to take a few steps to the bathroom.

back to curling up in a ball and praying to be knocked unconscious.

Then the sweating stopped and the pain dialed back a little, but still lingered. I wondered if the sweating was just my mind playing tricks on me. In the fifth grade, I fainted during science class while watching the movie “I’m Joe’s Heart” – images of cholesterol build-up in arteries sent me to the floor and ever since I have suffered from the proverbial “weak stomach.” When Joe Theismann’s leg split in two during a Monday Night Football game in 1985, I had to splash cold water on my face and sit with my head between my knees as I could sense the room getting dark. In my mind, the pain in my chest was only slight but the thought of it was causing me to react in the most adverse of cardiovascular ways; ergo, still not a heart attack – just a weak dude unable to handle a little chest pain.

At some point the pain would have to go away, just as it had a month before. I found myself turning to the clock: four hours had passed. The kids were now home from school and I attempted to carry on as normal, making snacks and helping with homework, all the while rubbing my chest and thinking the worst was behind me.

Dinner time came and went without me.

“I’m taking you to the hospital,” my wife insisted, impatient with my stubbornness.

But I’m a male and there’s something about that Y chromosome that chokes off rational thought during moments of vulnerability.

“No, I’ll be fine; this pain goes away. I’ve had it before,” I responded in almost cliché fashion.

During the night, I spared my wife all the tossing and turning by sleeping on the couch – but there would be no sleeping. Hour after hour passed and the nagging pressure remained until the alarm sounded and it was time to make lunches and wake up the kids. I performed my fatherly duties, still in pain and knowing this was not going away. Normally, I drop one of my daughters off at school, but this time my wife would have to take both – I was completely useless.

My wife returned home and I looked at the clock – it was now 8 a.m., 19 hours after I started experiencing chest pain. I called my physician, Dr. Emmons, who was incredulous that I was still at home. She told me to get to the hospital immediately and that she would call an ambulance if need be. Hearing this from a doctor means something, certainly more than my ego or self-diagnosis. My wife put me in the car and drove me to the emergency room at AdventHealth Ocala.

Pulling up to the emergency room, I realized that if there was ever a place to take advantage of valet parking, this was it. Getting a steak at Mark’s Prime, they’ll park your car for you so you don’t have to walk a block to get there. Having a heart attack, you should just toss your keys to the valet and get on with the emergency. We’re parkers, though, so my wife dropped me off to hunt for a space.

The good thing about a heart attack is you get moved to the front of the line. Across the room, there’s a poor fellow with a railroad spike sticking out of his shoulder and he’s been there for an hour watching procrastinators like me being wheeled back upon setting foot in the building. It occurred to me, that guy should have claimed to have chest pains and upon seeing the doctor suggest, “Hey Doc, while we’re here, why don’t you take a look at this railroad spike in my shoulder?”

I answered all the logistical questions as well as possible, but for all I remember I could have been wasting everyone’s time rating the super hunks or babbling on about the cancellation of Manimal. At one point later in the ICU, my wife says I was yammering about Auburn-Texas A&M – now those are pretty good drugs.

Several doctors checked on me and gave me the good news: I was having a heart attack and needed immediate attention. My recollection of the conversations at that moment are cloudy at best, but later I was informed my affliction involved 100 percent blockage of the left anterior descending artery of the heart, a situation commonly referred to as a “widowmaker.”

With the propofol putting me under its spell, I was still aware of the surgery prep taking place. My right wrist and arm would earn a good shaving as that would be the entry point of a stent. Soon after, I detected something akin to a Brazilian wax taking place. In my groggy state of LaLa Land I wondered if a Larry Flint film crew was about to barge in. Seems the shaving down south was part of a

backup plan in case the original entry point of the stent didn’t work out.

The task of inserting the stent fell on Dr. Ali Alsamarah, who I can’t thank enough for what on my end seemed a flawless procedure. Upon waking later in the ICU, I felt only slight pain: minimally in my chest and in my arm where the stent had traveled to get to the blockage in my heart. I saw before me shadowy figures that slowly came into focus: My two oldest daughters, my wife and two brothers, my mother and Dr. Emmons all appeared at some point. Our conversations at that time are a mystery to me and I’m pretty sure all would be better off if those transcripts were burned – the propofol was still doing more of the talking than myself.

Wires everywhere administering fluids and monitoring my well-being made me feel like some sort of cyborg and when it came time to relieve myself with no one else in the room, these wires had to go. I was still under the guidance of the meds and determined I could remove these wires on my own in order to take a few steps to the bathroom. I felt like Peter Sellers in a sappy comic bit, tying myself in knots with these wires and at some point setting off an alarm among the nurses’ quarters. “Another idiot trying to set out on his own for the bathroom,” I’m sure they were thinking, but they rushed in as understanding caretakers, setting me free from the entanglement and allowing me to do my business.

