I am taking a lot of different stuff for a variety of causes since my surgery. To keep things organized, I bought one of those AM/PM pill sorter things you find at your grammy's house, and I proceeded to fill it up.

Good, right?

Well sure, unless of course you forget that the Ativan you're taking temporarily for anxiety was already in the AM slot, so you then proceed to take another one.

That's TWO Ativan.

Man, is it gonna be a good morning...

I got a letter yesterday. I will leave out the names, but the details are plenty.


Dear Mr. TMLSB:

I am the anesthesiologist who took care of you during your heart surgery on November 10, 2005. I am writing to follow-up with you about the difficulty we encountered at the start of your anesthesia. As you may or may not recall, I discussed this problem with you in the Intensive Care Unit after your surgery. "Intubation" is the process by which we place a "breathing tube" into your airway so that we may administer anesthetic gases and maintain your breathing during surgery. In your case, it was difficult to insert this tube.

It is imperative that you notify any anesthesiologist involved in your care that you have a "difficult airway." There are safety measures and equipment available for our use when intubating a difficult airway. Knowledge and preparation of a potential problem are always best to try to avoid adverse outcomes and to ensure your safety and comfort. Just as a patient would notify his/her anesthesiologist that he/she has a heart problem, you should notify them that you have "a difficult airway." Explaining to them that intubating you requires "a fiberoptic scope" will help them adminster a safe anesthetic. There also are medical alert bracelets available that should say "difficult airway: fiberoptic intubation required." I encourage you to obtain one of them.

I assure you that all went well with your anesthetic. However, as the potential for serious injury exists when we are unable to intubate a patient, it is important that you and your family discuss this issue with anesthesiologists involved in your care in the future. Please keep this information with your medical records.

I hope that your recovery from surgery has been going well. If you have questions about your anesthetic management, or if there is anything I can do for you, please do not hesitate to call.

Sincerely,

Dude's Name, MD
Department of Anesthesiology



Wow. That's a bit of a thing to read. Two things I know for sure now though are these:

1) I ordered my medic alert thingy today
2) There's no way I could have blown every person who asked / told / yelled / screamed at me to do so. After all, I have a narrow airway.

Happy intubations everyone.

Comes from my friends Staci the Christmas hater. She asks:

"What is a nebulizer?"

A nebulizer is "A device used to turn liquid into a fine spray."

Another much better definition is "a machine that changes liquid medicine into fine droplets (in aerosol or mist form) that are inhaled through a mouthpiece or mask. Nebulizers can be used to deliver bronchodilator (airway-opening) medications such as albuterol and Atrovent, as well as anti-inflammatory medicines (Pulmicort Respules). A nebulizer may be used instead of a metered dose inhaler (MDI). It is powered by a compressed air machine and plugs into an electrical outlet."

The idea is that you put on one of those little paramedic masks and the patient inhales the medicine repeatedly over about 10-15 minutes every four hours.

The bad thing is that 3 year olds have no patience for the mask, and the thing sounds like a supersized fish tank oxygenator, which also sucks.

Thanks for your question Staci. Hope you have a great day.

p.s. Thanks for the well wishes, Ethel. I hope to stop taking up so much of your time with our crap soon. LOL

Since the wife and I are both recovering from surgery, we've decided that it would be easier to keep a bassinette (If that's spelled wrong then too bad. I was too tired to look it up) in our room for Sophia.

The funny thing is, she seems to be the first child I've encountered that didn't like being swaddled and did better as a free range baby.

Anyway, yesterday we discovered that she was even MORE content in her carseat (which is far lighter to carry than the bassinette) so we decided to try the carseat last night. And what a great night it would have been.

If not for the croupy urchin 1.0

The day the wife was coming home from the hospital, Lauren had a little cough. By Thursday night it was terrible. With an appointment already scheduled for urchin 2.0 on Friday morning, we decided to do the sick child add-on and take urchin 1.0 in for a little look over.

After about five seconds in the room with both kids, the doctor insisted that we move urchin 1.0 as far as possible from urchin 2.0 if we couldn't get her out of the room altogether. It seems that her symptems were similar to RSV. I don't know what that is, but apparently if a six day old gets it, then it's straight to the ER and a hospital stay for the baby.

Surprise. More drama at the TMLSB home.

So we've done our best to keep urchin 1.0 a safe distance from urchin 2.0 and so far, everything's fine. Luckily, we called our pediatrician on Tuesday morning and urchin 1.0 was immediately put on antibiotics which probably saved us from something far worse.

However, the short run is never easy.

While Sophia was eating like a champ and sleeping four hours at a time (which her parents were SO looking forward to), urchin 1.0 was up at 4:15am hacking and weezing and sneezing and coughing.

We had a nebulizer delivered Friday night and it's been a Godsend, but you can't explain the importance of a nebulizer to a 3.75 year old or her need to sit the fuck still for ten minutes so the medicine will work.

Anyway, when she starts hacking, she gets up and comes into our room. I got up and we headed down to her room where I'd setup the Nebulizer. She said "I have to potty," and she did. However, in returning from the potty she wasn't paying attention and slammed her forehead into the door frame.

So now here's me, a guy who isn't supposed to lift over 20 pounds, rushing to lift the not yet making any noise and about to let loose 33 pound urchin 1.0 who, once she starts crying, will start a coughing fit that will, in all likelihood, result in her doing the cough/choke/vomit down my back at best or doing the cough/choke/vomit in my face at worst.

Luckily, she's pretty tough. We got her calmed down and nebulized and the wife went back to bed with the obliviously slumbering carseat baby.

(One thing about nebulizing your kid. The trade-off is that, I believe, anything used to open airways and assist breathing medically is basically an amphetamine. This may not matter now, but remember it when you're trying to go to sleep next to your just nebulized child and you can't figure out what that high-pitched buzzing sound is.

It's them.

Anyway, all's good here. Two healthy girls would be better, but I shouldn't complain. This has been a walk in the park compared to last time.

Now, it's off to my bed for a little R&R while me-me takes care of urchin 1.0 and the wife watches urchin 2.0 sleep / stare at the Christmas tree.

I am amazed at every baby, but mine is truly astounding. She is so peaceful and calm, and everyone that holds her mentions how soothing it is to hold her.

Sophia is devoid of any of the tension you normally get with newborns. It's like she is just a peaceful spirit and understands what we've all been through over the past month and more and that she needs to go along to get along or something.

Lauren, while very excited and with her dial turned up to a Spinal Tap like 11, is very gentle with her and around her.

Having a second child just seems fundamentally different than when we had our first one, and I can't quite put my finger on why.

So the wife and urchin 2.0 are all set to come home today. Lauren was a little weepy around bedtime last night "missing her mommy and sophia," but we got to sleep alright and except for my 12:15am wakeup for some more Percocet, everyone slept great.

And then a little after 6am...I heard it.

The cough.

Not an isolated cough. It was a wet croupy cough. Urchin 1.0 was sitting up in bed just hacking away.

So my wife's four days removed from surgery and bringing home our four day old daughter, and I'm 8 days removed from getting out of the hospital from heart surgery, and I've got a kid with a hack.

Who saw THIS coming?

p.s. Today there will be pictures coming from both the surgery and from the arrival of Sophia.

TMLSB

So today was a rough morning.

Urchin 1.0 is having some trouble adjusting to the "dad not here but mom is, now mom's not here but dad is and now every day a different grandparent or relative is here."

I understand, but it's still hard.

Urchin 1.0 got up and about 2:45 and was in my room. When asked why, she replied:

"I had a bad dream."

"About what?" I asked, already knowing the response. (The correct answer would be, was, and always is Fire Breaving dragons).

"Fire breaving dragons."

Egad.

And then, I had an epiphany. I told her that, while visiting mommy and urchin 2.0, a doctor had told me what causes bad dreams.

She was interested and not the least bit jaded, so I continued as we got her tucked into bed again.

"See honey, look right here. We left your pillow with the bad dream side up. We were supposed to leave it with the good dream side up. See?"

"Ohhhhh. I do see."

(Funny isn't it? I always swore I would never lie to my child).

And so she went back to sleep.

And then I woke up about half an hour later soaked in sweat.

No worries. I changed and went back to sleep courtesy of a Tylenol PM and awoke at 6:50am when urchin 1.0 was again back in my bed.

We got up and had our usual morning that included me figuring out what she should wear, confirming that I made her lunch correctly and that her book bag was ready to go.

I then made breakfast after having to repeatedly ask urchin 1.0 to pick up and cap her markers. See, we're having some discipline issues due to a lack of consistency which is totally understandable, but when I'm here, I just can't stand it.

And about 8:30am or so, I went into full on tuxedo wearing flop sweat.

(side note: For some reason, anytime I have to wear a tux, I get the flop sweats. Not right away, but as soon as I get the bowtie on. Then, the flopsweats start and I'm doomed. I've actually been at a wedding where, right in the middle of the prayer, my mom felt so bad for me that she got up and brought me a tissue. Of course, that was like trying to stop a levee break with a q-tip, but it's the thought that counts. I've also actually stolen a washcloth from a hotel room and tucked in into the back of my tux pants so, when no one was looking, I could mop my flopped brow).

So while it wasn't new, I remembered it as a symptom from my "So you're having heart surgery" pamphlet that mentioned "if you have one of these, call us immediately."

Nice. I've obviously gone and fucked up my surgery.

So I called the doctor's office and, instead of sleeping the morning away as I'd planned, I rode with my sis-in-law to see the wife and urchin 2.0 so that if the doctor called and wanted to see me, I'd already be right across the street. (Good thinking, eh?)

But they didn't call. Which made me feel better. I figure that if the symptom was a "HOLY SHIT!!" symptom, someone would have called me ASAP.

But they didn't. They called about 1pm and said that as long as it wasn't in conjunction with some other symptom like chest pain, nausea and vomiting, I should be fine. It could also be a reaction to the Percocet or my effort to stop taking them, or possibly a reaction to some stressors.

As a matter of fact, she actually asked "Have you been under a lot of stress lately?"

