September. September? SEPTEMBER. Oh God, September. I asked Patrick a few days ago, "When you decide to go to Washington, will you please give me ample notice?" He blurted out, "September." It turns out he had also recently been thinking about it. The whole scenario of making this choice to go to Washington for a transplant feels eerily similar to what a terminal cancer patient might go through. Pursue treatment and *maybe* extend your life? Or forgo treatment and enjoy what's left? Although, the treatment Patrick is going for is a win/lose treatment. He either wins or he loses. There is no "attempting" a heart transplant. No chemo to bandage a failed attempt. If it fails, he's gone. Obviously there are no guarantees in this. Some days it feels like life is a game of Battleship and Patrick is laid out on one side of the board, waiting for the strikes that hit their target. B-6, miss. D-3, miss. F-7, direct hit. Ventricular tachycardia, "You've won four defibrillator shocks." Will the next miss its target, or hit it? Will it be cardiac arrest or a call that a heart is available? In this game of Battleship there is no cheating - no sneaking peaks at our opponent. They hold all the pieces and are the only one who gets to guess where their moves will hurt Patrick the most. These days our yoke is heavy. Sometimes I feel we bear our parts evenly, while at other times it changes. I can't imagine facing my own mortality. I can't imagine knowing the single most important organ in my body is failing me - that when it goes, I go, and I don't have the privilege to know exactly when that will be. At other times I feel my part is heavier than his, simply because I will be left behind if Patrick dies. He goes on to enjoy eternity and I'm left sad and alone to raise four kids, run our businesses, operate on a daily basis as though life can go on without my best friend by my side. Widow. Single mom. The thought terrifies me. These thoughts are never more concrete - never more intense or real - as they are after an event. And that happened this morning, just hours after I wrote the beginning draft to this blog post. Yesterday Patrick developed flu-like symptoms. Congestion. Body aches. Trouble breathing. He took two nebulizer treatments between 11pm and 4am, but they barely helped. His cough was bad; unproductive and painful. He said he was going to see a doctor this morning when he woke up. But I was downstairs this morning after putting our oldest on the school bus when I heard a coughing fit begin. I waited a few seconds to see if it would stop, because I wanted Patrick to have as much sleep as possible. It didn't stop, so I went up to see him. He coughed for several minutes and then sat up suddenly, saying something was going on with his heart. It didn't take long for him to tell me to call 911. I put the oxymeter on his finger and told the woman his heart rate was 150, but after several minutes it dropped below 100. She told me medics were on the way. They took him to the hospital. I found out later that he had another episode in the ambulance but it was short - 28 seconds compared to the 6-minute episode of this morning. When he arrived at the hospital he was fed and allowed to take his meds. He had fluid in his lungs but that started to go away while under their watch. The end diagnosis is that this happened because of the stress his body is under from this illness. The prescription? Rest, sleep, water. The kicker? He is still having v-tachs today and is scared. He almost wants to demand they keep him for observation. But I still have so many thoughts. I'm scared this will push our plans forward... Our plans - September. These episodes, his heart being paced out of v-tach, and defibrillator shocks all further damage and strain his heart. We had so many plans for this summer. Visiting grandkids, growing our shop, a Valdez road trip, painting our stairwell, renewing our marriage vows, and lots and lots of family videos and pictures. I can't see into our future and now I don't know what will happen and what won't. We will have to bump up our planning for the future. I have two plans that need to be fleshed out. The first one is for when he gets the transplant and comes home to recover. The other is for if he doesn't come home. Both will need written details, financial plans, resources contacted and aligned for ease of use. We have to talk about cardiac therapy and funeral plans. Lifelong medications, and what to do with his belongings. Plans for our future together, and therapy for the kids. Vacation plans and grief groups. I'm sure we will spend the next few months in varying states of feeling like we're drowning. It's very likely that in a few days Patrick will be back to our version of "normal" - caring for his clients, spending time with us, shopping for the pure joy of feeding his inner social butterfly. All while having a heart that probably resembles a 1987 Ford Tempo that was stripped for parts, run over by a monster truck, and then sunk to the bottom of a lake. You know what a car looks like that has been dragged out of the muck and mud after sitting there for decades? Unidentifiable green goo in its crevices, rusty and jagged holes, and maybe a skeleton or two... I imagine that's what Patrick's heart looks like. The doctors are going to remove it and Keith Richards is going to slither out. Maybe we could bring it home for show and tell in a vat of formaldehyde. Or not, since the cardiac center will probably want to study that anomaly and figure out how the broken, beat down organ managed to run Patrick The Positivity Powerhouse. As always, we want to thank you for your prayers, positive thoughts, and well wishes. Some days they are all that gets us through. That, and A&W root beer and chocolate - Patrick's two current addictions. When anything happens, I'll write about it here. He hasn't had a major episode since October, and God willing, it will be a while before he has any more. Stay safe, everyone!
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