I went to the hospital on a Thursday morning and spent two nights there before being released to go home. I thought to myself how amazing it is that a moron like me staring into the gaping maw of death can enter a building like this and leave two days later not feeling a dent in the fender. These doctors and nurses – I remember Karen and Pam among them – truly are miracle workers.

Of course, I felt fine, but my work had just begun. Merely walking across the room felt like “Sweatin’ to the Oldies” and I knew rehabilitation would not come overnight. I had my orders: no lifting of objects over five pounds, lots of rest and lots of pills. Pills … lots of them. I’ve never been much for taking pills – I generally grind through a minor headache without popping handfuls of Motrin – so this meant a lifestyle change of sorts. I was already on the Allopurinol train for gout and with the addition of at least four new team members to the lineup, it would be impossible to hide my age: I am now an old pill-popper with the plastic day-coded organizer to betray any youthful semblances situated as a disguise for my middle age.

The batting order now consists of Allopurinol, Prasugrel, Atovorstatin, Metroprolol and aspirin. Warming up in the bullpen I can see Dentu-Creme, Voltaren and hydroquinone. The veil has been lifted. I am an old man.

This old man now must follow the directions of his cardiologist, Dr. Tong Liu, who must be great and blessed with the temperament of Job to take on a patient like me. So far, I’ve passed the tests – my cholesterol levels look good and the exercise regimens fall within my physical purview. The diet I am to follow seems workable, even for someone who can inhale red meat into his lungs and deem it healthy.

The biggest change is the paranoia. Before my heart attack, those slight pains and jabs caused little concern and were noted less as signs of bigger problems than they were as emblematic annoyances of the aging process. Now, every twitch or spasm emanating from my upper core sends my mind racing to a dire diagnosis. I ignored these tremors before and I came close to dying – will I have not learned my lesson if I brush off any blip I feel near my heart from now on?

The doctors told me these spasms and twitches are normal … unless they linger. Now I must set my watch to “linger” any time I feel a slight pain – if it persists, then I’m putting in the phone call. Only this time, I won’t wait 19 hours before doing so.

I thought to myself how amazing it is that a moron like me staring into the gaping maw of death can enter a building like this and leave two days later not feeling a dent in the fender.

I am now an old pill-popper with the plastic day-coded organizer to betray any youthful semblances situated as a disguise for my middle age.

SETTING A NEW STANDARD OF CARE FOR CANCER TREATMENT

Advanced treatment options offer faster, more precise radiation therapy

If you are diagnosed with cancer, it’s important to learn about all of your treatment options. Florida Cancer Specialists & Research Institute (FCS) is at the forefront of science and research, providing the most up-to-date treatments personalized for your unique needs.

Shorter courses of radiation treatment are quickly becoming the standard of care for prostate, lung, breast, bone and brain cancers. These advanced options are available from FCS, many offered exclusively in Marion County.

Targeting tumors with greater precision

Successful radiation therapy depends on delivering the proper amount of radiation to the cancer in the best and most effective way, destroying cancer cells while sparing healthy tissue.

A treatment technique known as hypofractionation delivers the total dose of radiation more precisely and in fewer sessions, compared to standard radiation therapy. Patients can complete their course of radiation therapy much faster with optimal outcomes and a better overall experience.

Shorter treatments for prostate and lung cancer

One in six American men can expect to develop prostate cancer in their lifetime; the average age at diagnosis is 66. The good news is that the survival rate is extremely high, thanks to a range of advanced treatment options. Traditional prostate treatments are time intensive (typically requiring daily treatment for nine weeks). Recent clinical trials have demonstrated that the use of shorter treatment schedules (daily treatment for five weeks) results in similar positive outcomes, no increase in side effects, fewer trips and less expense. In select cases, another emerging treatment — stereotactic body radiotherapy — can be delivered in as few as five treatments as an alternative to surgery for patients with prostate cancer and early-stage lung cancer.

Advanced technology [to better target tumors] offered exclusively in Ocala

Advanced techniques use SpaceOAR gel to reduce the risk of rectal damage during prostate radiotherapy. FCS is the only provider in Ocala offering SpaceOAR to protect healthy rectal tissue.

Breast Cancer

FCS is the only cancer center in the area to provide two modern treatment techniques that protect the heart during radiation treatment for breast cancer. Traditional methods of blocking the heart may place patients at higher risk for a heart attack. Deep inspiration Breath Hold creates more separation between cancer and the heart, making treatment more precise. This video demonstrates the specialized deep inspiration breath hold technique.