Do you mean like having chest pains, a cardiac catheterization and bypass surgery at age 37 and then having a baby 18 days early via emergency C-section Saturday night? Then yeah, I've been under a little bit of stress...

So I immediately took a Percocet and sat down on my ass and started blogging. I got up to pee and eat a Zaxby's grilled chicken Caesar salad, but that's it. I'm not going to fuck this up and have to have it redone. No way.

Oh, and the wife and urchin 2.0 are coming home tomorrow. Please pass the Zoloft.

Sunday was quite a letdown day.

Still a good day, but let's be honest. The day after you have a kid could be the least exciting day of the year.

But we did get the carpets cleaned, the Falcons lost (again), Tony Stewart won the title (again) and I took Percocet (again).

I visited the wife and urchin 2.0 again along with urchin 1.0 and had a nice time. Lauren's doing so well with all of this. I only hope that lasts thru the first middle of the night feeding.

I tried to rest, as if you could bank sleep and save it for when you REALLY need it. But at this point, any rest I get is good rest and any recovering I do now is good recovering.

I can't wait for my wife and new urchin to get home so we can start our lives as an even numbered family.

After being asleep for about 45 minutes Friday night, I was awakened by one of those "Hand of God" moments by the wife at about 12:25am Saturday. She looked at me and said "I don't feel right. I think I may have passed my mucous plug and I think I'm having contractions."

Ummm...can I get a sip of water and a bucket to vomit in please?

(See, last time she never felt a contraction. She already had the epidural so she didn't know what one felt like, and since the real ones are different than the braxton hicks kind, she had no idea what to expect).

Seriously, did she just say that? What does that mean? Is she in labor? The baby's not due for 2.5 more weeks and the C-section's not until December 2nd. What the fuck?!?!?!

Molly called her practice's service and we waited for the return call and while we did so, she also called her sister Colleen who said "I'll be in the car in five minutes. If it turns out to be nothing, I'll just lose an hour of sleep but at least I'll have brushed my teeth."

The service called back and said "it's probably nothing, but just to be safe, go ahead and take a warm bath for an hour and track the contractions, noting how far apart they are."

Ummm...okay. I'm all for coming on in to the hospital, but that's fine. I'll spend the time getting presentable while she takes a bath.

Colleen arrived in about twenty minutes, and the contractions were ten minutes apart. After Caca (what we call Colleen) came in, the phone rang at about 1:00am. Who on earth is calling us?

It was uncle Todd from across the street. It seems that he had noticed the lights on while getting up for a midnight thank you to his 40+ year old prostate / home security system. He asked if everything was okay, to which I replied "Ummm...I think she's gonna have the baby."

He said "I'll be right over."

The contractions got down to about three minutes apart at 30 minutes and we said "fuck this. We're going to the hospital."

So I showed uncle Todd how to use the TV and, after Caca moved the baggage from the wife's car to her van, we headed out to the hospital.

By the time we got about twenty miles into our 30 mile drive, the contractions were two minutes apart and I think the wife was officially freaking a bit. She was outwardly calm, but I know I was freaking, so I'm guessing that she was too.

We got parrked and to the admit desk and I did all of the paperwork. I was amazingly calm, but I credit most of that to my friend Percocet.

A wheelchair arrived and we figured it for the old lady. I was waiting for one too, since I had already far exceeded my exercise / exertion limit for the day.

(If you want to feel like a pussy, make sure to tell your wife's OB/GYN to be sure to note that you'll need a wheelchair at the hospital. VERY masculine).

So they wheeled her to a pre-op room thingy and soon thereafter a chair came for me.

One good thing about OB/GYN wheelchairs over cardiac ICU wheelchairs is that the OB/GYN ones are WAY wider and very comfortable to a fella of my...stature.

So we met up in the hall and went in and met Lilly. She was our nurse. She was also the 15th of 20 brothers and sisters and 45 years old with a 105 year old father. She was also (according to her) the only latin family to not have a Jesus or Maria on the rolls. Nice one, Lilly.

It was about 1:45am and things were progressing a little fast for my wife's liking. Lilly (and another woman whose name I can't remember) assured us that everything was fine and that as soon as the labs came back, they'd get the epidural running and we'd be having this baby around 4am.

And then it hit me. I've just had heart surgery and now our baby was coming 18 days early. Sure, urchin 1.0 was 16 days early, but we could really use the extra time.

Dr. Robbins got there around 3am or so (I think) and the anesthesiologist came shortly thereafter. All along we had planned that I'd handle the still photos and the stool sitting next to the wife and Caca would handle the videography (like with urchin 1.0), and we . The wife got pretty upset when the anesthesiologist told her that only one person would be allowed in during the procedure.

But we both knew it didn't matter. Our only real goal was that I'd be recovered enough to be there for the delivery and everything else after that would work itself out. It's tough to be selfish about the little details when you've been as lucky about as much as we have for so long.

So at around 3:45am we gowned up (Caca and myself) and headed for the scrub area for OR number 4. The anesthesiologist then informed us that Caca would be able to film thru the window in the scrub room, meaning video footage from the foot of the C-section. With discretion, that could be pretty cool.

They brought me in from the scrub room side and I actually saw them making the horizontal incision across my wife's tummy. And I didn't faint. Cool huh?

So I took my seat at her left hand and waited. A few minutes later Molly asked "when are you starting?" to which Dr. Robbins replied "we're almost done Molly."

It was then that I stood up and looked over the drape and saw urchin 2.0's rear end.

Seconds later she was making noise and she was here.

And for the second time, I saw the fruit of our loins removed from my wife via C-section and taken to the warming table for primary cleaning and her first test score (an 8-9 on the apgar for the record).

This time was entirely different than last time though. I remember being so overwhelmed by the process that I wasn't really there. This time, I was right there, aware, alert and in the moment. And it was spectacular.

I then got up, headed over to the sneezeguardless buffet warmer to see me daughter. She was perfect. Ten fingers, ten toes, and an absolutely perfect face, and what appeared to be a hint of red hair.

Oh sweet lord. Not only am I the only man in the house, but one of the three women is going to be a redhead?

Anyway, we headed across the hall for urchin 2.0's first real detailing. They do the rocker panels, the undercarriage, as well as the top and everything else. She cleaned up real nice, warmed nicely and was utterly relaxed and unaffected by the whole thing, which was quite the opposite of my previous urchin.

She was 7 pounds 7 ounces, 19 3/4 inches long, had a 14 inch head, and she did, in fact, have some light red hair.

Molly was brought in and shortly thereafter given our daughter to hold, which she did for about half an hour.

(One unfortunate thing about this event was that since everyone had been told that I was the spouse who'd had bypass surgery via robot, everyone...and I mean everyone, wanted to talk about that. That was fine when it was just me around, but I'm beginning to think that my wife's wishing that I'd had the old fashioned bypass so no one would be quite so interested in my story).

Anyway, one other thing changed during this process. We had planned to name her Sophia Grace. Until the heart thing.

When all of that happened and we weren't sure how things were going to go, we decided that if the doctor agreed to take my case, could successfully complete it, and save my life (without cracking my sternum was an added bonus), then we'd make Sophia's name Murphy.

Murphy's also a family name, as it's the wife's mom's maiden name. It was also, as it turned out, the surname of the nun that sat with my wife all day while I was in surgery. It was as though it was meant to be.

So, we decided to name her Sophia Murphy Berger.

The rest of the morning was a bit of a blur. I had been awake for about 24 hours and had a good bit of Percocet in my system, and I was tapped out. Once the wife returned from post-op and was brought to the room and I knew that Sophia was okay, Caca drove me home. She then took urchin 1.0 down to the hospital to see Sophia.

Let me say here that we've received more help thru all of this than anyone deserves, but I cannot imagine how it would have all turned out if Caca hadn't done all she had done. So thanks Caca.

I then ate, tidied up, and went to bed. It was 10am. I awoke at 11am, took two percocet and went to sleep for another hour and a half. I was a new man.

I then spent the rest of the day laying in bed watching football, frequently talking on the phone to my wife. I was and am so incredibly proud of her. I am incapable of effectively putting into words how amazing she is. She barely made a wimper through all of it.

Then, I spent the afternoon in a hospital gown laying in bed watching football with my nephew Nick by my side. We thoroughly enjoyed watching Auburn kick the ever-loving shit out of the over-rated Alabama Crimson Tide. There's nothing quite as satisfying as watching those dumbshits in houndstooth hats holding a poll topped with detergent and asswipe get their collective plows cleaned in our house.

Oh, and Sophia will forever share her birthday with our friends Priscilla and Barbara. I love that too.

And then GA Tech went into Miami and beat the number three team in the nation. That also kicks ass.

And once every so often, Sophia's birthday will be on the same day as the Auburn-Alabama game. THAT kicks much ass to me.

So you see, in a nutshell, my Saturday pretty much kicked ass. That says it about as well as I could, but it would have saved you reading the 4,000 words you already have.

But hey, you were already here. What else did you have to do?

Friday was a good day.

I was finally feeling like myself again, and was doing better at limiting my Percocet intake and conversely was far less high during the day.

The wife had had a doctor's appointment Thursday where they mentioned that her blood pressure had been a little high, and they asked her to monitor it until her next appointment on Tuesday the 22nd.

Our friend Brad brought us dinner from Outback steak which RULED!! I love their lamb chops and Caesar salad, and was thrilled that I couldn't (and didn't want to) finish the meal.

Ordinarily I would have ordered an appetizer for myself, eaten my dinner and picked at whatever the wife and urchin 1.0 didn't eat.

I really think I'm gonna be a changed person since this whole thing happened. I never want to go back, and I don't want to leave a widow and two orphans either.

Anyway, we had a good meal and tried to watch the rain delayed truck race, but we ended up going to bed at a respectable hour and feeling better than I thought possible just seven days after surgery.

More of the same. Getting better. Taking Percocet. Watching TV. Sleep. Repeat as often as necessary.

Wednesday was better than Tuesday, but there's not alot to write about, other than the fact that I tired cutting some meds again. It's dumb, yet I keep doing it.

