The Angiogram − 9 July, 2007
Ever since my first dog, Ruff, back in 1974, my family has always had pets. My Mom has rescued a lot of stray cats over the years. Since we've seen so many, the family likes to give out unusual names: Smokey Joe for instance, or Hateful Harriet. (She was actually a very nice cat . . . to humans, anyway. To other cats . . . not so nice).
Well, the latest addition to the family was Skunk.
You may have seen the Pepé le Pew cartoons from a few years back. Well, Skunk may be misnamed -- she actually looks more like Pepé's would-be girlfriend, Penelope (see skunk's photo below). Of course, that's the least of her problems -- Mom and Dad insist on referring to her as 'he'.
The evening before, Dad and I had returned home from the hospital. Today would be Mom's angiogram.
We had lots of things to do at the house. By Monday morning, Mom had been in the hospital for two full days and change. Dad had been making trips back home to feed Skunk, wash clothes, and in general keep the household running.
I'd like to say I helped out a lot, but after Sunday's drive and the stress of the situation, I was a zombie. I put on my CPAP mask that night and the world vanished.
Dad and I got up early. We knew Mom would be worrying about the procedure, so we wanted to be there. We couldn't be there too early, however, because the nurses were going to be in to shave her leg (where the catheter would be inserted). For some reason, they were planning to do this at 5 or 6 am.
On the way up to the hospital, we passed through Chickamauga Battlefield. When I lived in LaFayette, the main route north to Ft. Oglethorpe (and the hospital) was Highway 27, which passed right through the park. However, because of the effect of the traffic on the park (and, no doubt, the 35 mph speed limit), there's now a bypass. Without the load of traffic, the park has actually become a haven for deer: we saw dozens as we drove through. (I took a photo -- park, below -- in which you can see a deer and one of the monuments).
The funny thing is, that park is something my entire family has seen for years. There are all sorts of family stories about it. The one I remember every time is about the Florida memorial (photo below).
When my Mom was little girl, she was driving through the park with her grandparents. If you look inside that memorial [admittedly, the picture's kind of dark -- that's dawn you see in the background], there's a statue of someone, presumably a soldier, holding a gun. Mom's grandparents told her that every night, the park staff had to take him down so he could go pee.
Dad and I made it to the hospital, and now came the hard part -- the waiting, the anticipation. I knew, watching that video, that if it were me, there was no way I'd even vaguely be calm -- thinking about someone sticking a wire up me like some sort of cardiac roto-rooter. Apparently there are reasons they need you conscious while they do the procedure. But as for me -- no way. Knock me out or forget about it.
I should mention, also, that we had some great support at the hospital. My cousin Fredna actually works in the imaging center -- in fact, she'd be helping out during the procedure. All through Mom's stay, Fredna helped make sure we knew what was going on and what to expect.
Mom went in at about 10 am. We were left waiting in a tiny room in the imaging center.
Frightening, this. I worried that the catheter would actually knock something loose in there, and we'd move right from chest pains to stroke or heart attack. More likely was bad news from the tests. Mom's brother had bypass surgery at about the same age; her father died from a heart attack at about the same age. I was expecting the report I've heard before, about my grandmother -- 80 or 90% blockage and open heart surgery.
Things don't usually come to happy endings. I expect the worst, not because I'm a pessimist, but because of empirical results.
But this time, I got a data point from the other result column.
The doctor called us in while Mom was recovering. The catheter goes in through an artery, and arterial bleeding is a whole different ball game -- Mom had to be under close observation for about an hour, then would have to lie still for five more hours after that.
Dr. Mills showed us a diagram of Mom's heart. Unbelievably, she had only 20% blockage in both of the major arteries.
No bypass.
I relaxed.
But, then: what was the problem? Why the shortness of breath and chest pains? Why didn't anything show up on the tests?
Before this happened, my parents had been on a long car trip, to San Antonio for Dad's HMM-265 reunion. Apparently blood clots can be caused by long car trips. My theory is that this is where it all started.
When they went her doctor the Thursday before, she'd been put on blood thinners. Dr. Mills said he saw a "shadow" on one of the angiogram views. This could be where a clot had formed, but had been mostly broken up by the medicine.
Mom would be okay.
Well, the latest addition to the family was Skunk.
