I Could Swear I’ve Seen This One Before

The 80’s were known as the “Me” decade.  I’d like to start referring to this one as the “Anybody But Me” decade, because I am beginning to feel royally pissed at what’s been happening to my body.  Which if it were a car would be a Yugo.

As you know I had the ablation on Friday, and was starting to slowly feel better with each passing day.  But on Monday my breath had become increasingly shallow, and by this morning I’d get winded if I jumped to a conclusion.  So I called the electrophysiologist who essentially told me to “come in now.”  Which I damnrightly did.

After performing an EKG (and lo and behold it turns out that is NOT the same thing as an electrocardiogram so now I don’t know what those letters stand for) the doctor came in and told me that I was back in afib!  He couldn’t have told me I was back on Singer Island?  That I could accept.  But no, I wasn’t imagining things I really had irregular heartbeat.  He asked me if I’d been feeling it and I said yes but thought it couldn’t be because we’d just successfully gotten rid of it I’d even read the report on line so what the hell??!

It turns out that the act of ablation itself - which is like a burning off - can cause some inflammation that recreates the irregular rhythm, as afib is caused by some funky arterial structuring.  And in some cases that restructuring can require what they call a cardio version, which means they zap your heart back into its proper rhythm.  I’d swear I’m getting a medical degree by osmosis here.  Of course I’m in that small subgroup of ablation patients, but the good news is I don’t need another ablation and this procedure is a lot less invasive or time-consuming. By this point things have been shoved up my nose more often than cocaine straws up Richard Pryor’s.

What he did do is put me back on one of the heart meds I was on before the ablation, at a much higher dosage than before, to keep things calm until I have the cardio version next Thursday.  Afterwards, I’ll be gradually weaned off that med over time instead of it simply being yanked from my drug menu.

But I have to admit this isn’t nearly as much fun as it seems.

In the meantime, for those of you who are as sick of hearing about my health as I am of discussing it, the next few blog entries will be addressing totally different issues - the good Lord willin’ and the creek don’t rise.

I’m Always Open to Closure

One of the downsides to having memory issues (and the only real upside I can think of is forgetting who or what you don’t like) is that occasionally you actually forget what you don’t remember.  Fine - I’ll explain.

Let’s say you write a blog, and throughout the course of a day something happens that you know you should include.  But, instead of making a note of it to transcribe later, you tell yourself you’ll remember it when you need to.  Then, a few hours after you complete the blog entry and hit “publish” it occurs to you that you were fooled yet again.  So, here are a few snippets that were inadvertently excluded from Friday’s entry, along with some updates.

When the first nurse came into the prep room she squinted at the computer screen at the edge of my bed and said, “Mr. Meisbocher?”

“No,” I replied, “ it’s Meistrich!”

“Close enough,” she said.

“Not if you have another patient named Meisbocher who’s having a different procedure today, it’s not,” I shot back.

She sorta smiled and we became friends.

Friday night we were sitting on the couch eating dinner - me very slowly - and discussing the various marks COVID has left.  Shaw said I wasn’t looking at things the right way.  When I asked what he meant, he said, “Without COVID, you never would have had your afib get so bad you’d need surgery and you’d still be on those pills.  Plus, you wouldn’t have developed cataracts and be able to get rid of your glasses and contacts -“  And with that he dissolved into peals of laughter, finally admitting he could no longer keep a straight face.

The past few days have been interesting at best, as while I’ve shown improvement I still feel very sore and somewhat short of breath.  But, I’ve been told this is all fairly normal as the recovery isn’t exactly instantaneous.  So I’m taking things essentially one hour at a time.  And naps.  I’m taking lots of naps.

So that’s the closure of this part of the saga so far.

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Fun fact - I googled the Sherry Frontenac, that hotel in Miami Beach, and it turns out it’s still open!  I’d just assumed it had been knocked down for condos.  It was built in Art Deco style in 1947, and some of the photos show that it hasn’t been too updated in the years since.

But these photos are from 1963.

