Of course, it could have been worse. I'm not dead yet.
It started right at the beginning in January. As I wheezed my way onto the examination table, the doctor listened to my lungs, diagnosed pneumonia, and took an extra listen to my heart. Noticing some swelling around my ankles (edema) and a somewhat alarming high blood pressure, he asked if I would mind if he did an EKG as well. In my feverish stupor, I was barely aware of what he was doing, let alone in any position to argue or question.
After a typically long recovery from pneumonia, two visits to a cardiologist (and all of the delightful related experiences dealing with insurance companies, lengthy referral processes, and lackadaisical doctors' office staff who didn't give a shit about whether my life was in danger), I ended up in the Rose Medical Center Cardiology Unit where it was discovered that my major left artery was 80% blocked.
No wonder I was always winded after climbing the stairs to my office on the second floor. I just thought I was in terrible shape. I was, of course, but anyway ...
Major heart attack and possible sudden death averted, a stent was inserted and I was prescribed several weeks of cardiac rehabilitation which turned out to be three visits to the hospital per week where nurses hook you up to an EKG machine and take your blood pressure while you exercise. Some of the nurses have extra training in torture as they push you to exercise harder and harder while criticizing your diet and general lifestyle.
By the end of the summer, however, I was able to bound up the stairs to my office without running out of breath. Yay!
Thinking that everything was under control and that perhaps I would survive my 50s after all, I woke up one night to discover that a mole on my back had decided to erupt in a bloody mess. Naturally this happened on a Friday so I had all weekend to worry about it before my doctor's office opened Monday morning. But I was on that familiar exam table by Monday afternoon and the results of the biopsy came back on Thursday - so I only needed to push away "worst case scenario" trains of thought (chemo, end of life directives, death ...) for four days.
The results were not benign, but neither were they of the terminal variety. It was basal cell carcinoma, a slow growing skin cancer that is merely annoying, not fatal. It did, however, require minor outpatient surgery, which I had on Friday. There is now a big crater in my back which because I can't reach it, Clyde has to clean and bandage twice a day. This is the part of marriage that they don't show you in the bridal magazines.
So I'm back to assuming I'll make it through my 50s, though I keep imagining the insurance company's actuarial tables which must show my ever decreasing predicted life span.
I realize that 100 years ago, and in many other parts of the world today, I wouldn't have survived long enough to even have these problems. Many men got into their 50s, had heart attacks, and died. I sometimes try to remind myself that beyond a certain point, every day is gravy and that I should be thankful for it. I have things pretty good, after all: happily married, good home, comfortable life.
I keep remembering my dad who because of a heart condition, was given six months to live around the age of 70. He was 86 when he died. I take after him in a few other ways, so maybe I can look forward to a long life in spite of some health issues.
