You're Under { Cardiac } Arrest

Lying in bed, in mid-April...

Check pulse.
Still erratic. Still arrhythmic.
Pick up phone.

Nurse Ann: Doctor's office.
The Comrade: Hi Ann. I never did hear from you about the test results from the Holter monitor.

This was a beige plastic device, tucked neatly into my bra, acting as central hub to the many diodes connected to adhered points on my chest. For a 24 hour period, it monitored every one of my heartbeats.

It's been 6 months since I wore that device. Proof.

I'd called a couple of times, months ago.

Nurse Ann: When we hear something, you'll be the first to know. click

Eventually, with the combination of no longer feeling weird, coupled with the Silence of the Doctors, I figured No News really was Good News.

But then, one day, I felt weird again.

Nurse Ann: Oh, oh.
The Comrade: That's not too comforting, Ann.
Nurse Ann: I don't have that information. Let me call you back. I'll try calling the lab.

I took the opportunity to make myself another caffe Americano.

ring ring

Nurse Ann: It seems that the lab moved. They don't seem to have the results. [voice now frantic and pitched one octave higher] They don't have any record of you even visiting the offices, let alone wearing the...
The Comrade: What? (Visions of having to go through another 24 hours of being part robot flitted through my head.) Did you give them all possible name variations?

Six months ago, after leaving the first EKG testing lab, a place where somehow I thought I was going to receive a print-out prediction of the time and place of my death, where streams of tears ran off my face in sheets, I resolved to have my provincial Health card absolved of any remaining maiden name residue. If I was going to die, I wanted my tombstone, or the homemade bristle-board placard, to be emblazoned with my chosen family's name, not the one I was appointed at birth.

Nurse Ann: I did! Nothing.
The Comrade: See, this is unsettling. The public puts their trust in their doctors. We are led to think that if we don't get a call from you, there's nothing wrong with us.
Nurse Ann: [Insert complaint about other medical facilities, accepting no responsibility on my doctor's end**]

**{freaks out, throws hands up in the air and does not know what to do next}

The Comrade: Ann, dear. What is the name and the phone number of the facilities you've tried.
Nurse Ann: Here! But I've already tried it!

From one number as bait, undaunted, I called three facilities while maintaining the kind of calm usually reserved for absolute emergency situations. No other time is my head more level than when the shit's going down. I was sent on a moderate goose chase. The one that repeatedly went to voicemail, though the calls were made during regular business hours...

ring, ring
Voicemail: You have reached the offices of... click.

...was called 12 times in succession.

After reaching a human and providing my Health card number, my birth date, all possible name permutations (always a bride, never a bridesmaid), the missing file was discovered.

The Comrade: That's terrific. Do you think you could fax that over to my doctor's?
Technician: Well, it is 5 minutes to 5:00.
The Comrade: Please? I've waited a very long time for those results.
Technician: I'll do my best.
The Comrade: Thank you.

Next day...

Nurse Ann: [leaving sheepish voice message] Um, yeah... hi. I have the files now. Can you call me back so I can tell you about it?

ring, ring

Gruff, familiar sounding voice: Hello?
The Comrade: Is this the doctor's office?
G, FSV: Yeah. (as if I was retarded)
The Comrade: Dr. Ron?

Ron's his first name.

Dr. Ron: Yeah. (less condescending, more rushed)
The Comrade: Oh! Uh... why are you answering the phone?
Dr. Ron: Ann's at lunch. Nobody else is here. I just came back from a funeral.
The Comrade: Oh. I'm sorry.

Silencio.

The Comrade: The reason I'm calling is that Ann told me the results of the heart monitor I wore are finally in. I'd actually waited...
Dr. Ron: Well, why don't you call Ann in about an hour. She'll be back from lunch then.
The Comrade: I'd actually prefer you to read me the results.
Dr. Ron: [issues an audible sigh, walks off, rifles through papers, returns] Okay, well, there is atrial fibrillation, and (insert 45 seconds of rapid fire medical jargon)...
The Comrade: Okay. So, what does that mean?
Dr. Ron: It's not that severe!
The Comrade: In layman's terms, what does that mean exactly?!
Dr. Ron: You'll have to come in.
The Comrade: Again?
Dr. Ron: Yes! You'll need a referral for a specialist.

Thoughts flying through my head: He's already seen me. If he's got the results from the test in and if it warrants the expertise of someone else who knows more about a specific field than he does, why doesn't he just do a phone referral? Why continue to waste our collective time? This is a bullshit cash grab!

The Comrade: Can't we just do this over the phone?
Dr. Ron: No, you'll have to come in. That's just how it's done.
The Comrade: Can you make an appointment for me?
Dr. Ron: No! Call Ann in an hour. She'll be back then.