 

Leave No Jellybean Behind

Okay, I’ll admit it.  Underneath my James Bond demeanor the reality was a bit more Wally Cox, as I was less sanguine about this procedure than I let on.  I’m not sure why - I’ve had this (and more) before and I could usually just whistle my way in the dark right past it.  But perhaps like an old cat I feel as if I’ve used up most of my nine lives already, and this last year represented something like extra innings for me (and you know it must be bad if I’m using a sports metaphor).  I didn’t even trot out any of my traditional black humor on the way to the hospital this morning.

Fun fact - one time while Shaw was driving me to the ER many years ago for a cardiac issue I spent most of the ride telling him who I didn’t want at my funeral.

For Valentines Day Shaw bought me a giant bag of Jelly Belly jellybeans, which he knows is my favorite form of snack.  I’ve been working on it for the past several weeks and made sure to finish it before today as I’d be damned if I was going to leave any uneaten in case something went wrong.

Plus I didn’t want to give myself a kinnah hurrah (Yiddish for ‘evil eye’ or ‘kiss of death’).

So the day began quietly with us waking at 5:00AM and arriving at Jersey Shore Medical Center for my scheduled 6:45 appointment, where they called my name promptly at 7:30.  Walking me back to the prep room I said my goodbyes to Shaw and was shown to one of several curtained-off gurneys.  The first nurse told me to strip completely and put on a gown, open to the back.  By this point I can dress myself in one of these getups in my sleep.  

I must point out here that I was attended to by more nurses today than we were by servers that time at Restaurant Nicholas.  Every time I looked up there was a new face.  And each one was friendlier and more helpful than the one before.  Say what you will about large medical conglomerates like Hackensack Meridian - but they sure know how to hire.  And I’m not just saying that because of my husband.

After hooking me up to various monitors, tubes, IV’s and what-all, all the while asking me my name and date of birth, another nurse came over looking slightly sheepish and told me she had to shave my groin to insert the tubes for the procedure.  So after making crop circles in what must look like one of the weirdest damn bikini waxes in history, we were good to go.  Or so I naively thought.

The anesthesiologist came in to introduce himself and was as nice and comforting as the nurses.  He asked me some questions, answered some of mine and said he’d be back.  Then around 8:30 my surgeon - excuse me, electrophysiologist - popped in to say hi and tell me that he had to change clothes before we started (and if he arrived at 8:30 why the hell did I need to be there almost two hours before?!?).  If you’re wondering how I know all the exact times, by the way, they had a big clock hanging near my bed to remind me.  At 8:50 a different nurse came in to wheel me and my gurney to the OR so with the melody of “Nearer My God to Thee” lilting through my head the show was really about to begin.

Arriving on stage I had to maneuver myself from the gurney to the operating table, the lovely anesthesiologist came over and once again reassured me, telling me there might be a slight burning sensation as the drugs entered my system.  After about a minute I was going to complain and say how right he was was but I was too busy falling asleep.

My next conscious experience was around four hours later (no clock) when I awoke in what looked like the prep room but was actually the post-op section of the facility.  Still flat on my back, my lower back - which has been bothering me all week for some reason - was on fire.  And my mouth felt like sandpaper.  And I felt really tired.  And achy all over. And my throat was extremely sore from the breathing tube they had placed for the procedure.  But aside from that I felt great.

Wanting desperately to adjust my body because of my back, the nurse essentially read my mind and I couldn’t move AT ALL and needed to lie perfectly still.  Not even a little? I croaked.  Nope, she replied, I had to remain still for about four hours.  This is gonna be fun, I surmised.

After a while they wheeled me to another recovery area where the nurse turned on the overhead tv for - it was Fox News.  I asked her if she was trying to send me back into the OR and it was quickly changed to MSNBC.  But the good news is Shaw was there, too!  He told me it was 2:20.  I was assigned yet another terrific nurse named David, who’s now my Favorite Person of the Week because after letting Shaw join me, he raised the head portion of the bed slightly so that my back was able to adjust somewhat.  It was heaven!!!  He also brought me apple juice and said he would bring me a muffin which I was salivating merely at the thought of but ended up being nutragrain bars that at least were soft so I silently changed his status to Favorite Person of the Month.  He also said I would be released around 5:00.  And I was, gloriously.

