Flatlined

I flatlined yesterday. Instead of getting into a chemo armchair I was wheel-chaired directly into ER with a pulse of 192. I had been putting up with this annoyance for three hours, trying to lower the rate with my own devices so that I wouldn’t miss my chemo appointment: holding my breath and bearing down; sitting in Marg’s cold storage, and drinking ice water. Nothing worked. I’ve had my heart race like this before, but the tachycardia has always gone away on its own, no problem. But not today.  So in Emerg, they put ANOTHER IV line in, so now I had one in each arm, and they gave me a whale of a drug. The bald-headed, cheerful doctor warned me, “You are going to feel like you are choking,” (he actually put his hands around his throat like someone was strangling him), “like someone is squeezing you too hard, and then it will be over.” Easy enough for him to say! 

According to Robert, who was watching the heart monitor, they flat-lined me for 9 seconds, protesting the whole time, I'M PASSING OUT! I'M PASSING OUT!" “No,” the doctor kept patting my arm (I think they teach this in doctor school now, because all the ER doctors do this) assuring me in that calm doctor voice, “I would not lie to you (HAH!). You will be fine.”  And I was. I am.  The doctor found out I am not covered by OHIP and added, “AND I am not billing you for this today. AND I am going to set up an appointment with a cardiologist within the next ten days and you will have an ablation (i.e. heart surgery) soon, AND you can go back now and still get your chemo.” I was in and out of Emerg in 30 minutes. I had to look out the window to see if the cornfields were still there, because I couldn’t believe it was Canada. And who ever said angels can’t be bald?

But it gets better. I’m back in the chemo suite in 30 minutes! They can’t believe their eyes. This just isn’t possible, they say. HAH! The doctor, who, I kid you not, I have now seen four times and he is still wearing the brown and blue and whoever said angels can’t wear brown and blue together, says that surely I have set the record for the fastest turn around in ER ever: Admission-check. New IV line-check. Flatlining, strangling drug-check. EKG-check. IV line out-check. “OK, you can go, and yes you can walk this time.” So I wonder why I am being made to see the doctor again when I just saw him 30 minutes ago, and I plead with Dr. Brown-and-Blue to let me get to the chemo, and he says, “WAIT! HOLD YOUR HORSES! I’m TRYING TO DO SOMETHING FOR YOU HERE.”  He must be Mennonite Dutch or something. Real blunt. I like him. So because I now have a heart condition J, which yes, is going to require surgery at some point, I am now eligible for…the American treatment plan I had wanted all along! That miracle drug, along with less chemo, less side effects, and no more of this dose-dense stuff with its eight shots of growth hormone (me at 54 suffering from growing pains. HAH) Now I only go in every three weeks, starting again today, and should have more good days. This is just what I had wanted all along.

I don’t deserve this. I didn't even ask for this. I had one prayer: “God, just don’t let my mind cloud. Don’t let me go dark into depression where I can’t write, can’t think straight.” I mean if he needs me to go dark, then I will, and he’ll still be there even if I drop out. I don’t know what he needs me to go through. I simply ask. He understands, and takes it under advisement, and I’m good with that. But I think what happened yesterday was a kind of answer to my praying, and to the  praying of my retreat sisters. And I am glad, and I think I’m learning something: if you don’t insist on what God has to do, if you just wait and see what he does do, it’s scarier, but sometimes turn out better than you expected, and you are surprised, and grateful. It make a good story, and, as it turns out, being a literature teacher and all, I like good stories.