After I hung up the phone I went shopping.

Interesting:
I read about this study, done by a husband and wife team of social scientists, where they charted the lives of a sect of Berkley nursery school kids through to adult 23 year olds. The crux of their study showed that scared, whiny kids grew up to be Conservative/ Republicans. The more sunny, outgoing, laissez-faire kids grew up to be liberal.

Shopping for a new doctor made me realise I might have biases.

Dr. Robert Edmund Smith? Sounds like he uses Stephen Harper as his sexy muse.
Dr. Kenneth John Josephson? Probably gets his office supplies here.
Dr. James Cabbot Chenoweth? Never realised his dream of being a whinging operatic counter-tenor.

This is how my brain works: If I could imagine the years of torment received in various playgrounds for having a name like, say, Ralph Lifschitz, then grow up without changing it? I reason that guy's gone through enough torment to have gained just enough humanity to be my new doctor! The problem was, the only Lifschitz who fit that bill was going to be away for 6 months. I imagined my version of dashing Dr. Ralph flying off to save 12 year old African girls from fistulas. My hero. Hurry back from the Congo, doctor! I'll be here, clutching my heart.

I had another marathon phone conversation with the future grandmother of my children a couple of weeks ago.

I told her about the deciding phone call which inspired the seeking of a rotation of general practitioners.
Grand-maman: Well, that's not entirely fair, though, is it? You don't know who died.

Oh, shit. I didn't think of that. What if it was his mother? Or his dog? Sister? Wife? Oh, God! I really liked his wife!
I'd forgotten that my doctor was human.

Nurse Ann: It's Dr. Ron's office. Why haven't you called back yet? Dr. Ron really wants to see you and the Head of Cardiology at Sunnybrook does too. Call back, please.

Sometimes I just need extra encouragement.
When I called back, Nurse Ann was at lunch again.
Another nurse, one less charmingly crotchety, made my appointment.

Less Crotchety Nurse: We'll see you Tuesday at 11:00.

See you next Tuesday.

One of my major complaints about the film industry was the caste/ military/ echelon system used therein. On a call sheet, a foolscap sized sheet of paper denoting the day's shooting events, all cast and crew are represented by a number. If one guy's number is higher than yours, that guy may think it's his God-given right to treat you like scum, because, well, that's how it's gone down for him. Nobody really questions tyranny. Like in most businesses, someone always has a higher number than you. Unlike most businesses, numbers change from production to production. I have held a 3 digit spot on a call sheet. This usually entails having a 4th assistant director (the main director's 14th brain amplifier) on your ass for 12 hours straight. It evokes all the grade 11 pangs of vindictive, rebellious youth. Likewise, I've held a single digit number. We're talking lattes, dancing girls, oral/ manual stimulation to fruition. That day, in the doctor's office, at exactly 11:00:32, I was given the treatment of the highest order single digit number.

We're number one!

I have been going to see this doctor since I was 21 years old. The usual 45 minute wait was preempted. Whisked into an examination room, I was fawned over by no less than 2 nurses.

Smiling Nurses in Unison: The doctor will be right with you.

This is new, I said under my breath as the examination room door was closing.

And he really was right with me. Immediately. With small talk, interested questions about my personal life, clever quips, gentle bedside manner, extra care and caution. The only thing missing was the dancing girls.

Dr. Ron: I'm going to take some blood for a thyroid test. Do you have any problems with needles?
The Comrade: Not really. Not more than the average person, I don't think.
Dr. Ron: Well, I'll be right here if anything happens.

Wow.

Upon returning to the front desk, I got a doctor's escort. I was informed of the rare opportunity to be examined by the wealthy North Toronto neighbourhood hospital's resident head cardiologist. I was being sent to the best, though issued one slight warning about the heart specialist.

Dr. Ron: He might seem a little rude, but he is a really good doctor.

Hm.

The Love of My Life (who no longer wants to be called Fatty): Did he apologise?
The Comrade: No, but I'm not sure whether I went to the spa or the doctor's office today! I don't think I'll ever know whether he was being remorseful or if he was just skirting a potential malpractice suit.

And I'm not all that curious, really. I realise I'm pretty much a dollar sign to my doctor. Over the phone, I don't think he had any idea which patient he was speaking to. If he was into developing a relationship with his patients, he'd had ample opportunity to do so, with this one anyway, over the last 17 years. But he hadn't.