As I laid there thinking about the day and how I was feeling, I began noticing one distinct change.  Because my lungs are impaired I’ve been essentially noticing almost every breath I take for the past many months because my whole chest can be painful at times.  So I’d been morbidly curious as to whether this cardiac procedure would lead to any differences.  Well, it has - I no longer feel as if there are two St. Bernards lying on my chest, I’m actually down to one!  Of course one of the side effects of the procedure itself is some chest pain, which I have, but even factoring that in there is an overall lessening of discomfort.

Tonight Shaw picked up Italian food for dinner, because I decided that an excellent treatment for pain is medical marinara.  So I ordered it with spaghetti and meatballs and it improved my condition immensely.

Anti-bullying - 1975

I was generally considered a model child, well behaved to the point of being labeled a wuss.  Not alot, just enough to remind me where I stood.  I was never the target of any physical violence - the other kids knew I wouldn’t fight back, or perhaps I was just able to talk my way out of things.  Perhaps they were awed by my precocious rapier wit.  Or perhaps our town just had a higher class of hoodlums.

Being breathtakingly unathletic didn’t help.  I couldn’t function in any sport that involved equipment, including sneakers.  But, somehow I managed to fly under the radar until 8th grade, when I began noticing this one girl.  Actually, she began noticing me.  She was a prototype ‘mean girl’ before that phrase was coined, with some really annoying friends, and was always verbally harassing me.  Usually in front of others.  Many of her comments were sexual in nature, some of which I didn’t get at age 14.  Maybe she liked me; I couldn’t stand her but she wasn’t easy to avoid.  Believe me I tried, using every corridor I could to bypass her locker.  She always seemed to find me, though.  This torment lasted until one evening near the end of 9th grade. 

 

I had a solo in the school musical, while the girl and her posse were in the chorus. After the last performance, one of the cast members invited us to her house for a party.  But first we all stopped at the Dairy Queen on Route 4, driven there in various parents’ station wagons.  I ordered a large green Mr. Mistee.  The girl and company were up to their usual snotty tricks, with the girl making fun of my stage debut among other things.  Having been the victim of this harassment for almost two years, I’d finally had enough and something inside me snapped.  Once the girl’s back was turned, I quietly walked up behind her and calmly dumped my entire Mr. Mistee over her head.  

 

The girl screamed, her friends screamed, and when these girls screamed birds flew out of trees for miles.  I ran out of that parking lot faster than I’ve ever run before or since, with the girl in hot green pursuit.  Into the next parking lot, and the next, and the one after that, seemingly ending up about a mile away, hearing the cheers of my friends and onlookers who couldn’t have been more shocked by what I’d done than I was.  Finally, the girl gave up, threw her empty sundae cup at me and made her way back to the DQ where she and her friends slunk off in some station wagon that I hope had vinyl upholstery. She never made it to the party, I was finally famous for a good reason, and I’ve never felt so vindicated in my entire life.  

 

Shortly after this liberating experience, for which I never paid any price nor apologized, it was announced that the 9th grade class would be having a graduation ceremony in front of the entire Board of Education.  We were told we’d have to dress up for the occasion.  I asked my homeroom teacher if parents were allowed and he said no, just the Board.  This totally violated my sense of fairness, so I told him it was ridiculous - why should we dress up if nobody’s invited?  The Board is invited, he answered, but nobody else.  I went home and told my parents, who were not happy, as they would have attended the opening of an envelope if I was involved.  

 

Back in homeroom the next day we were reminded of our need to dress up, and I very politely told the teacher I wouldn’t do it.  He looked surprised and said that perhaps I would like to discuss this with the principal.  I said okay and off we marched to the principal’s office.  The teacher went in first, explained the situation, then I was escorted in.  The principal invited me to sit down, asked what this was all about, and I respectfully told him that I didn’t think it was right to have us all dress up if we couldn’t have our parents or anybody we’d want to invite in the audience.  I thought it was a dog-and-pony show and exclusionary.  