You may have seen the Pepé le Pew cartoons from a few years back. Well, Skunk may be misnamed -- she actually looks more like Pepé's would-be girlfriend, Penelope (see skunk's photo below). Of course, that's the least of her problems -- Mom and Dad insist on referring to her as 'he'.
The evening before, Dad and I had returned home from the hospital. Today would be Mom's angiogram.
We had lots of things to do at the house. By Monday morning, Mom had been in the hospital for two full days and change. Dad had been making trips back home to feed Skunk, wash clothes, and in general keep the household running.
I'd like to say I helped out a lot, but after Sunday's drive and the stress of the situation, I was a zombie. I put on my CPAP mask that night and the world vanished.
Dad and I got up early. We knew Mom would be worrying about the procedure, so we wanted to be there. We couldn't be there too early, however, because the nurses were going to be in to shave her leg (where the catheter would be inserted). For some reason, they were planning to do this at 5 or 6 am.
On the way up to the hospital, we passed through Chickamauga Battlefield. When I lived in LaFayette, the main route north to Ft. Oglethorpe (and the hospital) was Highway 27, which passed right through the park. However, because of the effect of the traffic on the park (and, no doubt, the 35 mph speed limit), there's now a bypass. Without the load of traffic, the park has actually become a haven for deer: we saw dozens as we drove through. (I took a photo -- park, below -- in which you can see a deer and one of the monuments).
The funny thing is, that park is something my entire family has seen for years. There are all sorts of family stories about it. The one I remember every time is about the Florida memorial (photo below).
When my Mom was little girl, she was driving through the park with her grandparents. If you look inside that memorial [admittedly, the picture's kind of dark -- that's dawn you see in the background], there's a statue of someone, presumably a soldier, holding a gun. Mom's grandparents told her that every night, the park staff had to take him down so he could go pee.
Dad and I made it to the hospital, and now came the hard part -- the waiting, the anticipation. I knew, watching that video, that if it were me, there was no way I'd even vaguely be calm -- thinking about someone sticking a wire up me like some sort of cardiac roto-rooter. Apparently there are reasons they need you conscious while they do the procedure. But as for me -- no way. Knock me out or forget about it.
I should mention, also, that we had some great support at the hospital. My cousin Fredna actually works in the imaging center -- in fact, she'd be helping out during the procedure. All through Mom's stay, Fredna helped make sure we knew what was going on and what to expect.
Mom went in at about 10 am. We were left waiting in a tiny room in the imaging center.
Frightening, this. I worried that the catheter would actually knock something loose in there, and we'd move right from chest pains to stroke or heart attack. More likely was bad news from the tests. Mom's brother had bypass surgery at about the same age; her father died from a heart attack at about the same age. I was expecting the report I've heard before, about my grandmother -- 80 or 90% blockage and open heart surgery.
Things don't usually come to happy endings. I expect the worst, not because I'm a pessimist, but because of empirical results.
But this time, I got a data point from the other result column.
The doctor called us in while Mom was recovering. The catheter goes in through an artery, and arterial bleeding is a whole different ball game -- Mom had to be under close observation for about an hour, then would have to lie still for five more hours after that.
Dr. Mills showed us a diagram of Mom's heart. Unbelievably, she had only 20% blockage in both of the major arteries.
No bypass.
I relaxed.
But, then: what was the problem? Why the shortness of breath and chest pains? Why didn't anything show up on the tests?
Before this happened, my parents had been on a long car trip, to San Antonio for Dad's HMM-265 reunion. Apparently blood clots can be caused by long car trips. My theory is that this is where it all started.
When they went her doctor the Thursday before, she'd been put on blood thinners. Dr. Mills said he saw a "shadow" on one of the angiogram views. This could be where a clot had formed, but had been mostly broken up by the medicine.
Mom would be okay.
skunk
park
florida
Comments:
cankuzo (July 16, 2007. 01:50am)
skunk is adorable. And you are a good son.
kga245 (July 18, 2007. 05:40pm)
I'm glad this ended well.
bmccosar (July 18, 2007. 06:05pm)
Thanks, Kelly -- and the odd thing is, writing about it helped get it out of my system.
kga245 (July 18, 2007. 06:23pm)
Glad to hear it.
Electronic Goose (July 19, 2007. 01:31am)
Wow. What a relief that all ended well. I'm glad to hear it.