Incoming patient calls readily garner appointments, not answers to queries. Outgoing calls are made only when there's something to be gravely discussed between doctor and patient. Something you don't know? Don't call us. We'll call you. What it creates is more mystique and extra presence for their noble profession. And makes us relinquish our own power in deference to those in white coats and ties of stethoscopes. Our own number, associated with personal power, becomes an exponent. It's bullying. And it's all designed.

For me, the greatest thing about being 37 and having been raised the way I had, I understand the designed inducement of authoritarian fear. Most people accept this, giving wide doctor deference berth. Reasoning: They're doctors! They know more. Are more. Or employer berth. They control my fate. I have a mortgage and a family. What can I do? I do not accept numbers higher than my own. I spent too long doing that. Now, I will give you all the respect you deserve.

And that can go any number of ways.

Cleansing the Absentee

And after a near 3 month leave of absence, she returns.

I've thought about it every day. Because of the absentia, I've been both happy and sad. But each day I was away, it kept getting harder to get back to it. Eventually, I couldn't write a thing. I couldn't read anything either. Words would scramble and conjoin in an alien fusion.

It was just easier to stop.
I don't feel like it.
I don't wanna.

And this applied to a great many things in my life.

Around the beginning of this year things started collapsing. Relationships turned into a bilious poutine. People fell gravely ill. Babies were lost. Cancers were discovered to be inoperable. Friends were indefinitely hospitalized, one (gratefully) dead from a massive coronary.

And then there were the survivors...

For us, there was a poisonous brine being injected into parts of the populace. It seemed like an unauthorized pharmacological experiment.

Participants wanted!
Healthy? (or as healthy as one can be in our culture)
(relatively) Drug free?
Call this toll-free number NOW to take part in this IMPORTANT experiment.
$$ <-- We got these to give!

Except we weren't being paid.
We signed no waivers
Because we didn't know we were guinea pigs.

We were just left
Depressed
Anxious
Sobbing sad
And Angry


When Ack, the ex-husband/ best friend, and I were still together we had a friend who, after a night of grand pontificating - ever with a tasty adult beverage in hand - was usually found the next morning passed out on our couch. Lucky days were counted when his nether regions were sheathed. One morning, my eyes fell to where the usual weekend lump resided, only to find a heap of thrown-back covers and a blood red stain on the carpet.

Panic.

Upon closer inspection, the stain was the uninspired and regurgitated bordeaux from the night prior. Along the bathroom walls and floor was its companion art piece. The toilet remained pristine.

Though his DNA was splattered like a Ralph Steadman drawing,
He was nowhere to be found.
His car had disappeared from the driveway,
And he wasn't answering his cellphone.

He-who-never-returned-to-clean-up-his-own-filth-and-was-subsequently-never-invited-back-to-my-house once told me that just about all organisms seek an alternative mental landscape.

Aforementioned Self-Inflicted Projectile Puke Abandoner: Take the ever-lovable koala. It's a dual tasker. It feeds on eucalyptus while getting stoned in the process.

Lesson: Look to nature to explain man's shortcomings.
We can't help it; we're animals.

It's as good an excuse as any.

For me, one who's been prone to picking up new addictions with a zealot's enthusiasm, once I gave up cigarettes, I turned to new vices or reinvigorated old flames. Vast quantities of the following were gorged:

Chocolate
Tequila shots, vodka, beer, coffee - in rapid-fire succession
And something I'm not terribly proud of, unless I'm in culinary circles, at which point I brag: the engorged liver of a force-fed duck or goose

The city: Montréal, Canada
The restaurant: Au Pied du Cochon
Translation: With the foot of the pig
Item which sent triglyceride levels soaring: Duck in a Can (recipe as follows)

Take one Muscovy duck breast, partially slice its fat along the meat to make the protein more malleable. Pack said breast into an Alpo dog food sized can, pushing the flesh into the sides. Fill the centre with foie gras. Season with balsamic vinegar, thyme, salt, and pepper. Can (following manufacturer's directions). Place in pressure cooker for exactly 28 minutes. At the table, a plate of celeriac purée, the cushion before the fall, is placed in front of the poor sod who ordered coronary-on-a-plate. Then, as the tin is punctured with a razor sharp tin opener, a fine savoury mist releases to the east. Best to wear protective lenses for this portion. Once the can is deftly opened, pour/ slop the contents onto the celeriac mash... and enjoy.

I downed 6 pints of water during that meal, in a poor attempt to curb cirrhosis of the liver.

Lately I'd been using food and booze to numb myself.

Over the last few months I've been really upset with the state of humanity. No one seems to care about anyone anymore. They avert their eyes to pretend they don't see someone who may obviously be in need. A friend of mine, the one mentioned earlier who is indefinitely hospitalized, fell - splat - on a busy sidewalk on a cold winter's night. For two hours people walked over and around him. Was he drunk? Yes. Had he peed himself? More than likely. And it probably froze to his old, drunk ass. He'd also just had a stroke. And because it was so cold and because there had been so much time that had elapsed, he'll probably never walk again.