 

He took in what I’d said, finally replying that while he respected my opinion this was a school-mandated function, and if I didn’t follow directions there could be consequences.  I told him I’d considered that and thanked him for hearing me out.

 

I always wondered what those consequences would have been, exactly – not allowing me to participate in the ceremony?  No big deal.  I was already going on to high school and my grades were great, so they couldn’t threaten me with anything scholastic, either.  Which apparently I realized before anybody else did.

 

So the next day I arrived at school in a polo shirt and jeans and, while even the bad kids were dressed up, we all lined up in alphabetical order, marched into the empty auditorium and looked up at the stage where the entire Board of Education, Principal and Vice-principals sat.  And handing out the diplomas as we were all called up one by one was the President of the Board, who just happened to be the girl’s father.  I’d never met him but knew who he was.  

 

I got lots of glares from the adults - many of whom knew my parents, smiles from my friends and curious looks from the other students who were probably wondering why they were all dressed up and I wasn’t.  My only statement was my attire.  I walked up the steps, across the stage to where the girl’s father stood, he handed me the diploma with one hand while extending his other to shake mine and said with a big smile, “Benn, I’ve heard a lot about you.”  

 

An early experience with speechlessness, along with that vague feeling you get when you think you might have done something right after all.  But walking down the steps I realized I should have at least asked if his wife had been able to get all that green out of the girl’s clothes.

No Secrets

I can’t stand secrets.  They just use up so damn much energy - trying to remember who knows what, who can’t know what, who you’ve told, haven’t told and so on.   One of the earliest and biggest secrets I remember having to keep was shortly after I turned ten, when my parents told me I was going to have a little brother or sister in several months.  I was a relatively chatty kid, so it practically killed me to have to hold onto this information until such time as they gave me the signal to release it to our family.  Which they did on a spring Saturday when my grandmother, aunt and a cousin stopped off at our house while out shopping (living in Paramus we often had company who was out shopping).  

Prior to their arrival my parents told me it was now safe to tell them, so after they all sat down I asked them to guess what we were getting in September.  A new car, my aunt offered - which hadn’t occurred to me - but I said, nope, a new baby.  They looked at my almost 39-year-old mother, and my 50-year-old father, and all three started to cry.  Hadn’t seen that coming, either, having a 10-year-old’s blissful ignorance of such matters.  I just thought it was great news!  And, as it turned out, it was.

There have been many other secrets I’ve had to keep since then, for myself as well as others.  As a lawyer I’ve long been asked for advice about certain confidential issues, and I respect that - those are not my stories to tell.  Attorney/client privilege and all that.  Same thing when someone asks me to keep a personal confidence.  If somebody doesn’t want me to share something, I won’t.  But it’s tiring, isn’t it?  Particularly when your brain is an eight-cylinder working on six or seven.  

One of the reasons I created this blog was so I could simply be open, and not have to remember to whom I’ve told something.  Everybody can be on the same page.  Literally.  This just makes life easier.

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As this blog reflects what I consider important, here’s a referral worth taking. I don’t usually wax poetic about a television show but there’s one on Sunday nights on CNN that I cannot recommend too highly.  

“Stanley Tucci - Searching for Italy” is a travelogue through the country’s twenty regions focusing mostly on the foods indigenous to each.  So far, he’s eaten his way through Rome, Milan, Bologna and Naples and their environs, dining with locals in out-of-the-way trattorias, osterias, cucinas, bistros and virtual holes in the wall, where he’s eaten dishes prepared by obviously master chefs that look so appealing you just want to have sex with them.  Not the chefs - the food!  When we were in Italy we ate very well, but not like what this show shows.  It makes me want to go back right now.

