Recent life events

A heart patient?  No way!  Life had always been good to me—epilepsy aside, I had no health problems—and I suppose I thought that would continue. I was pretty surprised, therefore, when I had a cardiac event three years ago. Looking back at it now, I realize I should have seen it coming, but I really did not.

Yes, I knew I had been knocking myself out with yard work that fall, and, yes, I knew I was exhausted, but I reminded myself that, at 62, I probably had to expect as much. I had the usual fall cleanup to do, plus I had some 150 flower bulbs to plant, and I wanted to get it done while the weather was nice. We had been enjoying a very long Indian summer that year, and it felt good to be outside in jeans and a T-shirt in November.

When I finished working, and put my yard tools away, I went into the house for more ice water, and a well-deserved rest on the front porch. I recall things starting to get more than a little dark...one might say totally black.

To make a long story short, because other people's medical problems are no fun to read about, the ambulance driver and the paramedics were very nice, and they certainly knew their jobs. The Emergency Room personnel were also wonderful, and after about 4 hours spent there, enjoying their company, I was taken to a room.

The cardiologist who saw me in the ER came up to my room to explain all the fun events the next day would bring. Yes, echo cardiograms are a blast, and hearing the results is even more entertaining. Learning that I would need a valve replacement, ranks as one of the most memorable points of my life.

I remember saying, “Wow, I've always wanted a pig valve,” and sounding as though I actually did. The doctor, who is still, in fact, my treating cardiologist, explained that it would be a cow valve, and I asked if there was going to be a problem finding a big enough pig. He allowed himself a small laugh, and said he was glad I was taking it so well; my good attitude would help. In all seriousness, I knew I should have been terrified, but I felt nothing. It seemed as though I was overhearing a diagnosis that was intended for someone else.

I treated with him for four months, before the day finally came when he said the best heart surgeon he knew would be doing the surgery before my next appointment at his office. That was the moment when I put my head in my hands, and said, “I don't want to do this.” He patted my head, and said there was really no choice, if I wanted to live. Living seemed like a far better option than dying, so I said, “Okay.”

When the big day finally came, I entered the hospital, bravely, and was surprisingly calm—I think because I was so glad it would finally be over. The surgery took 6 hours, and I had a seizure in the recovery room afterwards, but I was alive!

Gradually returning to consciousness the following morning, I slowly became aware of the fact that the pain in my chest was staggering; I wished I had broken a few bones earlier in my life, so that I would have been somewhat familiar with the sensation. In any case, once the pain was under control, I began to feel more like myself. It is amazing how much abuse the human body can take, and still keep going.

Coming home

When you leave the hospital after heart surgery, you get this great little booklet that tells you what activities you can resume each week after the operation. It is amazing how happy you feel when you find out you can do light housekeeping again...my cow valve danced with joy! Finally, after about a month, I was able to pull weeds again...talk about jubilation. I remember crouching down to grab a hearty weed, only to be knocked over by the cat, Groucho, who must have felt the need to protect her flower bed from an intruder.

As I type this, I am 65, and I really cannot believe how fast the time has flown. I feel like I was never sick at all, and life is good. Groucho, now 10 years old, is good, too...and she still chases me out of her flower bed whenever the need arises.

More animal fun

All of my life we have had pets, and I like them quite well.  At the Burnside Avenue house, we had a dog, Penny, and a bird, Skippy. I also had two cats in the backyard, out in the area between the end of the garages and the start of the gardens.

Puppet and Pepper, a calico and a tuxedo cat, respectively, belonged to other neighbors, but they liked me better, apparently, as they were always with me. It was from those two little cats that I reached the realization that, if you cannot win an animal's affection, or a child's, for that matter, with simple love and kindness, you probably do not deserve to have it.

The bird had died long before we made the move to Bragg Street, but Penny made it here, and lived for about a year after that. We lost her when she was 16 years old. My parents felt terrible, as they had originally gotten the dog for Joanne, when she was a small child, and the timing could not have been worse. The dog died when Joanne was on her honeymoon.

We had a series of dogs and cats after that, and, if I ever write another book, I think our last dog, Tillie, a Yellow Lab—American Bench Lab, as opposed to the English Standard—would probably make a good subject. She was not the best dog we ever had; that honor belongs to Wendy, my German Shepard/Beagle cross. Still, Tillie is the one I cannot get over. On her last day on this earth, that crazy fool used a good portion of her fading strength to pull the chair rail off the kitchen wall. How can anyone forget a dog with that kind of determination?

I think I always knew Tillie would be my last dog, and that I would just keep cats as pets after that, but I did not expect to have so many cats. My sister, Maureen, and I share the Bragg Street house these days, with me living on the first floor while she has the second floor. Each of us had three cats, but then one of Maureen's decided he would rather live with me, bringing my cat population up to four. My last remaining aunt, Betty, died earlier this year, and I really had no choice but to adopt her cat, Noel, thus giving me a total of five indoor cats.

Never did I imagine that I would one day be the servant of Harry, Penny (yes, she was named after the dog), Dixie, Mango (the one who left Maureen) and Noel...and do not forget about Groucho, who lives happily in an insulated igloo next to the front stairs.

On the second floor, Maureen lives with Cricket, Specs (one of the five kittens Groucho brought to our yard 8 years ago; Groucho, like all of our pets, has now been spayed) and Cammie. I would like to say that my sister is their servant, but that is not the case. They show up downstairs multiple times daily, so I can wait on them, too.