Around me and including me, I felt as if there was flagrant injustice happening, and there was no one to readily come to the defense of myself or anyone else for that matter. I stood alone, again, feeling I was the only person who was doing anything.

At work.
At home.
Around town.

Plenty of people were around, plenty of things were happening, but no one seemed to be doing much. Or maybe they couldn't do anything. Their lives' trajectory had led them to a zenith of ineffectuality. Or I was asking too much. This began a building of general malaise, nervous anxiety, seething anger and feelings of not wanting to do anything either. I can't beat 'em, so might as well... Why do now, when it can be done later? Or whatever. I had no energy to do things that had been easy and natural to do before. Any creative process seemed both daunting and pointless. At home, fight rounds had intensified and multiplied.

I thought I'd increase my exercise quotient.
I went on epic bike adventures for hours,
And not only gained weight, but my treasonous clothes were treating my body as life snuffing, binding sausage casings.

A few months ago my Klipsch 2.1 computer speakers blew. My only link to decent music. It was a premature self-annihilation, as I learned later. One satellite was non-responsive. The other sent crumbled cracklings out its clothed maw. For over 2 months I didn't listen to music. Sure, I'd hear the canned stuff while strolling cleaning supply aisles in supermarkets, or while ricocheting between tables at work, but those were more the supporting tunes for the Bob Ross painted backdrops of our days.

A couple of years ago I gave up cable television.
In January, cigarettes went bye-bye.
Now music.

I had no desire to listen to music.

This ain't right.

After a few nights of being despondent after work, coming home and sobbing for several hours over what, I can't remember, though, I'm sure, there was major significance at the time, I decided that my brain physiology wasn't firing properly. Luckily, I'm not the kind of person who A) denies there might be something wrong with her or B) wallows for too long in a situation in need of change. I just tend to do the kind of things others might not have as their first choice.

Ack: What have you given up this week?

That's his new question for me.

The Comrade: Food, booze and coffee. I'm detoxing.

What if:
People weren't actually depressed, they were just slowly poisoning themselves with everything they ingested regularly.

With record cases of depression and simultaneously the highest level of processed food available and consumed, it's plausible. Fasting was what my body was telling me to do. And I'm a slave to the wishes of my body.

I'm currently on Day 7 of the Master Cleanse.

The summary is something like this:
Drink a concoction of lemon juice, cayenne pepper, maple syrup and distilled water throughout the day.
Before bed, drink a herbal laxative tea.
Wake up like a shot, tail-tucked, screaming all the way to the toilet.
Sweet release.
Chug 1L of lukewarm water with 2 tsp of Celtic sea salt dissolved within - as fast as possible.
Release some more. Less sweet.

Times 10 days.

Strangely, I have more energy than I've had in a very long time. On no food, I'm doing bike distances I've never done before. My head is clear, the sausage casings removed, and the depression is gone. Any obstacle that has come up this week has been handled with minimal emotional attachment. I've worked, serving the street's most delicious food, with no qualms. Last night, in a moment of missing the practice of utilizing my culinary skills, I made dinner for my darling boy.

I've got 3 more days to go. Fantasies about drop kicking and rushing poor vegans to get to their plates of kasha and sauteed green beans only come up a couple of times a day now. I'm fantasizing about my first meal: a soup of wild and tame (whatever that means) mushrooms, a touch of cream, a float of wild leek pesto and a drizzle of truffle oil. It's currently holding a spot of prominence in my freezer. Cupcake, my friend and the culinary prodigy at my place of employ at the Cheer's Equivalent bar, its inventor.

My relationship is still maddening. It still leaves me winded and staggering to think how a man and a woman in love can have a conversion, that sounds like it's in English, but really it's in two foreign tongues from the farthest reaches of distant nebulas. With, of course, the resulting universal hurt pride on both sides. Both of us are in our respective corners waiting for the bell to ring again. The fighting's a little different for me now. I still fight my side. I'm still passionate with my convictions. I'm just not raging with utter frustration on the inside when I'm doing so.

Amazing what falls out of our ass during a cleanse.

The maker of this blog has not forgotten about this place. This is a space she loves very much. But like a person who hasn't seen someone she's had eyes for for a very long time, there is bound to be some awkwardness involved upon the reunion. Some tongue-tiedness as well. I'm stabbing away, but nothing's really sticking yet. Baby steps, I'm telling myself.

It's coming, though.
I can feel it in my bones.

Love,

The Comrade