Counting chickens

It paid off to have a babysitter for my phone. I got an appointment to see a heart surgeon in Hamilton (that was last week), and Monday I go in for an ablation (that bit where they burn a tiny bit of your heart to form scar tissue that can no longer short circuit and set your heart to beating double time). My doctor had the slightest accent and a last name that hinted of Spanish, and sure enough, he’s Argentinian. He said that four out of five of the doctors on his team at that hospital are Hispanic. Been here for ten years or something. We had the consult in Argentinian Spanish, and the doctor congratulated us on our accents (me especially J).

Interesting to hear his perspective on the procedure. While Dr. Cynical was warning me that the ablation has risks, isn’t reversible, could lead to needing a pace maker, etc, and saying that I could choose to stay on my medication forever, Dr. Argentinian was quite cheerful about the procedure. “You were born with this defective spot in your heart,” he said, drawing a diagram on a piece of paper for me. “It lets the electrical current double back on itself instead of going all the way through from top to bottom. We can take care of that for you.” Piece of cake, basically…should have come in ages ago, as far as he was concerned. He assured me that the risks are very low, and that he hasn’t ever seen a death result from the procedure during all his time practicing at that hospital (the General). Much different attitude than Dr. Cynical who can sound dire when he wants to (which is often).

So Monday I go in for pre-op at 9:30 and the procedure is done at 2. They will put a catheter in my neck and in my leg and reach for the heart. The doctor said something about an “IV induced anesthesia,” though what I read online didn’t include a general anesthesia. And they don’t even have to stop my heart. Whew. Easy peasy (unless there is something they aren’t telling me, which wouldn’t surprise me). I come home the same day. Meanwhile I have to stay off my beta blocker and hope nothing sends me to Emergency before Monday morning. I know a few other people who have had this done, and they are still alive and well, so I think I’m ok.

So after Monday, I can get in a sauna or a Jacuzzi.  I can run when it’s muggy outside (hypothetically speaking). I can do exercises that have me put my head below my knees. I can drink coffee with caffeine in it. I can drive through Vail, Colorado, and stop to walk around. I can swim without having to take a time out after ever lap. I can go to weddings without worrying my medication will go home in another car. I can go back to Mexico without wondering if there are bald doctors with heart-stopping medicine nearby. Yay.

Slowly, we’re dealing with the chemo side-effects and getting ready to go home. One issue down, a few more to go. If only they were all dealt with as quickly and as cheerfully as this one (or am I counting some chickens here). My next appointment is with a rheumatologist to see what to do about the inflammation in my joints that makes me look like I’m walking through molasses when I first get up. What to do about frozen thumbs. I met a woman in a breast cancer support group (more about that later) who was saying her doctor had the gall to tell her, “Lady, you’re aging, you know.”  She protested. I would, too. Listen, doc. Yes. I’m 55. Very, very old. That’s why my joints are frozen. It certainly has nothing to do with that poison they put in your veins that rots your stomach, your blood cells, your nails, and your teeth, and your hair, and your tendons. 

I’ve been in a number of seminars and lectures now, aiming at helping me deal with my journey with cancer. As another lady put it in my group, “I am never going to wear a T-shirt that says I survived cancer. Nope. Mine is going to say, “I survived cancer TREATMENT.” I know exactly how she feels. Sometimes I think the people that need a seminar or lecture are the doctors.