Married to a SuperHero . . .

(the photo to the left is a work of art on 7D at the U of M, entitled 100 Firecrackers . . .we counted 'em—there's only 98 . . .)

It ain't easy, being married to a SuperHero, I'm tellin' ya . . . I'm beginning to think I'm not just sorely, but pathetically, under-qualified for the job. I mean, ironing the capes, polishing the bullet-deflecting cuffs, hand-washing (in cold water, of course, with Woolite) the tights, the death-defying acts . . .

I don't even know how to begin to explain the events of the past week, or how we've segued into life back at home, as though the heart attack on Sunday was just another day in the life . . . of Bob. Back home, with a bunch of new-old meds (Plavix, lisinopril, Coreg, full aspirin instead of just a baby aspirin—stuff he took when he had his first heart attack three years ago) to add to the Rx collection, a humongous bruise on his left hip and Band-Aids on his neck (from the pacemaker and Swan catheter) . . . Rock 'n' roll, life goes on . . .

I had to work the rest of the week, which made me sick to my stomach, leaving Bob for so long every day, even though his parents would be with him throughout the day. I'd drive to the U in the morning, before work, to say "hi" to Bob, and again, after work, to kiss him goodnight. (Bob even got a surprise visit while he was in cardiac rehab, from an "old" but good friend and his wife, who were in town for a short time!) But once I got to work, I found it was easier being there and being so busy with clients rather than fretting and pacing and sitting around at the U all day, not able to do anything useful. Nancy and Brian and the girls stayed till Wednesday, were finally able to see and talk to Bob, conscious and alert and sans most tubes/lines/catheters, which was a huge relief, then had to take off for the long drive to Des Moines, for Brian's dad's funeral, which was on Thursday, followed by a long drive back to Billings.

After Bob was discharged on Thursday, Penny and Jim stayed with Bob until Friday evening, when I got home from work. Made me feel so much better about having to go to work, knowing Bob would be in good care under their watchful eye. When I got home, I saw that P & J had raked the front yard, cleared the rock garden of winter debris, taken the recycling out to the road, and dinner was just getting done as I walked in the door (lasagna brought over by very kind neighbors). Earlier in the week, Jim had put up a new mailbox for us (to replace the one Bob had backed into last year. Yes, Bob backed into it, not me). I am not kidding when I say P&J can stay with us as long as they want.

Bob hadn't been home but a few days when we decided to take another little trip to ER this

morning. Bob woke me around 6 a.m.; his heart was racing, he was restless and full of anxiety, no chest pains or any other physical symptoms, but he'd taken his blood pressure and found it was 187/112. No question about it, I said I was calling 911 and picked up the phone. I was connected almost immediately, and told the dispatcher what was going on; that Bob had just had a heart attack on Sunday, was discharged Thursday, and was now feeling restless, anxious and had ridiculously high blood pressure reading. The dispatcher asked me a few more questions, then said an ambulance and sheriff would be arriving shortly. She asked if I wanted to keep her on the line till they arrived, I didn't think that was necessary, that I'd call if I needed.

As we waited for the paramedics to arrive, I kept asking Bob how he was doing, all the while picking up the house, sticking dishes in the dishwasher . . . keep busy, keep busy, keep busy . . .I kept looking at the clock. 8 minutes passed. 12 minutes passed. 18 minutes . . . at least 20 minutes went by when I finally saw headlights illuminate the driveway, a red beacon swirling in the darkness. Thank god the siren wasn't wailing. I met the paramedics at the door, lead them to Bob and stood back and watched as they hooked Bob up to a mobile EKG machine, and asked him questions. A few minutes went by, then one of the medics said it didn't appear that Bob was having another heart attack, but given what he's been through the past week, asked if he wanted to go in to the hospital, just to be safe. Bob looked at me and I said absolutely. At this stage, no taking chances. I said I'd follow in the car, and after putting the dogs in the house, I hopped in the car and sped down 94, to the U.

I found Bob in a room, already hooked up to an IV, with a technician attaching electrodes to his chest, arms and legs, then clipping wires to the electrodes, like tiny jumper cables, to get another EKG reading. The goal, we're told, is to check the heart, check his blood levels, see if things have changed dramatically since being discharged. One of the tending nurses watched Bob as he changed into a hospital gown and exclaimed, "You're amanciated! You could certainly stand to gain a few pounds!" I'm still not sure if she meant Bob was wasting away or if he was free! from legal, political and/or social restrictions . . . six of one, twelve dozen of another*, I guess . . .

We were at the U from about 6:45 a.m., till nearly 1 p.m. Lots of blood drawn, another EKG, then an echocardiogram then more meds. Conclusion is that there has been no changes in Bob's condition since being discharged (they compared their results to the cardiology records from from earlier in the week). Echo shows no signs of any thing amiss and the blood labs came back with nothing out of whack. What Bob experienced was likely an anxiety attack, but we were told it was good to be safe than sorry, especially considering how "fresh" the heart attack was, and that some of his symptoms are symptoms of heart problems. Around 1 p.m., Bob was unhooked from the IV's, the electrodes and was free to go.

To say we have a lot of unanswered questions in this great big drama is a pathetic understatement. It would take a whole 'nuther blog to address all the concerns, all the questions, all the "what if's" and "if only's" . . . right now, we're trying to look at this as just another roadblock on the journey. One more reminder that this big ol' C word doesn't play by the rules, doesn't follow our plans, our lead, but makes us even more determined to outsmart it, to get ahead of the game, be even more proactive, more involved . . .

If there's one thing that's becoming more and more clear, it's that Bob is definitely a poster boy for adverse effects of childhood cancer treatments. We talked about that last night, that maybe there could be some good out of this, that he be an advocate for cancer survivors . . . I gotta believe that he's a disturbing anomaly, even in the world of cancer. Childhood cancer survivor, heart attack survivor, now secondary cancer patient and second heart attack survivor. All inextricably related to the radiation he had way back when . . . the information is out there. It is no secret that cancer survivors, particularly ones who've had radiation treatment, have a higher incident of heart issues, secondary cancers. The thing is, the people who need to know this the most are the people who aren't getting this information: primary physicians. Back surgeons. Practitioners who don't deal with cancer survivors on a daily basis. Which means patients aren't being told all the information they need to make the best decisions they can about their own health care. . .reactive, reactive reactive effed-up system . . .

Well, off to iron a few capes. Till next time . . .

*I should probably explain that one, lest someone think I'm a big ol' dork, which I am, but don't need to underscore the fact . . . I used to work with Queen of the Malaprop, a woman who'd constantly butcher familiar words and phrases. "Six of one, 12 dozen of another" was one of her favorites . . .