This week, my husband had a week long ambulatory 24/7 EEG to see how his brain works. It works as well as any other man’s, I guess. It’s his HEART that is giving him problems. He was in the hospital for a week a couple of weeks ago. I realize that doctors know how to read tests and where the skills come in is knowing which test to order. So it’s not his head, it’s his heart. And it’s not really his heart, it’s a tumor he has that ramps up his adrenaline output to equal that of the first place horse in the Kentucky Derby. Pounds too fast to leave much time for thinking, which looks a little like a stroke but isn’t.
So we are laying around on Saturday, talking about nothing and he gradually goes silent. And blank. So up I jump to check on him. Eyes? Dilated. Heart? Pounding. Doesn’t recognize me. Call the ambulance, lock up the dogs, get him loaded up and I get there before the bus. WTF? BEFORE the ambulance? So I’m hanging in the ER, talking to the doctor (Jones or Smith or some common Anglo name). Tests are run. He thinks it’s his heart. And the smoking. (Duh)
So here it is 24 hours later. He is tethered to his bed, filled with tubes and electrical leads. The plan is to run a wire into his heart tomorrow and check around, removal of the tumor and insert a pacemaker, sort of in that order. Maybe some other stuff, too. The oncologist whom we saw last month and told us that we had plenty of time to schedule the surgery? He’ll be there. They put the little EEG do-rag on his head so they can monitor that activity.
Me? I need to get all of the money out of his business account and stash it so I can pay the bills. Worried? If you had a clue of what life has been like lately, dying on the table would be a favor. In fact, I’D climb up there and die, too.
It’s been a long and hard winter. My shoulder is still a mess.
And I still can’t find my scissors, although I can hear something sliding around when I’m driving.