The Power Of Positivity

“All my hopes and dreams are gone.”

That is what Patrick told me this morning. He had what he believes was a small v-tach before leaving the hotel for the airport. It’s the first one since the ablation.

He is so disappointed. He is praying it was a twinge; just part of the healing process. But deep down he believes it was a v-tach, and the ablation failed.

I know he also had high hopes that somehow the ablation would help his stomach issues. The last time he weighed himself at home he was 161lbs. While that is a healthy weight for someone who is 5 feet, seven inches tall, the fact that he has lost 55lbs in six months with no end in sight is disheartening, and he hates it.

He did well during the time he spent in the hospital recovering. He ate salmon and yogurt, both of which would have been impossible before he left.

But he also wasn’t moving, and he likely still had a bit of pain medicine affecting him. He told me this morning he had an egg and a piece of sausage, and any activity after eating still causes great discomfort. This time the cardiologist said he would write a referral for a gastrointestinal specialist. That appointment can’t come soon enough.

For the last couple of years it has felt like our family is in a state of flux. The constants in our lives are outside forces that we cling to - friends. Family. Church. Offered prayers. When this ablation felt like “fixing” Patrick could be too good to be true - really, what other option did we have but to hope and dream?

Patrick’s positivity is astonishing at times. Sometimes it’s a front for when he is feeling really hopeless. But often it’s probably the only thing that gets our family through. His positivity is like a lifeline. His statement this morning about his hopes and dreams being gone made me cry later, when I told a friend about what he said.

If our family was a mobile, Patrick would be the cross beam at the top. He is our anchor and our support. And I am the strings, held up by his strength but fully supporting the physical and emotional wellbeing of our kids, who hang at the ends of my sanity.

A gentleman came into our shop a couple days ago who was probably ten or fifteen years older than Patrick. He said when men watch their elders, and sometimes their siblings or cousins or friends, die for any reason, they often look at the world in terms of expiration dates. When will it be their turn? If so-and-so died at 60, will I make it to that age? Are my days numbered?

I explained that while Patrick may be preoccupied with similar thoughts, he has turned that outlook on its head. His favorite, morbid, go-to joke is, “I’ve got them beat.” Every day he prays he lives longer than his mom. 84. 85. 86. This fall he will be praying he makes it to 87. Lofty goals for someone who is expected to get a heart transplant in the next couple of years, but we all know what the alternative mindset is. And dwelling on our expiration dates, wishing they were printed on the outside edge of our left heel, is simply not healthy.

The power of positivity is indeed powerful. Never forget that. Be the ray of sunshine that Patrick is, and feel that power in your hearts, because a young, vibrant love of life is invaluable.

I will write an update again soon.

* Photo by KTVF *

Ablation Update

I wanted to update everyone after Patrick's procedure yesterday.

The ablation didn't go as planned. Do you remember when he had the treadmill stress test and his heart refused to malfunction? I swear, his heart is like a little toddler and does the opposite of what we want it to.

During the ablation the doctors couldn't get Patrick's heart to go into v-tach. While normally this wouldn’t be a bad thing, it prevented the doctors from being able to pinpoint exactly where they needed to perform the ablation.

I’m not certain on the specifics but I know they did the best they could. I believe they went over the scars from the previous ablation and possibly added new spots that they could see might be causing trouble.

Now for the bad stuff.

Because they couldn’t get his heart to malfunction under anesthesia, they woke Patrick up. He was strapped to the table and unable to move while they apologized to him and said they needed to keep him awake. Their hope was that the stress of feeling the pain and knowing what was happening to him would induce v-tach, but it didn’t. All it did was cause Patrick to feel an unimaginable amount of pain.

He was in pain for quite a while, including the two entry points they used on either side of his groin. But he refused pain medicine after a few hours and has since eaten and has been discharged from the hospital.

Patrick is back at the hotel now and will be coming home tomorrow just after 4pm. He hasn’t had any palpitations or v-tachs, so only time will tell how successful the doctors were.

Thank you for all the prayers and well wishes!

Musings

Please forgive my double posting. But I wrote this just after it happened, and the scene was so real, so raw and honest, that I wanted to share it with you.

I may write more of these. I feel the need to lay it bare before you - this journey and all aspects of it; to be brutally honest in the fight we have never experienced, because most of you are likely also as in the dark as we were/are. 

It helps me cope, and I hope in some way it helps all of you. One day these posts may be your story, or someone you love. You guys know how vivacious and good-humored Patrick can be. He was that way on his good days, and until recently he was like that on his bad days. 

Although Patrick is an enigma - a bit rough around the edges but with a heart of gold - it's a fact that anyone around you could have similar struggles (or entirely different but just as painful and traumatizing) to what he has endured. 

You never know, so please be kind. 

***

The time on my phone says 12:34am. Just after midnight. I'm leaning against the bathroom door jam while Patrick gets ready for bed. Although I'm done, something tells me to stay. He didn't ask and I didn't explain. 

We both know how sick he is. How fragile life is in general. We both know what is happening inside his chest that shouldn't be happening, and what's not happening that should. 

But I watch him, taking in the tiny, multiplying details that discourage him. 

His shoulders are thin, devoid of softness. Still the only shoulders I want to rest my head on after a long day.

The skin on his neck is loose, covered by the beard I have been asking him to grow for 17 years. 

I watch as he performs mundane tasks - takes his dentures out, peels the old glue off. 

He says, "Thanks for watching over me," but he doesn't stop what he's doing. He needs to finish; needs to get in bed. 

But as he leans over to drop the old glue into the waste basket he haphazardly aims for the opening, missing the mark, and quickly stands back up.

"Leaning over makes it worse," he says with a grimace. His hands clutch at his stomach. "Pins and needles," he says, giving me a worried glance. "It's like my stomach is wrapped in pins and needles."

He resumes getting ready for bed as I watch, noting the thinness of his arms and legs, the skin on his lower belly that just months ago held a soft layer of fat. He looks small. Frail. 

"What are you?" I ask, because I never quite understand the magnitude of his symptoms. How could I? They are intensely felt internally, yet only vaguely detected externally. "On a scale…"

My prompt makes him wince.

"Eight," he says, but his thin face reveals it may be higher. He clutches at his stomach again, as though he wishes he could squeeze it like a wet washcloth, watching the pain and torment drip off his hands. I wish it too, and look on, helpless.