Wish I had more, but I think I either damaged my memory of wednesday or my pain erased it from the banks. Either way, not much happened that day.

Tuesday morning came with a wimper more or less. I'd managed to sleep about 4.5 hours straight and a total of about seven hours, which is awesome for me any day, let alone a few after heart surgery.

Buoyed by this and my need to blog, I decided to start weaning myself off the Percocet. Instead of two every four hours, I figured I'd try two every six hours or so.

Mistake.

I waited the six hours, took two Percocets, and I didn't feel better.

At all.

As a matter of fact, I was already counting down to my next chance for two Percocet, and it was three hours to go.

Ack.

It took two more doses to not be hurting again. And I mean hurting. When you get your Percocet on a schedule, you start thinking you're bulletproof and not hurting as bad as you really are. When the Percocet had worn off I realized that I was in bad shape.

"Dude...you had heart surgery. How fucking stupid are you?"

Good question.

And the simple answer is that painkillers are a double edged sword. They help you manage pain but they also make you functionally retarded, leading to decisions like no longer taking Percocet.
See? It's quite a catch-22.

This day started early, as though Sunday night never really ended.

It was the same old thing: gas in belly, but as soon as it got near the exit and I ran to the head, it'd run away.

The wife even went so far as to put down a crib pad and implore me to just go ahead and shit the bed if that would help at all. (I'm telling you, you don't know someone loves you until they tell you to shit the bed so you can feel better. Unless it's Chuck Berry. But that's for another time).

Despite the generous offer, I simply could not make myself shit the bed.

So instead, I brought a chair upstairs and turned its seat away from the crapper. Then I put a pillow on the back of the chair and proceeded to rolling pin my abdomen again until I was just about to shit the floor, and then I'd drop on the can and purge the evil from my system.

I can't tell you how bizarre it is to build up your anxiety about surgery, only to find that your biggest nemesis would be superpowered farts and cramps.

This went on until about 4am when I finally fell asleep.

As soon as we could, we called the doctor's office, and his nurse asked the sixty four thousand dollar question:

"Why is he taking Zocor? He doesn't have high blood cholesterol...does he?"

No...he does not.

"Well, don't take that anymore. Let's see if that helps."

Meanwhile, I religiously took my two percocet every four hours, lest I lose any of the sludge that was muddying the creative works up in my pumpkin. I had hoped to keep a realtime blog after I got home, but all I could seem to do was eat (a little) and sit and sleep, but only if it was two hours at a time. (Thanks hospital).

I felt better than I had on Sunday. Hell, I repeatedly feel better now than I did six hours ago. I'm truly amazed by this. The healing powers of the human body are truly remarkable.

Sunday Morning I felt better. I didn't think I felt better enough to go home, but I certainly felt better than I had.

Dr. Murphy's nurse came by to check on me and said my lungs sounded good and that my Sub-Q air wasn't getting any worse.

This Sub-Q air was and still is my favorite part of this whole event (except for not dying and getting 90 percocet in one bottle). If you don't know what it is, here's an explanation:

Sub-Q air

Basically it feels like rice crispies under your skin when you roll your fingers around across the top of your chest and lower neck. At first it freaked me out, but once the nurses told me it'd eventually go away and that it wouldn't affect my go home date, I embraced my Sub-Q air.

Student nurses came by to feel it. Visitors felt it too. I let anyone feel it that wanted to. Even my neighbor Anne, who's an IV nurse at St. Joe's, when told of my Sub-Q air, was excited and asked if she could touch it.

"I LOVE Sub-Q air!!" she said.

I was happy to ablige.

Anyway, the nurse said she didn't think that I'd go home that day, and that made me sad. I'd built myself up just knowing I'd go home on Sunday and the thought of staying another day just sucked. I mean, staying another night in the best cardiac hospital I know of wouldn't be the worst thing in the world, but I was ready to be home.

So Molly and I sat around and she spent the rest of the morning trying to cheer me up and I spent the morning moping and waiting for football to start.

Then, about 2pm or so, a nurse came in and said "so...are you ready to go?"

What'd she say?

"Your orders came, so we just need to go over some stuff before we can send you home."

YES!!!!

And they did. They went over all kinds of stuff about exercise, activity, resting, medications, etc. The trouble was, almost none of it applied to me.

See, 99.9999% of folks that leave there are leaving with a recently split sternum that's wired shut like a broken jaw. Thusly, they are limited in what they can lift, how much they can lift, and their mobility is severely impaired for months to come.

I, however, only have three little holes in my chest and one hematoma on my left groin, so my stuff's gonna be a lot more like home study I'm guessing.

We packed and got all of my stuff on a cart and they wheeled me to the curb while my 47 month pregnant wife huffed it to get the car from the parking deck. There's nothing quite so manly feeling as sitting around while your pregnant wife packs for you, pushes the cart while you are wheeled outside and everything else she has to do for you while you do nothing. I wish they'd have explained THAT on the waiver forms and the check out list.

I was thrilled to get home and thought I felt great. I had no idea.

Saturday was a better day, although it's tough to tell the days apart since you never get to sleep in the hospital. I mean, you sleep in fits and starts, but with someone coming to check your vitals every 90-120 minutes, someone coming with meds every few hours (and not often enough), phone calls, visitors and exercise laps around the nursing station, it's impossible to get meaningful rest or sleep.

Saturday started as my second consecutive Saturday where I was awakened at 6am so someone could take some blood. A month ago, the thought of that wouldn't have made me squeemish. Now, it's just what I do on Saturdays.

The nurses in the ward where my regular room was were awesome. I got great care, and as long as the last nurse kept the next nurse up to date on my meds so that I didn't have another one of those heart fluid sack pain thingies, everything was pretty much okay.

A note here about surgical shaving. I've heard all kinds of folks say all kinds of things about how bad it is and how itchy it is and everything else, and I don't get it. I was a little distracted from my groin shaving by the excrutiating and consistent pain throughout my chest where a man and a team of robots had torn me apart to rebuild me.

So, Saturday was basically a day of finally getting a solid (albeit clear) meal. I also made many many laps around the nurse's station and worked hard to get back my lung capacity. It seems that to make room to poke around in my chest cavity, it was necessary to deflate my left lung and when you do that, there's a risk of pneumonia unless the lung is exercised and coughed regularly and frequently. I have this super cool breathing machine that I am still using and that I used 10 times every hour while I was there. (I used it far more than that since I wanted to exceed their expectations, but bragging about being great in the breathing gym seems pretty pathetic, so I pretty much leave that out when I'm telling the story out loud).

Well, since I've gone to the trouble to brag about the breathing gym, let me introduce you to the AirLife Volumetric Incentive Spirometer - without valve - 4000ml

Like I said, I don't want to brag, but I've maxed this thing out on several occasions since I've returned home. Heck, sitting down in a chair blogging with one hand, I just knocked out 3250ml of lung capacity baby. Maybe after you get yours, I could spot you while you work to be as awesome as me.

Anyway, my plan Saturday was to chill out, watch a ton of football and the Busch race, eat a solid meal or two, and get ready for the good news that would have me going home on Sunday.

What Saturday turned into was a painful day that saw me sleep through one of the better Auburn-Georgia games of recent history.

Starting when I first had my chest pain and got my cardiac catheterization, I was immediately placed on beta blockers to keep my blood pressure down and Zocor to lower my cholesterol. I imagine that these two things are pretty standard among the cardiacly impaired octogenarians that usually have this thing done.

The trouble is, I have neither high blood pressure nor high cholesterol. My blood pressure is consistently between 110 over 70 and 125 over 80 and my cholesterol, as I bragged earlier, was recently measured two hours after a Zaxby's lunch at 144.

Anyway, the side effect of the Zocor in some patience is extreme, profuse (and unbearable) abdominal gas and cramping.

Yay.

How did I find this out, you might ask? Easy. I took Zocor Thursday night, Friday night, and by Saturday night (when I also took one), the pain was worse than anything I'd ever felt gastrally speaking.

And there was another problem. This was not heavy gas, but apparently very light gas. Meaning when I'd lay down flat on my back, I'd feel it rumble and move and make all sorts of noise like I was ready to "purge the system", but as soon as I'd get up and rush to the head, the gas would surge back upward toward my stomach and away from the exit area. This went on and on until my gut was hard as a rock and I couldn't sit, lay or stand.

The nurses suggested I take a Gas-X or some Mylicon. Yes, the Mylicon you give your two month old for gas. For the record, the Mylicon worked...a little. The Gas-X didn't work, and the nurses admitted that it never does. Thanks.

Finally, I had an idea, I figured if I could lay across my bed on a pillow or two and use the pillows as sort of a rolling pin to help "urge" the gas to the bottom of the system, maybe I could get it close enough so that by the time I rushed to the head to expel it, I could rid the system of some of it.

(Why not just fart in bed you might ask? Easy. I hadn't yet had a "movement," and had been warned that any efforts like that might result in some explosive results, and since I didn't want to be the 37 year old that had to push the call button and say "Uh ma'am, I just shit the bed in room 333.")

So I spent most of the early, middle and late afternoon and early evening leaning over the bed with my bare ass pointed at the window rolling to and fro, getting as close as I dared to shitting the wall in my room, then rushing to the head repeating this process until I decided I could live with it.

Oh, and there's nothing like bragging to your dad who's visiting you about being able to fart finally.

So this went on and on and on until I finally felt good enough to sleep. Which was about 10 minutes into the Auburn-Georgia game.

I woke about 10 minutes into the second half, only to fall asleep again.

I woke for the last time with about 2:18 to go in the game, and pops was on his way out to get my percocet.

"Relax, man. You stayed all this time to watch the end. I can wait a few minutes."

And we watched the last 2:18 together, and Auburn won.

Saturday was a good day.

(One final note about the Zocor. I took one Sunday too, and finally Monday when I called the Doctor's office and they told me to stop taking them, and the pain finally eased and I was normal again by Tuesday).

And now things start to get fuzzy.

