SPARK
MARCH 2021
4
Affairs of the heart Lee A. Dean screendoor@sbcglobal.net A routine physical is supposed to proceed according to script. You and the doctor say the same lines and movements every time: open mouth and say “ahh,’ feel the blood pressure cuff tighten on your arm, affect an air of nonchalance while the doctor takes a tour of your chest and back with a stethoscope. Parts one and two of the above screenplay proceeded as normal during my most recent physical, Part three was an ad-lib. When the doctor lingers at a particular spot with the stethoscope, there’s a reason. When my doc did just that, he said, “you have an irregular heartbeat.” People have told me I’m irregular for years, but never in that context. I had noticed no symptoms other than a feeling of something being a little off kilter, which I attributed to a pandemic-fueled weight gain. My doctor asked me if I had ever hard of “afib.” I said, “Of course. That’s what happens every time a politician talks.” Once he explained what it really was
– shorthand for atrial fibrillation – my smart-alecky mood disappeared tout de suite.
finished. Mom’s patient profile would invariably describe her as “pleasant,” which gave me something to aim for.
In afib, the top and bottom halves of the heart get out of rhythm. A heart divided against itself does not beat properly. This increases the risk of stroke, a condition at the top of my list of things to avoid if at all possible.
I did not want to behave in such a way as to have the words “grouchy old coot” on my patient profile and cooperate with the people and the process. I figured this puts me and the nurses and techs at ease. Plus it makes no sense to be anything but nice to people who are sticking needles in your arms and attaching electrodes to your chest.
This diagnosis began my relationship with a new group of professionals known as “cardiologists” and an introduction to an entirely new set of pharmaceuticals. For years, my routine had not changed: take one prescription a day and undergo an annual physical. Sooner or later, I knew this would change, as it does for anyone who gets to the age where things start to fall apart.
Upon arrival at the room where the cardioversion was to take place, I felt like a race car making a pit stop. Six people were hooking me up to various and sundry devices. “Remember folks,” I said, “red goes on red, black on black.” This attempt at jumper cable humor earned me a few laughs and gratitude from the team that I was the last patient of the day.
My first cardiologist recommended a procedure called cardioversion, which involves shocking the heart back into rhythm. I wanted to wait until Michigan beat Ohio State in football, which would certainly be a shock, but he wisely advised moving at a faster pace. Next stop, Borgess Heart Institute.
The next procedure was anesthesia, the same variety as you would receive for a colonoscopy. My strategy was to recite to myself a famous prayer known as “St. Patrick’s Breastplate.” I got as far as “Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me” before going under.
Now it was time for me to follow the example of my mother, who bore all manner of painful medical procedures with the utmost grace, always thanking the nurses and doctors when they were
When I woke up, the first thing I heard was the machine monitoring my heart rhythm. Before the cardioversion it sounded like an angry four-year-old erratically pounding on a drum kit. Now my heart was beating a beautiful, steady
rhythm, as if my heart had gone from Keith Moon to Karen Carpenter. Since that time, my heart has maintained a normal rhythm. But afib is a persistent adversary that is almost sure to return. Preventive measures are required. The choices are between pharmaceuticals and a procedure known as ablation, which sounds a bit like spot welding. In the meantime, I have embarked on serious lifestyle changes. The first of these is reading labels. If you hear that Better Made has gone out of business, it’s probably because I’m no longer eating heir barbecue chips. Processed food in general is loaded with sodium, so this means doing more cooking from scratch and being mindful of the sodium level of the ingredients. My wife, the Viking Goddess, certainly benefits from not having to cook as much. There’s hope for me as a chef, thanks to the American Heart Association cookbook. The slow-cooker thyme garlic chicken with couscous was pretty good. The orange pork medallions were very good. The peanut butter cookies were a massive failure. If the K-Wings ever run out of hockey pucks, the cookies would be an adequate replacement. May our current time of trial give birth to heroes just like these, because we certainly need people who can rise to the occasion just as they did.
