And angels gather like crows...”
- Helicopters, Sixx AM
“We’re done”, said the doctor.
Bright, white lights, lots of bright, lots of white, and silver.
Lots of silver.
Lying cool and naked on an operating table, appropriately covered (at least that’s what I was told, but I wouldn’t have known or really cared in the moment), slowly emerging out of “twilight”, the expression doctors use for the “we need to knock you out for a bit so we can do stuff to you cocktail” the nurse said she had given me that contains Fentanyl.
Fentanyl.
I could hear the medical team describing the ingredients and dosage as it was being administered.
Fentanyl is 100 times stronger than morphine, and yes, it works.
It works quite well.
It felt like only a few minutes had passed, and I laid there wondering when they were going to start the “procedure”, another innocuous term designed to not scare the crap out of you that’s used for having your insides explored like they were on your outside.
But thanks to Fentanyl and whatever other companion drugs were mixed together to concoct this medical Long Island Iced Tea cocktail, an hour had slipped by and my Angiogram was over.
Heart concerns started sprouting like dandelions during my was it or wasn’t it Covid-19 nightmare earlier this year.
The stroke, the carotid endarterectomy, the “hey, let’s do a stress test, something looks funny on your heart”, the angiogram, to this yet another “that’s the last thing I thought I’d ever hear” moment, lying cool and naked on an operating table.
According to the Mayo Clinic, this is what an angiogram is:
“A coronary angiogram is a procedure that uses x-ray imaging to see your heart’s blood vessels. The test is generally done to see if there’s a restriction in blood flow going to the heart...”
In the course of being prepped for my angiogram, Dr. V came and spoke to me about what to expect.
Dr. V is another link in a chain of fabulous doctors who have treated me over the course of my amusement park fun ride of 2020 health issues.
The conversation went something like this:
“My name is Dr. V and I’ll be assisting with your procedure. We’ll administer twilight, you won’t feel anything but you may hear conversations; we’ll take a look at your heart and vessels, and if there are any restrictions of say 50-60%, we can treat them with medication and diet, and after a few hours we’ll send you home...my name is Dr. V, do you have any questions?”
No, sounds good, I said.
He continued.
“If we see any restrictions upwards of 70%, we’ll insert a stent that will open up the artery and allow the blood to flow more freely, in which case we’ll keep you here overnight...my name is Dr. V, do you have any questions?”
The smart-ass in me wanted to say, “Yes, I have a question - what was your name again?”
I didn’t.
I bit my tongue.
No, sounds good, I said.
“Alright then, we’ll get started shortly...my name is Dr. V if you have any questions...”
Got it, Dr. V.
Looking back, I should have asked, “So what if you see something worse than 70%? What then Dr. V?”
But I didn’t ask because that answer wasn’t an option on my radar.
I just assumed my worst case scenario would be the 70% solution - a stent, an overnight, and home.
“We’re done”, said the doctor.
“There’s too much damage to fix with a stent...”
Bright, white lights, lots of bright, lots of white, and silver.
Lots of silver.
And silence.
Lots of silence.
He may have said more, but I don’t remember.
Fentanyl and shock are a numbingly disquieting combination.
It was a long, quiet roll back to my room.
Dr. V returned and thoughtfully and thoroughly shared my angiogram findings.
One artery is restricted enough so that other arteries are compensating and carrying the weight.
Another artery is similarly damaged.
And the main artery to my heart, in Dr. V’s words, “shows significant damage”.
He paused.
Respecting the silence that hung like a curtain in the room, he said, “My name is Dr. V, and I’ll be here if you have any questions...”
I’ve never been a fan of platitudes, slogans, or religious lingo to fix chaos and disorder in the house.
They always seem to mute the very real human element of emotion.
24 hours into finding out I’m facing open heart, triple bypass surgery - conditions that have been smoldering inside for some time now, but ramped up and most likely exacerbated by my is it or isn’t it Covid-19 personal hell - the range of emotions have been gargantuan.
Resigned, scared, pissed, numb, anxious, angry and tired are just a few that come to mind.
2020 has been a rugged year for just about everyone.
It’s been rugged in our house since January.
Emotions run raw, as they should.
My son posted this on one of his social media accounts yesterday (FYI if swearing offends you or goes against some perceived religiosity, then just skip this quote):
“Been a little while here but here’s an update on my dad. In a nutshell, angiogram today showed he needs triple bypass surgery. I’ll just cut to the chase and be the one to say what’s really on all our minds: 2020 can fuck off...”
Well played son, well played.
24 hours into this next bizarre chapter of my life, I do know this - I have a strong faith, a loving supportive family, a very good woman by my side, and a loyal band of comrades I call friends who are ready, willing and able to walk through this with me.
I read this quote the other day.
I liked it.
I guess it is sort of a platitude.
Oh well.
“You need to be buried deep in the dirt before you can find your bloom...”
Okay then, bring it on.
Let the burying continue.
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