Despite my best intentions, there's no good way to keep track of a hospital stay that includes massive doses of narcotics, some fairly serious pain and limited mobility. Well, I guess a personal recording device of some sort would have worked, but I didn't think of that, and no one was running to get me one at that point either.

During the night, I was taken from my bed and got into a chair (more or less) under my own power. That in itself wasn't too bad. What happened after that however, was.

After returning to my bed, I began having some "moderate" pain in my chest. Not heart attack pain. But more pain than I'd probably felt in my lifetime and I didn't know what was causing it.

As I've mentioned before, all of these places use a scale of one to ten to measure your pain, with one being a little pain and ten being the worst pain imaginable.

Before being in this place, I'd have called the pain about an eight. Since then, I'd learned that it was only a four or five. But with the staff not knowing what it was, the prospect of that number getting lower didn't look good and I was feeling worse by the second. I had also basically had all the pain meds they could give me for about another two hours, so when they realized that I wasn't at risk and was just going to have to get thru it, I was basically stuck there to survive my own pain tolerance for two more hours.

That's when I met Jim. He had gone thru emergency quintuple the same day as my procedure and was in the bed to my left. We had talked a decent amount thru the night until this "thing" started, and at that point I became a less than desirable neighbor to Jim or the six other people forced to listen to my swearing and gasping for air.

And an amazing thing happened. A guy who had his own problems to worry about and his own pain courtesy of his own cracked sternum started asking me questions. Crazy questions. Personal questions. Just one question after another. And I kept wondering why he was fucking bothering me when I just wanted my god damned pain meds.

And the next thing I knew, it was two hours later, and I was given a xanax, two percocet, and a direct morphine injection.

And it made my pain go from about an eight to about a six point five.

I was getting pretty mad and pretty freaked out as well.

But that was when another angel (whose name I can't recall) said "I think you've got some fluid issues in the sac around your heart and that pain is being caused by your lungs rubbing against your heart. I'm going to give you this anti-inflammatory injection (the name of which I can't remember thanks to the Percocet), but within about 60 seconds, I was feeling better. In about five minutes, I knew that I was going to be okay.

Molly and many other folks came to visit me throught Friday despite the crazy visiting hours in the CVICU. Although I know they're not crazy, they're tough to deal with when your family has to wait two or three hours for a fifteen minute pop-in visit.

Based on the fact that I saw no tears, I knew that I was either going to die or that I was going to be fine.

I was told about mid-day that I'd be getting out of the CVICU and was put in a private CVICU room until my private regular room was ready. Before that however, they'd have to remove the line in my neck that went into my heart to keep accurate blood pressure, my remaining IV's (except for one), and my chest tube.

Oh shit. I've heard about this. I've watched it on TV. This is going to suck suck suck suck suck.

And so my nurse started removing lines from my arms and neck and cleaning up around them.

And then she counted to three and removed the bloody disgusting mess that was my chest tube. And I felt literally nothing.

"Hey," I thought. "This wasn't bad at all."

And let me tell you, my private ICU room kicked total ass. It was extra sealed so that when the door was closed, you couldn't hear a thing. Not a peep. So my sleep was amazing, although short.

And that's when I was awakened by the ince looking nurse who informed me that she was there to remove my catheter.

"Ummm....can that wait?"

"Nope," she said. "It's got to come out before you get your own room."

Fine.

And that wasn't bad either. Really. In about 60 minutes I had a chest tube and a catheter removed and they really weren't bad at all.

Later, it was an uneventful trip to my own room where I continued my diet of water and percocet for the day.

Woke up at the obscene hour of 4am. Okay, it’s not totally foreign to me since I already get up between 5am and 6am anyway, but to be told to report for heart bypass surgery at 5:30am 35 miles from your house just seems bizarre. Checked in at the desk at St. Joe’s in my now lucky and famous Martin Truex Jr. / Kentucky Fried Chicken shirt. I figure that if you’re gonna do things, you ought to do things that make you laugh even when facing some daunting circumstances. And you have to admit that wearing a KFC t-shirt into a cardiac ward is on the list of stuff that is a tick funny.

Anyway, during the pre-operative interview with a member of the Anesthesiology department, several notes were made on my chart:

Patient is anxious (up arrow – up arrow – up arrow)
Give patient something to relax in pre-op
Patient has high tolerance for anesthesia

(The last line is terribly true. They said that I required over seven times the normal amount during the cardiac catheterization two weeks ago. Apparently I just wouldn’t shut up despite the doctor asking me several times to be quiet so he could concentrate on working on my heart. Not shocking, but more than a little surprising I’d say considering the circumstances).

I appreciated the hospital’s ability to identify a patient that was:

A) EXTREMELY anxious, and
B) Delicate when it came to needles.

Ayway, I was early to arrive since I didn't sleep well and also since I was Dr. Murphy's first and only patient of the day. After all we'd been thru to that point, I thought it would be rude to keep him waiting.

I was called back to pre-op curtain area 7 around 6:20am and I immediately said "hey...that's good news. I got Robby Gordon's number."

Actually, the first thing I thought was that Lauren would be happy if I were in curtain area 8 since she loves Junior and all.

Vincent was the guy tasked with making sure I was ready and relaxed when the doctors called.

Thanks to the nervous notations, the first thing I got was a Xanax, then a VERY small IV that was immediately filled with something magical, because I stopped giving a shit about anything at that exact second.

The wife and I shared a few pleasntries and I assured her that everything would be fine, and she did the same for me. The funny thing is that I really was a lot less nervous about the bypass than I was the cardiac catheterization, if THAT makes any sense at all.

From there I was wheeled into the operating room that contained "The da Vinci Robot." It can't be moved or anything, so that OR is where every one of these procedures at St. Joe's has ever been done.

I remember the anesthesiologist and his team being very nice and friendly, and they assured me that I was in great hands. They also put something else into my IV that made me feel pretty assured that I could actually be shot with a gun and not feel anything.

It is at this point that the guy said "you're gonna start feeling pretty relaxed," and the next thing I knew it was Thursday evening. (That guy deserves a raise, by the way).

Later, the wife informed me that Dr. Murphy came out to see her around 8:30am to talk to my family. He said that they'd started the IV and would be starting the procedure around 9am. He said that they should be done around 12:30pm - 1:00pm and gave my wife his nurse's cell phone number.

at 10:10am, Brian called from the OR and said they were just starting. Anesthesia was taking longer to take than normal and that all of the safety precautions they have to do to the robot take longer as well.

I was appreciative of these safety measures, because I didn't want to wake up hearing "Open the pod bay doors, HAL. I SAID OPEN THE POD BAY DOORS, HAL!!"

At 2:40pm, Dr. Murphy called and said that it had worked and that there were no problems, etc. He also said that it had taken longer than they had expected because I was such a big guy. I assume he meant from the waist down.

At 3:55pm they brought my wife back to see me. I sort of recall it, but I remember because I was freaked out because of the ventilator. They tell you and tell you until you're blue in the face, but the fact is that nothing prepares you for trying to remain calm when you wake up in an ICU and are on a respirator.

Once I was extubated (it's a real word...look it up) I was much better. Except for the fact that I thought I was going to fucking die. My chest hurt. A lot. That's all there was. Oh, and I was thirsty. VERY thirsty. It was several hours before they'd even throw me a bone and give me some ice chips. Not much happened the rest of the day except that they got me out of bed and into a chair and made me cough. Coughing sucked. I cannot tell you how much it sucked. But it sucked.

Eventually, an angel in scrubs brought me some ice and later some water. I learned to manage water and ice consumption like a champ, and it really made my night tolerable.

Oh, and I also found out that during pre-op, I was re-shorn on just one side of my groin, leaving a tri-level area of different lengths that's gonna be a bear to maintain.

Unless I just go the easy way and keep the garden bare.

Sleep on that image, my friends.

For the most part, my mood was relaxed.

I freaked out a little bit and had a few post-traumatic stress disorder flashbacks of that fucking movie from yesterday. This is, to this point, the only thing the hospital did that was anything but top-shelf.

I will withhold their final grade until I get out of the hospital.

We spent the evening signing papers, packing for my hospital stay, and with me laughing at myself while I did one of the two pre-surgical scrubs that were required of me.

The instructions were simple:

1. Use half a bottle the night before and the other half the morning of surgery.
2. Scrub it on and leave it onn for ten to fifteen minutes.
   

Do I really need another shower with this stuff? It was over 70% alcohol. My skin felt like a rhino’s ass, and considering that I am delicate like a flower, sleeping after bathing with this stuff was like covering myself in hot sauce mixed with wood shavings. Nice.

Molly and I just sort of laid there alternating between watching TV and looking at each other. It’s a bizarre thing having a baby literally ready to pop and staring down the barrel at bypass surgery, which would involve stopping my heart for over two hours. As a friend of mine and I realized while talking, it’s “just” bypass when you are hearing about it happening to some dude on the news. When it’s you or someone close to you, it’s more like “HOLY SHIT I’M HAVING FUCKING BYPASS SURGERY WHERE THEY STOP YOUR HEART!!! THEY ACTUALLY STOP YOUR HEART!!!”

It shouldn’t be different, but it is…

I went to sleep around 11am and got a surprisingly good night's sleep, especially considering what lay ahead of us the next morning.

I have struggled with the format the story of my heart surgery would take. At first I was considering a serious blog, a goofy blog, and sneezy blog, a dopey blog, etc., but ultimately I decided that I would try to recap the experience as it occurred in a day to day type of format, including the nuts and bolts of what happened as well as my impressions, things that happened around me, etc.

But one thing you need to know is this:

I am working to do this report while I am on / enjoying the company of my new best friend, Oxycodone. His street name is percocet and I am apparently his bitch. Now, on with the story:

One note I’d like to mention in case I haven’t yet. (This is where the percocet’s causing a problem). I’m scared of needles. I’m afraid of needles. I’m a needlepuss. I can’t say this enough ways. I abhor the thought of even one shot even in my ass. Move the location to my hand, arm or (Heaven help me) my groin, neck or chest) and I’m a category five pussicane. This merits mentioning at the start of this story so you can understand things and put some parts into perspective.

