My Heart Wears Crutches

5/24/2010

 Last fall I had a repeat Echogram to see if my failing heart was getting any better. It was. 

It was doing so well in fact that I begged and pleaded with the cardiologist to discontinue my heart medication. 

“Why,” she asked me in her perfectly measured vocal tone, “would you ever want to get off the very drugs that are saving your life?” 

You might think this question would cause me to ponder. It did not. “Because, “ I said using my most earnest-I’m-a-reasonable-woman-but-I-need-you-to-see-it-my-way-voice, “the medication makes my ears ring and my legs feel like lead. Sometimes the ringing gets so bad it feels as if I have a whole symphony percussion section in my head with wind chimes and everything.” I knew I had overstated my case but I was feeling desperate. I wanted off these drugs. 

And then I waited. She looked through my chart. And I waited. She went back to her computer screen. And I waited. 

Finally she spoke. “I am willing to reduce the dosage, but that’s all. If you get symptomatic again everything goes back to your original dosage schedule.”

The news made me so happy I almost hugged her, but the look on her face told a simple “Thank You,” would suffice.  

She let out a deep sigh as she closed my chart and said, “Call me if you have any problems, and sooner rather than later would be better for both of us.”

I left her office in an almost altered state of well-being. The drugs were working! There had even been a dosage reduction. What happened to me and my heart had just been a freak thing and now it was all going to be behind me. I was going to be normal again.

I enrolled in writing classes at UCLA and started making weekly treks down to the campus. I loved the classes. The instructors were great and the energy of campus was contagious. The ringing in my ears diminished and I could think again. My legs no longer felt like they were stuck in glue and life was good. Even the Los Angeles freeway traffic didn’t bother me. 

Three months later as I dashed to catch a pedestrian green light on the corner of  Westwood and Wilshire, I ran out of air before I made it across the street. I stood at the corner sucking air, on the edge of panic, and prayed. “Please God, Please. I want more than three months.”  

It was not to be.

By the end of the week the enormous cardiac “thuds” that were with me when I was first diagnosed came back and this time with surprising ferocity.  And still I didn’t call the cardiologist. 

Two more weeks passed. Two weeks of fighting for air. Two more weeks of feeling my heart throw extra beats. Two more weeks to get myself ready to accept the inevitable. I made the phone call only after I knew I could live with the diagnoses but I couldn’t live without the medication. 

I have now finally accepted that I am officially a cardiac patient and with the acceptance comes an understanding. I understand that my heart wears crutches and it’s not the worst thing in the world.   Even if it was a fluke thing that happened it is here to stay. The side effects have returned but there is little that can be done. And I’m pretty much okay with that, too. 

I have now left Southern CA and once more returned to our summer Northern CA lake house with my new realization. My diagnoses probably means my legs won’t carry me through another summer of waterskiing but this begging and pleading thing seems to work pretty well for me and I think I’ve pretty much got my husband convinced. An inflatable trampoline for the lake just might be the ticket for a summer-fun-for- everyone, and if we get it, I’m going to be the first one to jump in because I know the water’s going to be just fine.