He focuses on everybody from young, newly starting out restaurateurs to Holocaust and World War II bombing survivors who still follow family recipes.  He also dives into the history of each region, where the foods originated and why, with local authors, food experts and historians.  In addition, the show addresses issues of local poverty and how it’s been overcome in some areas by people with drive, and the obstacles faced by new businesses.  Along with some really interesting personal interest stories.

It’s definitely worth a try.  I rate it five gnocchis.

Unplanned Obsolescence

Whenever I buy a new car - which I’ll admit is slightly more often than most people, thank you - I get the extended warranty with it.  This covers most repair costs even if I keep the car for several years, which I usually don’t do but it’s nice to have anyway.  Now I’m wondering why the hell my parents didn’t get one for me when I was born.

It’s not as if they didn’t know what to expect... my gene pool on both sides could have used a lot more chlorine.  Both of my dad’s parents were gone before he reached 28 - first his mother from cancer at 46 then his father from a heart attack at 63, and my mother’s father had a fatal stroke at 54.  So you’d think they would have realized what they were bequeathing me.  

I certainly can’t hold them accountable for COVID, of course, but it seems as though this illness is the gift that just keeps on giving.

In addition to my lungs being in lousy shape, the virus and some of its treatments have a way of taking any physical weaknesses or propensities you might already have and making them worse.  For example, I’ve had irregular heartbeat on and off since college - no big deal and medication has always kept it under control.  Now, it seems, COVID has exacerbated it to the point where I need to have a cardiac ablation.  A short description is they go in through your arteries and send electrical waves to the heart in order to eliminate the abnormal tissue that’s causing the irregular beating.  Sort of like having your heart struck by lightning.  Or tased.  This is done in order to minimize or eliminate the chances of unpleasant things happening in your body, such as it ceasing to function.  It’s a relatively common and simple procedure (although, as somebody wise once said, “any procedure is simple until they’re doing it to you”) that’s generally performed on an outpatient basis.  So that’s coming up next Friday.  

Then there are the eyes.  When I went to the ophthalmologist last month because I thought I needed a prescription upgrade, we discovered I have cataracts.  One really bad.  It turns out that while both of my parents had them, they didn’t need surgery until they were each much older than me.  But, it turns out that one of the side effects of the steroid I’m taking to help my lungs perform is the formation of cataracts.  So those will be removed next month - three weeks apart - and replaced with lenses that are clear and might even help me see more clearly without glasses.  Those procedures I’m actually looking forward to. Somewhat.

None of these are major, I understand, but I can’t help shake the feeling that my body is turning into “Movie of the Week.”  Or at the very least some godawful reality show.  

Oh well... at least my parents also gave me a sense of humor.

The Care and Feeding of...

I saw an article online recently titled “How to Support a Loved One Who Has Long-Haul COVID-19.”  That seems like something worth writing about, I thought - perhaps It could explain better than I could just what I’ve been experiencing this past year and provide ways to deal with it.  Sort of a user’s manual.  So I read it. 

The first topic was “Stop talking about the illness as something that will resolve soon.”  I can go along with that, as I was released from the hospital almost 10 months ago and still show lots of aftereffects.  As far as I’m concerned this isn’t going anywhere in the foreseeable future so we might as well get used to it.

The next topic was “Adjust your expectations for what your loved one can or can’t do.”  That seems doable too, as there may be days when I’m doing great and other days when I’m sleeping under the bed.  I try not to make too many weekend plans, as the weekdays - even working from home - require more energy than they used to, and I find myself chillaxing a lot on Saturdays and Sundays.  I can’t stand canceling plans at the last minute but sometimes I just might have to, so that may become part of my new normal.

Then it discussed “toxic positivity.”  Say, what now?  Apparently, this is triggered when people say things like “you’ll feel better if you have a more positive attitude,” or “I know you can do this,” or even “you’re stronger than you think.”  I really don’t consider any of that particularly toxic, and I’m also pretty comfortable with how I’ve been handling all of this so far.  I made the decision back in the hospital that I would not allow myself to be defined by this mess, and that was well before the term “long-hauler” had even been coined.  So I think we’re good here.