I went to a pre-operative interview that accompanied a bunch of lab work on Tuesday so that everything would be ready to go come Thursday. I had no appointments for these tests / meetings, and it became very obvious that my surgeon pulled some serious weight at the hospital. (Of course, he’d be pulling more than a little serious weight Thursday morning too, but let’s not skip ahead too far).

I was told to show up at the CT lab by 11am and that they’d “try” to fit me in around noon.

I got there and the lady said “Would you like berry or banana?”

“Berry or banana what?” I asked.

“Berry or banana barium. You have to have this (pointing to a one quart bottle) in your system for at least one hour before we can start your scan.”

Oh. THAT berry or banana.

“Give me the berry please.”

I shook it, opened it and chugged half of it. And thank GOD I did. If my first had been a sip, I might STILL be standing there because that stuff tasted like shit.

So I knocked the barium out in about 10 minutes and then signed in for the “we’ll fit you in wait,” which ended up taking about zero extra time.

I was back in the imaging waiting room and at 65 minutes I had an IV put in my arm for some dye and then was asked to remove my shorts (always a nervous time in healthcare and the Big House) and climbed up on the table.

Oh, and Jody also handed me another cup of Barium “Just to top things off” and we were ready to go.

He took the films he needed, helped me up and sent me on my way with my films to drop off at Dr. Murphy’s office and then off for lunch until my next pseudo-appointment at 2pm with the lab for blood work, EKG, urine test, meeting with the Anesthesiology department and oh… for the viewing of the “So it’s 1984 and you are having bypass surgery” movie. That movie scared the ever-loving piss out of me for 48 hours and it scared my wife too. Anyway, that movie should be banned for viewing by anyone who isn’t 183 years old. I mean, watching general medical a movie that’s even ten years old is a lifetime, but they were using leeches, mercury thermometers and I think I saw Florence Nightingale or Clara Barton at one point. I know I saw someone using ether though.

The other fun part was waiting for the anesthesiology meeting. See, a bunch of folks were doing more or less the same track as we were, so it was all about quick hitting the easy stuff like urine tests, blood draws, etc., to get in line earlier for said meeting.

We were the second person of four that entered the queue, which should be obvious to everyone and was, to everyone except one woman.

When the first person exited, the Anesthesiologist came out and, instead of checking the chart queue in the back of the door, she said, “Who’s next?”

The wife stood up and said “We are,” the lady across from us that stank like she crawled out of an industrial sized ashtray said “No, I was next. I started this on Friday.”

My wife is a tactful woman. She replied “No. You were not next. We were next. And we started Friday as well with his heart cath. And I’m nine months pregnant.”

Didn’t matter. Martha Ashtray just walked on in and sat down. And for what, you might be asking?

To save ten minutes.

She was willing to wreck the karma surrounding her procedure all to inconvenience a pregnant woman by ten minutes.

Anyway, if you’re reading this Martha, I hope you’re enjoying your staph infection following your addadicktome procedure.

(I also forgot to mention that ever since I was told to take it easy until this all got worked out, I walked everywhere like Tim Conway playing that old shuffling bastard on the Carol Burnett Show. So getting thru any and all of this with me had to be even further torture on my wife).

We got done around 4:15pm or so, and had to head north on I-85 from Pill Hill to our home in Gwinnetia. I’m surprised the Donner Party didn’t find us on the way home.

We got home, talked some, filled out some paperwork, and called it a day. We were looking forward to one relaxing day (Wednesday) since this whole thing started.

So yesterday morning, the wife and I dropped urchin 1.0 off at school and headed for the local butcher to see about ordering our 2005 Thanksgiving Turkey.

We walked to see Ronnie and one of the boys cutting some great looking beef tenderloin and asked "So, what's the deal with fresh killed and / or free range turkeys?"

Ronny explains that he's tried both and that they now do both, although they've done the fresh kill birds for between twenty and thirty years and that they were very happy with the guys they used for both.

So I ask "So tell me Ronnie...how much are the birds either way?"

He answers "The fresh killed one is one twenty nine and the free range bird is two ninety nine."

I was a little shocked, but the wife and I conferred and agreed to order the fresh killed option.

Once we got to the car I said "I was a little shocked back there. Usually you are the one that reins that stuff in cost-wise, and you were pretty cavalier about a $130 bird."

The wife paused, looked at me and said "$130? What are you talking about?"

I said "He said the turkey was one twenty nine and if we wanted free range, it'd be two ninety nine. That seems a little high."

She laughed and muttered "You dumbass. He meant $1.29 and $2.99 per POUND!!"

"No way," I said.

And so she turned around and we went back to the Butcher's shop. I offered to get the matter cleared up while she waited in the car. She decided, however, that she didn't want to miss this one for the world.

I told Ronnie the story and got laughter from all of the help, and then Ronnie said "for that I oughta prepare it and bring it over to you, wouldn't you think?"


Oh well. Who cares if one more establishment in our sleepy little burg thinks I'm an imbecile?

I have several blog ideas that I'm working on / creating / paring down / other stuff. However, my troubles are threefold:

1) I have so much stuff I want to get out that I don't know where to start. I am therefore creating multiple drafts to be worked on somewhat simultaneously that I should finish by Friday, November 16th.

2) My wife is about 71 weeks pregnant and, although I didn't forget about the baby during all of this, I did at some point lose perspective and a bit of touch with the reality and scope of the fact that all my wishing for the baby to wait until Thanksgiving, if met, would be fulfilled in another eight days.

3) I'm so fucking high and polluted by percocet that I can't keep stuff going long enough to finish thoughts.

And that's not to say that I'm abusing the stuff. By day two of being home, I had dropped my dosage from two every four hours to one pill every six hours, and then at 11pm I hit two again. However, there's residual layers of stupidity from anesthesia and pain meds that have rendered me...well, stupefyingly dumb.

(Just wait until I tell the butcher story later today)...

So, to sum up, I am alive, I am better now than I was six and twelve and twenty-four hours ago, and I am surprised and excited by said improvement.

I will be posting more soon and hopefully it will have been worth the wait.

Peace.

TMLSB

I've got a bunch of stuff to write about when I get home on Sunday, but I haven't had time over the last day and a half. It's busier than you'd think laying around and planning for all of the things you don't need while you're in the hospital.

Until then I'd like to say thanks to my family, friends, co-workers, neighbors, Stalkers, Eggheads, THS'ers, and everyone else that's made this entire (very difficult) process as easy as it's been.

I also appreciate the kindness and generosity of relative and (all but) complete strangers. I would never have imagined that there were as many truly good people in the world as there are until experiencing this whole ordeal.

And a special thanks to the woman in the CT scan waiting room who was waiting for her husband's scan to finish. Her husband had gotten a kidney transplant ten years ago and that kidney was now failing. He is on the list for a new one, but you never know.

They also have a daughter that they care for at home that is in a coma due to blunt force trauma to the head. That daughter has been in a coma for 20 years.

And yet, in the face of all of that, while talking to me she said (on more than one occasion) that she'd pray for me. Not herself but me.

I'll say one for your family too, ma'am. God bless you and yours.

Sorry for the manifesto on Sunday. I'm enduring a combination of things at the moment: a need to keep everyone up to date, a need to be creative, and a need to be a bit self-indulgent.

The last one is laughable given the fact that I am forced to ask my wife (who's currently 71 weeks pregnant) to do everything for me.

"Honey, I know your water just broke, but could you bring me a diet Fresca? Hmmmm? Hmmmm?"

Anyway, here's where we are so far.

Yesterday (Monday November 7th) was a good day. No. Scratch that. It was a great day.

We had an appointment with Dr. Douglas Murphy at St. Joseph's. This guy came as highly regarded as I've ever heard of and to be just fit in with an appointment was laughable.

I actually ran this line of dialog thru my head several times thanks to the movie "Malice" starring Alec Baldwin and Nicole Kidman:

"You asked me if I had a God complex. Lady, I AM God."

We arrived early to be safe and were taken back to a room within ten minutes of our appointment. That was not something I was expecting at all.

I got a brief exam from Ann, a very nice and friendly nurse who filled out my history and all of that stuff.

What's funny is we now call the last nine days my "medical history" because prior to October 27th, it consisted of a tonsillectomy in 1972 and my wisdom teeth out in 1985 with a bunch of allergy-related stuff mixed in for good measure.

It's also wierd to fill that out where it asks "Have you ever had a cardiac catheterization?" and I have to answer "Yes...last Friday."

Ann told us the Doctor would be with us shortly and again, we fully expected to wait. We also expected a booming voice, a big ego and a lot of waiting, and we got none of those things. What we got was a soft-spoken, very kind doctor who made a lot of eye contact and was interested in being clear, informative, and allaying as many fears and concerns as possible.

Here was a guy who is one of the most respected men in his field, and he was wearing an off-the-rack shirt. I mean, what galactic worm hole have I fallen into here?

He explained the robotic-assisted procedure and how it worked. He explained that his priorities were, in this order:

1) To successfully get my heart re-started.
2) That I survived the procedure (which is kind of the same as number one).
3) To successfully complete the bypass.
4) To use the robot to complete this procedure in a less-invasive manner.

He then explained what was going to happen.

They would put me out (thank God) and would make a small entry into my left groin which would be where they would connect me to the heart-lung machine that would keep me alive while they stopped my heart to work on it.

(Two points here: My groin hasn't gotten this much attention from strangers since...well, never. Secondly, you hear a lot about bypass surgery like "Oh, Jerry's having a bypass done" or "Bob has to have a bypass" and it's become so common that you forget that it's not the bypass that's a big deal. The fact that they stop the human heart...YOUR human heart, do what they need to do and then fire it back up, is truly astonishing. At least it is when the guy is pointing to your chest).

Anyway, after I was hooked up to the heart-lung machine, they would make three or four small finger-sized incisions in my left chest as pictured here:


Of course, mine will be on my left breast and let's be honest, my left breastal region is a LOT hotter than THIS dude's. Anywho....

After that, the robot things will be inserted into my chest. The vein that will be harvested from my left mammary area will be removed, laid out and cleaned while the bypass site will be prepared.

