Goals and shit.

Hello. I made a decision today. I made it in the car, and it took about 30 seconds of thinking about it to decide, so thank goodness it wasn’t super important, because I really didn’t put a lot of thought into it, but I decided to try blogging every day.

I used to do this, I think.

Anyway, since this is the first post of what will hopefully be many, let’s catch you up.

My heart is still beating, and sometimes it beats faster than my activity level would seem to warrant. My activity levels have been pretty low, so that’s how I can tell.

I have a follow up appointment with my cardiologist next week, but I have a feeling he’s just going to tell me to keep taking my meds and I should be fine. I mean what else is he going to tell me? I don’t think what’s going on with me is at the point where he’s going to recommend open-heart surgery or a pacemaker. Yes, Dr. Irene is in the house.

What I”m hoping he’s going to say is, your arteries aren’t clogged, you’re fairly young, and if you increase your exercise and lose 10-20 pounds, you’re going to be just fine. And stop eating so much melted butter on popcorn. And don’t eat popcorn every day. Or even every other day.

See? It’s all going to be a-ok.

I had asked my doctor if I could start seeing a therapist again, and instead of allowing me to do that, Kaiser decided that I am not broken enough for one-on-one therapy. So instead, I am in a 4-week group class. Actually, there are two, but I’m just doing one at a time. Let’s not go crazy in the self-help arena all at once. Surprisingly, I am enjoying it, and participating. And by participating, I mean, crying behind my mask every week. It’s okay, though, because no one can see me. I mean, who cares, right? The woman leading the class is a young, first-time mother, Latina (she has incredible hair; I hope she doesn’t go through what I went through and shed a ton of it by her baby’s first birthday and then end up with a Beatle haircut). Oh hey, she’s also a licensed clinical social worker, too.

As of today, my work schedule is now Tuesday through Friday, with every Monday off. I’m pleased with it so far but who can tell anything after just one day? I’ll be working in the office on Wednesdays and Fridays. Last week, someone was in the office with me for the first time, and that was a bit of a thrill for me. As I posted on Facebook, it was exciting to hear someone else rustling and walking around and talking on the phone to whom I am not married to or with whom I share DNA. I think we might be in the office together more often, and I’m happy about that. She seems nice.

I’ve been going to weekend flute choir on an almost weekly basis, and that’s been good for me. It’s fun to play with other people. Last week we played something from Bizet’s L’arlessienne that’s been arranged for four flutes, and Patty and I were on flutes 1 and 2 together. I didn’t actually cry, surprisingly, but playing flute 2 to her flute 1 and sounding relatively good enough to keep up and not ruin what she was doing was a bit of an emotional high point that day for me. That’s always been the place where I feel like I’m really learning something, or accomplishing something. Being able to support her beautiful sound with my own: that’s always been the goal.

Yesterday I took a walk, the first in weeks. Maybe I don’t have to spell it out, but if you’re wondering, yes, I do believe I may be a tad depressed. Okay, so that’s that, we don’t have to talk about it anymore. Yay! But on my way back from the walk, I passed by a house with a large window facing the street. An older woman was sitting in a chair just inside the window, and I caught her eye as I approached her house. She smiled at me, and waved, and I smiled at her and waved back, and just from that tiny interaction, I felt better than I have in days.

Anyway, Jules is having his drum lesson today and I’m sitting outside the drum room, clickety clacking on my laptop, and I’m trying to remember how that felt. His drum teacher is like 22 years old, and super enthusiastic and, frankly, adorable. When they’re playing together on the two kits in the drum room, his teacher periodically shouts out “Yeah!” and “Woo hoo” and I love it. I wish I was in there with them.

Is there an echo in here? Oh wait, that's me.

I had an echocardiogram today. The purpose was to assess my heart function (duh) since my visit to the ER.

On Monday, my cardiologist called me. I’ve been wearing a heart monitor for about two weeks, and my brother asked me on Sunday if I knew if it was being monitored remotely. I didn’t know, and didn’t think it was. He told me a story about a friend of his who was wearing one and who got a call from his cardiologist, who told him to go to the emergency room immediately.

I’m actually glad that I didn’t know mine was being monitored remotely, but on Monday, I found out that it is (“Andy was right” was a family text that got a lot of likes) when my cardiologist called me. He told me that my monitor has recorded more episodes of a fast heart beat, and he told me to increase my medication. He said that there may be signs of atrial fibrillation (in my initial appointment with him he scoffed at the ER doctor who diagnosed a-fib and told me I “only” had atrial tachycardia). I reminded him that I was scheduled for an echocardiogram on Wednesday, which of course I’m sure he already knew. He talked to me generally about my options but said he would know more after the echocardiogram. I’m scheduled to meet with him (a video appointment) in early July, but he wants to make it an in-person appointment. Okie dokie, Doc, whatever you say. So I guess the thing to do now is just wait for the results of the echocardiogram, however long that takes.