Number Four was “Ask how they’re feeling emotionally and be ready for their true answer.”  Got that covered, as I think I’ve developed some pretty good emotional cred these past several months.  I ain’t hiding a damn thing.

Then - and this one really escapes me - you’re told to “know that your loved one might change their mind about how they want to cope with their illness.”  This means that sometimes I may want to talk about it and sometimes I won’t.  Well, duh.

“Initiate conversation and connection.  Don’t wait to hear from them.”  Now, I’ll admit I was keeping a pretty low profile for a while, but I think I’m doing okay in terms of staying connected to people.  If not, just call and let me know.

The final one was my favorite - “Offer a hand with specific tasks, instead of asking how you could help.”  I know I’d be fine if somebody offered to wash my car, for example, but I also know I’d stand over them as they did it to make sure it was being done exactly the way I would do it, thereby potentially ruining a wonderful relationship.  Same thing goes for doing repairs around the house.  So we’ll just let that one slip by as well.

It seems that a lot was left out of that article, so I thought I’d add a few items based on anecdotal studies.  Not personal experience, of course.

      1. If they can’t remember the names of all four Golden Girls, do not call 911.
      2. If you see them aiming the TV remote at the microwave, gently turn them toward the TV and try not to laugh while doing so.
      3. Give them cake. They love cake.
      4. Do not let them go waterskiing. Fun fact: I tried it once in college on the Long Island Sound - never saw fish laugh before.
      5. Remember - naps are their friend, people’s names are not.
      6. If Caller ID tells you they’re calling, when you hear heavy breathing don’t assume it’s an obscene phone call.

I’ll provide more helpful tips as they come up.  In the meantime, I think we’ve got this.

Are We There Yet?

No.

Getting out of NJ and into the Florida sun for two weeks did not at all suck.  We unwound, saw some people we love, ate great food and I even worked a few days which didn’t bother me as it’s not as much like work when I’m looking out at boats on the Intracoastal all day.  What does bother me is the fact that I actually enjoyed being in Florida.  I realize I’m aging in dog years, but really?!?  May as well just sit in a Cadillac puffing on a cigar while waiting for my pinochle game to start.

Be that as it may, for this trip - as well as the previous three times - we drove, since we’re still not quite ready to deal with planes and airports.  In a few months, perhaps, but not yet.  That means this may have been the last time we drive for a while, which wouldn’t be the worst thing.  But, I strongly suspect that even if we don’t drive down again until we retire there will still be road construction in northern Virginia.  

The only real way of getting to Florida is by driving along I-95, which is one truly boring-ass road once you get beyond southern Virginia (and it isn’t exactly rip-roaring before that).  You’ve got to work really hard just to stay awake.

So you look for diversions, or anything of interest, because after some time the strip malls, gas stations/fast food places, log cabin houses and anti-abortion signs just don’t cut it.  One of the things I have noticed is a variety of billboards relating to the election held last November - “Lindsey Graham is a Liar,” “God Bless President Donald Trump,” “Elect Ossoff and Warnock” and other such interesting messages.  Clearly, though, there’s not a lot of demand for advertising on billboards in the South as these are mostly still up.

(Note to readers: this blog is going to be maintained as apolitically as possible, as I don’t know about you but I just can’t stand hearing or even thinking about the state of our union any more.  After the past four years we all could use some space that doesn’t raise our collective blood pressure, so this will remain light and airy - like a brioche or meringue - not dense and heavy, like a bran muffin or a stromboli.)

Another thing I’ve noticed on these drives is that the farther south you go, the noisier the cars seem to be.  Souped up or just plain old, the engines can be deafening.  Unless they have out-of-state plates from up north a lot of them look like they should be resting on blocks on somebody’s front lawn.  And there’re way more pickup trucks than necessary. 

All in all, it’s been an adventure making those road trips, dealing with 18-wheelers on two-lane highways, playing “Rest Stop Roulette” in seeing if you can skip this one and make it to the next, and cursing every closed lane in Virginia.  

JetBlue is really starting to look good.