Then, the bypass will be performed, the instruments removed, the heart restarted and finally I will be removed from the heart-lung machine a vastly superior being than I was just hours before, if that's even possible.

(Oh, somewhere along the way I will be put on a ventilator and have one of THOSE catheters inserted. I've heard that either of those aren't much fun but, at this point, I've become far more of a big picture guy than I was before).

I will then be returned to the Intensive Care Unit where I will spend the night (I think). After being awakened I will be moved to a regular room and will spend much of the following two days complaining, which means that I will be (hopefully) perfectly normal.

Depending upon how things go, I should be sent home either Saturday or Sunday. Unfortunately, a Sunday hospital discharge means that I will be watching the Auburn-Georgia game from a hospital bed. I welcome as many of you as the hospital will allow to come watch it with me. Seriously. I can't watch that game alone. How sad would THAT be?

Now let's backtrack to today. Dr. Murphy told me that he would arrange for me to get all the pre-op scans done (including a heart CT and X-rays) along with meeting the anesthesiologists and some other miscellaneous stuff.

If you want to know if this guy's the shizzle over there, consider the fact that I had never heard of him prior to Friday, he had never met me prior to yesterday, and he just "arranged" for them to "fit me in" for six hours of lab and office work amidst the patients with actual appointments.

Then, it's home for a leisurely Wednesday and a 4:30am wakeup the following day that would see me arriving at St. Joseph's by 5:30am Thursday to get the ball rolling and all of this stuff taken care of in short order.

You may notice that in previous posts I mentioned that I was a huge needlepuss and that I hated shots, yet I didn't even mention that today I'll be injected with dye, have multiple blood draws done and other stuff like that there.

It's because I stopped caring about shots and needles. No, I don't like them. No, I probably never will. But it's such a nothing thing to think about amidst all of this other stuff.

Also, the fact that I am so lucky to have had this blockage detected by something other than a call to 911 following a possibly fatal heart attack makes it seem trivial and very shallow to bitch about some minor discomforts along the way to repairing my heart, saving my life, and giving me what will effectively be a do-over at age 37.

Also, just a note to my friends, family, neighbors, co-workers and folks I've never met in person but simply "know" from teh internets:

Your prayers, good thoughts, well wishes and efforts at sending good Karma my way are all greatly appreciated. I have been surprisingly at peace since yesterday morning (and even before that) for a reason that I can't quite explain. Being a high-strung fella, it doesn't feel normal but for some reason, that's how it is.

One more thing I wanted to throw in here that didn't really fit anywhere else. The day I first went to the doctor about this "little" chest pain was last Monday. While there they did a resting EKG (which turned out to be normal) and did a blood draw to get my cholesterol. We finally got those results yesterday.

(Sidenote here: I've never EVER seen a physician look like he saw a ghost like Dr. Henderson did yesterday when he saw me. He just kept shaking his head and saying "I saw your DIMPS scan results and I just can't believe it. There was really no reason to send you for that stress test beyond a very minor chest pain, and even with these cholesterol results, there was STILL nothing to indicate a problem. I'm completely shocked.")

Now, consider that this wasn't a fasting cholesterol draw. In fact, I had eaten Zaxby's about two hours before this which would explain my tri-glyceride results.

Anyway, guess what my cholesterol was?

It was 144.

And with the exception of the triglycerides (which were about 326 or so) everything else was normal. In fact, at the bottom of the cholesterol panel there is a ratio that should be between zero and 4.5 and if you are outside of that, that displays a risk of heart attack.

Mine was 2.4

I also mention this because the first cardiologist I saw last Thursday asked me my cholesterol count and I said "I don't know, but it's around 140."

He replied "No way. I expect we'll find that you're cholesterol is very high."

I then said "I'll bet you my house and everything in it against yours that it's under 160."

He said "No way. You're on."

So Dr. S...I'd like my new house please.


And thanks Dr. Henderson. You saved my life.

(I'd like to preface this entire blog by saying that I am conveying my thoughts as they occurred, not in context of the overall experience. The patient care at St. Joseph's Hospital from the second I walked in the door until I was wheeled out to my wife's car was second to none. I didn't encounter one person that was anything less than totally professional, friendly, compassionate and comforting to a whiney ass like me. From the girl that wheeled me to my car all the way back to Dr. Untermann in the Cath Lab and everyone in between, I was never treated like anything less than the only patient they had to deal with that day).

First of all, let me apologize for my meloncholiness last week. You have to understand though that having this whole process compressed into a couple of days can be rather unsettling. I mean, from "Hey, I have a wierd little pain in my chest" to "We're now going to insert the balloon and stent wire" is a little over the top.

But let's not get ahead of ourselves. The last thing I told you was that I was being admitted to St. Joseph's Hospital Friday morning at 6am. I will continue the story from there. I apologize to those who were there for details that they know that I have forgotten, but morphine and other pain meds can do that to a brother, you dig?

So here's the deal from whence we last spoke.

I was told by the doctor to report to the admit desk at St. Joe's at 6am and that I could have nothing to drink after midnight Thursday night. No big deal. I ate a nice dinner of broiled Tilapia at about 6:00pm or so, and I drank a trainload of water to make sure my veins and vessels were nice and plump for the next morning (thanks Anne). I was also told that if I was it would be okay to take a Tylenol PM to help me sleep.

Really? A whole Tylenol PM? I'm having an in-patient cardiac procedure and your answer is Tylenol PM?

Egad.

My mother in law came over Thursday evening to take care of Lauren Friday, get her to school, and get her back to her house so my wife could stay there Friday night. That was quite a help indeed).

Anyway, I was finally able to fall asleep (Thanks, Tylenol PM) around 10:30pm or so. Since I had to get up at 4:30 to get showered and on our way, that was actually a decent night's sleep. I was fully expecting to simply stare at the ceiling pondering my own mortality all night. What a relief.

When I woke up Friday morning from the alarm clock's warning (thanks Bachman Turner Overdrive), I felt like someone on death row waiting to make "The Walk." Despite being about 600 weeks pregnant, my wife has been very positive and astoundingly supportive through this entire event).

We were able to be ready quickly since my wife has all her baby having luggage already packed in the car and the night before had packed my hospital stay stuff as well. (Having a wife that'scompletely anal retentive when it comes to packing is a God-send sometimes).

So, as I predicted, we arrived PLENTY early at the hospital. That allowed for plenty of wandering around trying to find the cath lab admit desk. Thank God, because my usually reliable navigational skills had apparently been rendered useless by all of this drama.

We finally arrived and signed in at the Cath Lab around 5:40am. My first sign that things were going to be alright was that the admit nurse at the desk looked up at me laughing and said "Don't tell me you walked into a Cardiac Cath Lab full of heart patients wearing a Kentucky Fried Chicken T-shirt?"

"Well yes ma'am. Apparently I did."

Ah, life's rich ironies.

Anywho, we got seated and started our waiting. Apparently there is a lot of waiting. I hadn't given this much thought but apparently the plan is to have plenty of patients lined up so that the docs don't have to wait, and that appears to be the best way to handle these things.

Much to my surprise, my waiting room posse began showing up shortly thereafter. My dad was there first to entertain us with his pacing, and Molly's sister Heather came second. I appreciated their presence more than they know.

I had been told that I was to arrive at 6am, I should / could be on a table by 8am, out by 9am and in a room by 10am. That didn't sound so bad.

I got my wristband (which is sort of like your cath lab Golden Ticket) around 7:45 and was taken back for the pre-op / bus station portion of the day around 8:15am and my wife and guests were told that they should be able to come see me in about 45 minutes.

I was led into curtain area 18 and advised to "remove everything and put this stuff on."

This stuff consisted of a pair of size 8 ankle socks with grippy bottom and a hospital gown that was about a size medium. How do I know this? Because the ties in the back didn't even reach. I mean seriously, I'm not here to be awarded the Most Fit In All The Land Award. Save these mini-gowns for the eating disorder ward. A bunch of XXL's and beyond would do well here.

So I packed all of my stuff into that prison check-in clear plastic bag and got dressed into my anti-shyness gear and climbed on to my gurney. I have yet to encounter a hospital gurney that was meant to acommodate my 6'3" frame. I'm always hanging off the endfrom mid-calf down.

I then met my prep nurse Heather. She was very pleasant, friendly, quite easy on the eyes, and was from the midwest with a mom from South Dakota, so we had plenty to talk about while I explained what a needle puss I am. She stated that she too was a needle puss, so I immediately felt better. Sure, she probably got this from page 2 of the "how to be a pre-op nurse" class, but hey, it worked.

(Oh, by the way, congratulations Heather on your upcoming nuptuals in Ireland in May. I hope you guys have a great time and have a great life too).

Then, while I was getting blood drawn, IV's placed and being told what was going on, I met the person that was going to shave my groin.

His name was Mike.

Mike was very considerate, friendly without being overly chatty, and did a nice job.

One highlight of this event is that Mike didn't completely shave the region. He took care of the left and right groin in case the Doctor wanted to send up a second cath from the other side, but he left the middle alone. So now I have the classic stripper muff all the way up to my navel, which to me is hilarious but to everyone else is horrifying because I keep wanting to show it to everyone. That happens when the entire population of Sandy Springs has seen your privates over the course of 28 hours, but I digress...

Anywho, once Mike was done and I was setup with a double tap IV in my left arm, my wife was allowed to come back and see me. She brought a surprise guest, my friend Hoss.

He and I've been best friends since the 8th grade and although life's events have conspired to keep us both busy and our respective laziness has kept us from keeping in touch, it was great to see him. (He is of similar build and lifestyle as me, so I think seeing me laying in pre-op waiting for a cardiac cath made him think a little).

Anyway, we talked and laughed for a while, and then Hoss went out so Heather could come in, and then my mom came in as well. It was great to see everyone and certainly made me less anxious, especially considering that I spent more time in pre-op than I did in the waiting room proper.

At about 10:45 Heather came back and told me to say my goodbyes and that they would be taking me in shortly.