I’ve had a sonogram before, and the echocardiogram is similar to that, because it uses sound. I’m no genius: the woman performing the exam told me this. Except instead of the joy of getting to hear your teeny-tiny baby, you get to hear… your own heart, which I guess is also kind of joyful: hey, it’s working!

My apparently newly lopsided heart wasn’t audible for the entire test, which is probably a good thing. The exam itself wasn’t that bad, but it is uncomfortable. I had to strip from the waist up, put on a gown (open to the front; why is this always so traumatic?), and lie on an exam table. The technician turned down the lights in the room (“Do you have any questions,” she asked. “Yes. Why did you turn off the lights,” I said. “Because this test needs dim light.” I thought it was to help me relax, but okay, that makes sense). She used this hard plastic wand thing and some gel and rubbed it around on me, mostly around my upper left chest area. At the end she placed it lower, near my stomach. I don’t know why. She used quite a bit of pressure but it wasn’t painful. She would periodically instruct me to stop breathing, and then, a few seconds later, to breathe.

I had to roll onto my left side. I am assuming my boobs were in the way but there may be another anatomical reason for this. She covered me with a white terry cloth towel. With her arm leaning over me, she created kind of a warm little cocoon for me, which I appreciated, though I don’t think that was on purpose. She wasn’t motherly or warm in her manner. She wasn’t cold either; she was just doing her job. Making me feel safe wasn’t part of the bargain. The joke’s on one of us, though, because she kind of did it inadvertently anyway.

She told me before we started that the test would take about 10-15 minutes, and she must be right, but I kind of of lost track of time. Maybe that’s the other purpose for the dark room. Every once in a while she would click her keyboard and tell me to stop breathing or breathe, and I could hear my heart beating.

It doesn’t sound like a ticking clock or a metronome. It’s a whoosh-y kind of rhythmic sound. When it was my baby, I told people it sounded like a washing machine. I think that’s still close. I was listening for anomalies, which of course I would have no way of recognizing. My heart didn’t sound normal, but how would I know?

I was thinking about this the other day. It’s not meant to be deep or anything, it’s just that it occurred to me, maybe for the first time since all this happened. We can make ourselves stop breathing, but the heart (you know the words) goes on. I mean, it does its thing until it can’t do it anymore, and if you’re not paying attention, you might not even notice when it stops. YOU just stop. And until then, you just GO. Now all of a sudden I’m aware of this thing in my chest, beating away, beating too fast or irregularly. And that at some point it’s going to stop.

I’ve felt my heart break, but that’s emotions. What is this? Mechanical?

My doctor hasn’t really talked to me yet about things I can do to help myself (diet and exercise, for example). On the phone he mentioned some options but until he looks at the echocardiogram, those options are just theoretical at this point. They were, to increase my current medication (which we did); to try different medication (which have side effects). He also mentioned something called “ablation,” and I guess that’s surgical. Again: this part was theoretical and doesn’t necessarily reflect my actual treatment plan. But when it comes to that point I hope me and this guy make a good decision.

I’m not scared. Ha ha, yes I am.

Things happen.

Two weeks ago I was driving home on the freeway from a mini-flute choir rehearsal, and at about Rosecrans, started to feel lightheaded and nauseous. Also, I started to cry.

I wasn’t in the fast lane (hello, Prius) but I didn’t think remaining on the freeway was a good idea, and so, having missed the Rosecrans exit entirely, decided to get off at Inglewood.

I pulled into a gas station, turned off the car, and sat there.

My Apple watch heart app was kind of going crazy, and I was definitely feeling weird. I know “weird” is not that descriptive but what was happening to me was weird. I texted my husband and told him where I was and why, and he wanted me to come home, but something didn’t feel right.

Let me say that I have had this “weird” feeling before, but not when I was driving. I ignored it those other times, and eventually, it went away.

I sat for a few more minutes, and then I decided to go to Urgent Care, which I knew was nearby.

At Urgent Care, I was checked out by a PA who had an accent a little bit like Mare Sheehan of East Town. I think her name was Jen. She sent me to the lab for some bloodwork and hooked me up to a machine to check out my heart.

When I was at the lab having the blood drawn, I realized I had become my dad. This is based on the corniness of the conversation I had with the technician:

“So, you must be an expert at this right,” I asked.

The tech looked at me and smiled (I could tell by her eyes). “Of course I am,” she said.

“Because let’s be honest, nobody wants their blood drawn by a beginner, right?”

It’s possible my dad would have done that with more charm, but whatever, I was still freaked out that I was even there in the first place.

Jen told me that she wanted me to go to the ER because my heart rate was kind of erratic, and she wanted them to monitor me for awhile. She told me that I could get in my car and drive up the street to the ER; apparently she had assessed that I was well enough to drive. Why the ER isn’t within walking distance to Urgent Care is curious to me, but she seemed confident that I could do it.

When I got there, I had to wait a little while, and I also had to pee. Though the ER waiting room wasn’t crowded at all, for some reason my brain decided to skip past reading the sign on the door, so I ended up in the men’s room, which I only realized upon leaving (it was empty) because my eyes focused on the urinal. A woman waiting outside in the hallway looked at me funny, but whatever, dude, it was clean and empty.

When they got me into a room at the ER, I was helped by a very sweet male nurse named Ty. Ty hooked me up to the heart monitor and showed me how to change the channel on the TV (a baseball game was on); I found the Food Network. He explained everything that he was doing, and he spoke with me in exactly the way you want an ER nurse to talk to you. When Ty’s shift ended, another male nurse named Dave, also very sweet, took over. I think I hit the lottery with nurses that night. (Later when I went back to the hospital for an appointment with the cardiologist, I went to the ER and wrote a note about both Ty and Dave, and thanked them for the way they took care of me that night.)

I watched the show “Beat Bobby Flay,” listened to the goings-on in the rest of the ER, though Dave told me it was a slow night, and watched the heart monitor fluctuate, for about 3 hours. One of the tests they gave me was to see if I had indeed had a heart attack. Dave said if I’d come in the night before, I would’ve had to wait a really long time for a bed. I’m glad that didn’t happen.

After a while, an ER doctor came to talk to me. He looked at my test, and determined that I had not had a heart attack. He wasn’t as cool as the nurses, and he made a couple of statements that, when later I met with a cardiologist, turned out to be false, but I don’t think he was a heart specialist and so I am not holding it against him too much.

Since then, I have been outfitted with a heart monitor that I am going to wear for a month, and prescribed medicine. The doctors don’t seem panicked, and though I am worried, I don’t think I am either. There is certainly a history of heart stuff in my family, but I have also been extremely sedentary and possibly not eating the healthiest diet (though a month ago I had my cholesterol checked out and though it wasn’t perfect, it didn’t make anyone cry).

I’m almost 50. I made it a long time without any medical emergencies.

Look at me.

[This post was started in October and due to my chronic case of ennui, I haven’t gotten around to finishing it until now, six months later.]

In this infernal year of 2020, I have, as have most people, I think, attended my share of Zoom and Microsoft Teams meetings. MS Teams is the system we use at work, but we Zoom for parent/teacher stuff for my kid.

It has been suggested to me, from a few separate places, that those of us who choose to leave our cameras on for these meetings are suffering from a major case of narcissism. (“Meeting Boy” on Twitter takes a humorous look at workplace foibles, and he seems to agree with this assessment. His tweet on this was along the lines of, Hey, you’re not as hot as you think you are! Turn off the camera!).

The thing is, I leave my camera on because I want to be seen. Not because I’m so pretty (you may consider yourself lucky if you catch sight of me with blow-dried hair and eyeliner, but either with or without a touch of makeup, I’m pretty basic). I leave it on because, in these meetings, I want to SEE YOU. I want to look at your face. I need that. And how can I know if you need it too? I don’t. I’m sorry if this makes me seem conceited. But there is nothing good about these meetings unless the gallery shows your little face. If you don’t want to see me then there are ways around that on your end. But consider it, would you?

I started writing this post in November 2020, and since then, I’ve read a couple of articles about why we should keep our cameras on for online meetings. Not just to be “professional,” but for our mental health. Additionally, my supervisor informed us that we are also required to keep the camera on, to maintain the high level of customer service our unit is required to provide (though this puzzles me because based on my interactions with other units, no one else is being held to this same standard). So I keep my camera on. I haven’t invested in one of those ring lights (though I have considered it), and I am still wearing sweat pants and a hoodie (or a dress… and a hoodie) pretty much every day, and generally, the lowest level of whatever I’m reaching for is “clean…”

I keep my camera on. I am here. So are you. Let’s look at each other.