The best thing that happened so far came next. A girl came and introduced herself as Tara and said that she would be my bartender (which as many of you know would be the most important person in the room in my eyes).

Tara is an old friend of my Brother-In-Law's sister Shannon. When Shannon found out what was happening, she had immediately called her friend Tara and asked her to do what she could to get on my case so she could make me more comfortable. I can't thank Shannon enough for that.

I was then wheeled into a nice and open but hideously cold room. I was moved on to a narrow table with arm holders on either side to lay my arms in so I could be still (and I'm sure they hoped, quiet as well).

I told Tara that I was a bit nervous and quite a needlepuss, and she said she'd take care of me, which I assure you she did.

The doctor came in, explained that he was going to get started, and got started by giving me two quick injection of novicane in my right groinal region. You know, not in the leg but not really in the stomach either. THAT groinal region.

The next span of time is a bit of a blur, even though I was very brave after being fortified by many doses of whatever delightful stuff they were giving me during the procedure.

According to Molly, the Doctor came out to see her after about 45 minutes (I don't recall him leaving, but that could have been because of the dancing cows I was seeing). I will now post her notes:

The procedure normally takes about 45 minutes.

After 45 minutes they came out and told us they did find blockage and would be attempting a stent and Todd would need to stay overnight.

Over an hour later the Dr. came out to talk to me and give me the bad news - the stent did not work. Todd has vein that is 100% blocked, and they refer to it as Total Coronary Occulsion. The Doctor worked on him for over 2 hours and tried 15 different wires but nothing would go through.

Side note: the Doctor said he had to give Todd 7-8 times the amount of normal drugs in order to "calm" him down. He kept saying your husband is a bit high strung. At one point he had to ask Todd to stop talking so he could concentrate. So, even during heart procedures while completely high on drugs Todd is talkative - imagine that!**

Anyway, since the angioplasty didn't work that means he needs bypass surgery.

Honestly, things got a little fuzzy after that. We had no idea there was a possibility that angioplasty might not work. Naive maybe, but no one ever mentioned it might not work. We were just excited that up to that point we had not heard the words bypass.

I will now return to my interpretation of the events.

After my initial fears and the introduction of various chemicals into my system, I realized that I couldn't feel anything and that if I looked straight up and a little left, I could see the screen the Doctor was watching and follow his progress.

There was a lot of talking that sounded a lot like Charlie Brown's teacher with the only words I really remember hearing being "Are you feeling okay?" and "Would you like some more pain stuff?" I repeatedly answered yes to both. Maybe that explains the dancing cows and the loud buzzing sound.

Then I remember getting sore around my lower back and upper ass. Really sore. It turns out that the table was really designed for 20-60 minutes and not the nearly two hours they kept me there. Not that I'm complaining. I appreciate their efforts greatly.

I am also glad I was EXTREMELY high when they wheeled me out and brought Molly in and told us that despite using 15 different wires, they were unable to poke thru my blockage. That was the first time anyone heard the B word: Bypass.

The Doctor kept apologizing saying he'd done his best and he was disappointed, but I wasn't mad. I'm still not mad. It is what it is.

Anyway, at that point we were introduced to Lilly, who turned out to be the PA for a Doctor Murphy. She stated that although she understood we were disappointed, she had been notified by Dr. Unterman to let them know that I looked like an excellent candidate for some sort of robot surgery.

Robot surgery? That sounds cool. Tell me more.

Lilly said that I "was an excellent candidate" because I am "so young and thin."

Wow. They have some pretty low standards at THAT hospital.

She explained that Dr. Murphy was one of the world leaders in this procedure and that she'd like me to meet with him ASAP, so we made an appointment for Monday at 10am. Here's some info on the procedure. It's very cool:

In 2002, Saint Joseph’s became the first hospital in Georgia – and one of only a few in the nation – to perform robotic-assisted, totally-endoscopic, closed-chest heart surgery. Saint Joseph's is one of the few hospitals in the nation to offer this advanced technique for patients undergoing general, urologic and advanced cardiothoracic surgical procedures, including coronary bypass surgery.

In addition, Saint Joseph’s was designated as the exclusive training center in the Southeast for the da Vinci robotic surgical system. As one of only five training sites in the world for the da Vinci Surgical System, physicians from throughout the southeast and around the world will be trained in the techniques of minimally invasive surgery.

The da Vinci system is a leap ahead for minimally-invasive procedures. Using da Vinci, traditional open-chest surgery can be accomplished endoscopically, without any incicions involving the ribs or breast bone, offering patients an alternative with less pain, reduced risk of infection and a speedier recovery.

The da Vinci Surgical system is operated by a surgeon sitting a few feet away from the patient at a console. Using a high-powered camera, the surgeon guides the arms of the robot that holds surgical tools which are inserted into the patient through small, keyhole-sized incisions.

The device has wristed instruments, which for the first time, allow the surgeon to move his own hands the way he would in a traditional surgery with precision, extraordinary control and range of motion. In addition, the da Vinci’s video monitoring system provides a three-dimensional view of the surgery with magnification ten times that of the naked eye allowing surgeons the ability to see the operating field more clearly.

The biggest advantage is that the minimally invasive procedure reduced the recovery time by a lot. If I had cracked chest bypass, I'd be in the hospital for a week or more and not back to work in well over a month to six weeks.

This way, I can be discharged in a few days and after resting for a full week, I should be ready to resume a normal life. I am getting ahead of myself however.

I was wheeled to a room on the 7th floor with Molly in tow. There were other people there when we arrived, but I don't remember who they were. I only remember for sure that Molly and Hoss and possibly Heather were there, but I was reminded that my mom visited as well.

I received an envelope full of emails from my Racing Stalker friends (thanks Ethel) and that made me feel a LOT better. (I am repeatedly astounded at the caring and friendliness of others far away. Despite its shortcomings, teh internets is truly an amazing place.

So after arriving in my room around 1pm or so, I was hooked to an IV and a blood pressure cuff and told that I was to keep my right leg still until around 10pm. That didn't sound fun.

What was less fun was the removal of the dressing on my groin around 2pm and the subsequent measures to assure that the wound was closed.

See, you can't just have an open wound in your femoral artery. You can bleed to death in a minute or so if that thing blows the clot, so they have to be very careful about the wound site.

"Very careful" means that application of a glorified c-clamp using the bottom of the bed as one side of the clamp and my groin as the other pressure point, and holding that there for about 28 minutes.

That was not my favorite part of being in the hospital.

Then the wound specialist gave me about a six pound sand bag the size of a really big hamburger bun and put in on the wound and said I had to leave it there for eight hours.

One other highlight of the day was another surprise visitor. One of our friends Amy (of Robert, Amy and Maya fame) has a sister that works at St. Joe's and apparently Robert and Amy asked her to stop in and check on me.

The wound care nurse lady came in to check on my groin and subsequently sent everyone out of the room and threw the covers back. At this point, everyone but the president had seen my wedding tackle and any modesty I brought into the hospital had been put away with my clothes in a plastic bag.

Just then, in walks Amy, or if not her, then it was Amy's twin sister. Actually, it was just Amy's sister coming to check on me.

I imagine that she, like everyone else, was overwhelmed at the sight of my genitalia.

(just kidding. If I weren't so high at the time, I'd also remember her name. But I appreciate her visit nonetheless).

The middle of the day remains fuzzy until the arrival of food around 5:30pm or so. Since I was in a Catholic hospital and it was Friday, I got...you guessed it...FISH!!

Actually, I got fish, corn, green beans, cole slaw and some apple sauce. I ate every bite of everything except the apple sauce and even ate some grilled chicken tenders on top of that. Apparently pain medicines make me hunry as shit.

The wife had gone so far above and beyond in this whole deal, especially considering that I fully expected her to give birth while I was in the Cath Lab. She finally hit the wall a little after 6pm Friday. I fell asleep around 6:20pm, got a phone call at 7pm and got a visit from my Dad (again) at a little after 7pm. We talked for about an hour or so and it was nice having him there. I know he's pretty freaked out about this whole thing and he has a hard time expressing all of that, so he paces and talks and that in itself is comforting to me, although the pacing apparently drives every other human insane.

After he left, I tried to sleep, but the automatic blood pressure measurements every 15 minutes and the visits every two hours for groin checks, temp, BP and pulse in the foot made it tough to sleep much.

They finally came and removed my sandbag at a little after 10pm which meant freedom to get up and pee by myself.

And let me say something about peeing in the hospital. I'm glad I didn't have a cathiter, but the bottle / jar they give you holds 1000 ml or one metric litre. That's a quart. But when you're on a fluid IV all day and put away cup after cup of water to keep the kidneys flushed, a human my size can make a LOT more than a litre of pee in one "effort." I had to take special care to pee often enough so as not to overfill the bed pee jar.

And I'm not even going to talk about the concept of bedpans.

So, I decided to go to sleep a little after 10pm, only to realize that sleep was tough, my IV arm hurt like shit, and that they were going to continue to visit me and wake me every two hours.

At the 2am visit that came at the same time as my IV machine giving an alarm, I asked for a darvacet, which I got. Didn't matter though as I still had a 4am visit and at 6am someone came in and wanted blood. That is no way to wake up, I assure you.

Saturday morning saw the wife getting there early (along with my Dad again), and after a few check ins by nurses and other folks, I saw Dr. Unterman and he updated us on everything.

Molly had a few questions and his answers brought some things into perspective. Here are a couple more notes from her:

"We are trying to focus on our good fortunes right now. Even though earlier in the week it felt like every time we turned around the news kept getting worse, we've come to realize it's actually getting better.

To quote cardiologist: ''The worst case should have been 3 months ago when your husband should have died of a heart attack."

Wow. That puts things into perspective.

Todd's heart actually has grown ancillary vessels which are making it possible for blood flow to occur. That's why he didn't have a heart attack and why he only feels pain when he exerts himself at this point. That's the most amazing /fortunate part of this whole ordeal. And we're fortunate that he went to the Doctor almost immediately after feeling pain (which we NEVER though would come to all of this). And we're fortunate that his cardiologist has recommended him for this new procedure with one of the most well respected doctors in the southeast and even in all the world."

So this is where we are. I have an appointment Monday at 10am to see if I can have this procedure done. The good news is that if I can, it'll be ASAP. The other good news is that if they get in and can't do it that way, they'll crack my chest and do it the old fashioned way, so either way I'm getting the bypass and getting fixed this week.

So long for now. I'll be back with some more as we move forward this week and further...

Well, here's the deal.

I have at least a 70% blockage in the vein that feeds the front of my heart.

According to the doctor, there is no permanent damage to my heart.

I am 37 years old and, with the exception of this heart thing (shit, that sounds dumb), I am good to go and should lead a long healthy life.

I am being admitted to St. Joseph's hospital in Atlanta tomorrow morning at 6am.

I am supposed to be on a table by 8am and done by 9am. The only thing I'm fairly sure of is that the procedure shouldn't take more than an hour.

Oh, I'm also sure that I will be scared shitless and will have had my balls shaved.

If things go as planned and I have my stent(s) installed, I will be spending the night in the hospital and will be released Saturday morning complete with blood thinners and a plan for my beginning on the Atkins diet.

I know this procedure is common and is done by hundreds of doctors thousands of times a day.

I also know that while confident, I am also afraid.

I know that I love my wife, my daughter and my unborn child more than life itself.

I love my family and friends more than most of them know.

I know that I would take the pain I feel a hundred fold if I could keep any of them from feeling anything like it for one second.

I know that I will make the changes I need to make to live healthier, longer, and better for all of the people I've mentioned.

And finally, I want everyone to know that I appreciate all of their kind thoughts, well wishes, good karma sent as well as prayers offered.

I am a blessed man.

I got a surprisingly good night's sleep last night considering what was hanging over my head for this morning. It was actually quite nice to surprise Lauren by still being not only home but in bed when she got up and came in around 6:30am. We watched some Sportscenter together while the wife readied herself for the day, and then we had breakfast together too.

Of course, Lauren had a cheese bagel and some juice while I had two pieces of bread and a glass of water. It was sort of like breakfast in prison during the depression.

Anyway, I got to the Doctor's office plenty early. That should surprise none of you that know me. I'm seldom if ever tardy anyway, but I certainly wasn't going to be on this day.

Let me preface this story by saying that I'm a HUGE needlepuss. I hate needles, shots, IV's, the thought of giving blood, etc. So the thought of getting anywhere from one to six injections of radioactive material did not appeal to me.

Oh, and one thing about the lobby. It was filled with geriatrics, octogenerians, and folks that weighed 400 pounds and couldn't move without a walker. How on God's green earth am I here with THESE folks?

Seriously, for the past four days all I've done is look at folks and say "why am I having chest pains when that 72 year old planetoid seems to be fine despite using the electric buzz-arounds at WalMart?" Anyway, I digress...

My appointment was at 8:30, and I was actually called back around 8:35. I had several of those electrode contact thingies applied about my torso and then she brought out the tournequet.

I've actually gotten better over the last few years and I actually did fine getting the IV. I guess knowing one shot is better than many is a pretty good motivator for thinking that the IV is okay. The Doctor came in and gave me the isotope injection and left.

I was then led out to a sub-waiting room. It wasn't under water or anything, but it was 3 chairs facing a marred up wall next to a table covered in those blue bible story books you find at all doctor's offices.

Luckily, I didn't have to wait long.

At 8:55am I was called into another room. I put my personal effects aside and laid down on a narrow sort of grooved table with my hands above my head and waited. They then started the process that took about 20 minutes of laying totally still. Not too tough for a guy that's spent the last 20 years as a basically sedentary being though.

Then, it was back into the exam room where I was hooked up to the EKG machine. I also couldn't help but notice the defibrilator behind the door. I don't know if that's a good or bad thing.

So I did the treadmill test, got to level four (which is only one third of what my 63 year old dad).

Anyway, let's skip forward to the phone call I just received. I am going back in this afternoon at 4pm for a consultation and to schedule a catheterization to identify and quantify the blockage of the artery on the front of my heart. That procedure will be performed, in all likelihood, by close of business tomorrow.

I will then schedule either an angioplasty or some other similar procedure depending upon what is found, and that procedure will, in all likelihood, be performed sometime within the week. That's right. I'm going to have a procedure on my heart less than four weeks prior to the birth of my second child.

I cannot believe that I have actually typed that last paragraph. I'm 37 years old.

Holy fucking shit.

It's Wednesday night. It's a little after 8pm and I just put Lauren to bed. Ordinarily this is the time of day where the wife and I relax, watch some TV, check out stuff on teh internets, etc.

I know that some of you come here for a laugh. Heck, most of you might come here to laugh with me or even at me. Makes no difference to me either way. My goal in all but about five of my blog entries has been to make folks laugh.

But not today.

Let me start from the beginning. Not the very beginning, but the beginning of the most recent chapter.

Sometime during the middle of last week (Wednesday or Thursday), I was running upstairs to get something, and I felt something. In my chest. For a point of reference, if you drew a horizontal line between your nipples and went up about two inches from the center point, right there it felt like someone was driving a railroad spike into my chest.

"What did I do?" you might ask.

I sat the hell down, that's what.

See, we all know I'm not a model of fitness. Hell, I'm barely a model of fatness. I am 37 years old, I smoked a pack a day or so for 21 years (until about four years ago), I drink more than I should and I haven't had any recurring meaningful exercise in about, I don't know, 15 or so years.

So, I understand that I have physical limitations. My aches and pains have aches and pains after doing big phyiscal work like heavy landscaping, moving charcoal by the pallet, or apparently walking up the stairs.

But I have never had a chest pain. Ever. And if you haven't had one either, let me tell you one thing.

It get's your fucking attention.

And I'm not talking chest pain as in Fred Sandford and his "I'm comin' to join you, honey!!" routine or the "Holy shit I think I'm going to die" chest pain.

I'm just talking about a little discomfort that goes away within ten seconds of stopping whatever I was doing to cause it.

In case you didn't know, in the cardio business, they ask you to describe your pain on a scale of one to ten, with one being almost nothing and ten being what you feel the second before you die from pain.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me get back to the order of how things went down.

So I felt this pain and decided that before I could go to the doctor, I needed to be able to quantify the pain and accurately describe its location. Otherwise, my issue might be misdiagnosed.

Well, every time I either went from the kitchen to my office or vice versa, or from the parking lot at work to my office or the other way around, it happened.

The pain would be best described as a very specific kind of pain that would come if someone drove a very narrow spike thru your sternum in the location I described above. It would cease within five to ten seconds of my stopping whatever had angered whatever was causing me this pain.

I got thru the weekend without totally freaking out and then left work early Monday to attend Lauren's Fall Party at school.

When we got home, I mentioned to the wife what had been happening. Needless to say, she was disappointed in me for not telling her.

I explained that I didn't want to worry her unnecessarily until I had a better idea of what and where it was.

She said "You need to go to the doctor. Now."

I replied, "But babe, I was planning to go tomorrow (Tuesday)."

She said "No. I think you need to go to the doctor. Now."

So off I went to the Doctor.

Anyway, after describing the issue to the nurse guy, I spoke with the doctor. He decided to give me an EKG and take a blood sample to check my cholesterol.

I had a normal resting EKG and had my cholesterol checked (which I don't have back yet, but I know is under 160. It always is).

The Doctor said that despite the fact that he didn't see a resting EKG irregularity, the pain and it's pattern warranted a cardiovascular stress test via the treadmill. This joy would take place Wednesday afernoon at 2:30pm. Yipee.

So I left work in time to make it to my appointment in a timely fashion, and filled out the pages and pages of questions they ask you when you report that you're having chest pains.

Then they took me into a room that had a chart on the wall describing the three steps of the nuclear something or other exam. The first step was the treadmill, the second involved the injecting of dye and a much more indepth exam, and the third part, well...that part I was too scared to read.

The nurse hooked me up to an EKG and I got on the treadmill and started to move.

About six or eight minutes in when my heartrate was about 150bpm, the pain came back, but worse. I told the nurse, she called a doctor, and they asked me the "how's your pain on a scale of one to ten?"

I didn't want to overstate or understate the pain. I am, by all accounts, a tremendous pussy. But I wanted to get this right. So I said "three to three and a half."

Like I said, it wasn't "holy shit!" myocardial infarction pain, but it was pain nonetheless.

The doctor set the treadmill to "cooldown" and I did just that. And the pain went away within ten seconds.

The doctor looked at the EKG and said that he noticed some "irregularities" around the time I was describing my "discomfort."

I was then told that, due to those results, I'd need to come back (Thursday at 8:30am as it turns out) for stage two of the nuclear something exam called DIMPS (Dual Isotope Myocardial Perfusion Scan). That's where I spend six hours tomorrow doing the following:

Check in.
Get an IV put in for the six or so injections of radioactive material I'll get throughout the day.
Lay down for 10 to 30 minutes while my heart is observed and filmed at rest.
Hustle on the treadmill until I get to that "discomfort" part from today.
Lay back down for 10 to 30 minutes while my heart is observed kicking ass.

Then, I'll lay there until my heart is totally at rest again, and they'll start over.

After two or three rounds of this, I get to go get some lunch.

When I return, they'll do this whole thing two or three more times.

After that, I'll come home and wait for them to call me and tell me (hopefully) what it is and that (more hopefully) it's either stress or something that's minor enough that it can be treated with medication.

But I know it's not stress. I don't know that it's something serious, but it's not nothing either. And the steps that aren't medicine are things that I don't want to think about as I write this.

I don't want to stress my wife (or myself) any more than I have to right now. She's got enough to worry about. All I want to do is stay home and hold my sweet child and comfort my wife and assure her that everything's going to be okay, even though I'm not sure that it is.

The good news is that I'm 37. I know that doesn't sound good, but it is. I am young enough (in all likelihood) to make the required changes in my life so that I can get past this and never look back and lead a healthy a normal life.

So that's it for now. I'll post more as I know more.