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dcnovice -> DC Update: "The luckiest man . . ." (10/2/2015 5:29:31 PM)
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October 2, 2015
“The luckiest man . . .”
Dear Ones ---
I know I haven’t written in ages, and I apologize. I hesitated to inflict my hard summer on the rest of you, plus concentration was scarce.
On August 3rd, I was readmitted to Georgetown University Hospital, after discovering the previous day that I couldn’t walk a city block without half a dozen stops to—literally—catch my breath. I was there till the 11th. The problem turned out, once again, to be fluid trespassing in my chest, compressing the right lung. Some docs called it “congestive heart failure”; some didn’t. I hope to get a definitive ruling from my cardiologist once I’m able to lie flat on my back for a CT scan.
To evict the fluid, I had lots of diuretics along with a needle drain of some 800 ml of fluid. I also underwent a host of breathing treatments to open up my airways. They were actually quite relaxing, and I tried to imagine I was at a spa.
This latest stay brought grim clarity about a reality I’d denied for months. One of the many numbers watched by medical teams are one’s “pulse ox” or “sat,” the extent to which the blood is saturated with oxygen. Ideally, the number should be in the high 90s. I was running in the mid-to-low 90s at rest and “desatting”—or plunging—any time I moved. Doctors really dislike desatting. That’s what landed me in the ICU back in the spring.
Not being a doctor, I didn’t worry much about desatting. As long as I could walk, talk, and still breathe, I figured I was okay. I remember walking with a nurse during an earlier stay and noticing that my sat was in the mid-to-high 80s. “So when,” I asked cheerfully while moving along at a clip, “is the number low enough that we worry about it?” Pause. She replied, “Well, now actually.” We finished the walk in silence.
What I’d never grasped—probably because I didn’t want to—was that my endlessly adaptable body can soldier on for quite a while on low oxygen rations. That’s always fooled me into thinking I was okay. In reality, though, I was flunking my sats, my cells were starving, and I was probably damaging my organs. Lovely.
That blunt explanation of what was going on was only punch one. The second blow was a stern warning from the attending pulmonologist that I’d wind up back in the ICU, spending weeks on a ventilator, if I didn’t accept and act on the need for supplementary oxygen. I’d resisted that prescription for months, since hauling oxygen around is a huge nuisance, particularly when one’s already toting ostomy supplies and a fluffy pillow. (The latter, I’m glad to report, as I type this sitting down, is no longer a needful accessory. That’s a huge quality-of-life improvement!)
Alas, the fluid gathered yet again, and it began creeping leftward. My pulmonologist doubled my diuretics dose, and but that didn’t do the trick. So I had another needle drain on September 24th. That one yielded 1,600 ml, twice the volume of its predecessor. This was the first time I actually glimpsed the fluid. To my surprise, it was amber, like brandy. Not sure why, but I’d always expected it to be clear.
Since then, I’ve been breathing better and have stepped up my diligence about supplementary oxygen. I’m not any fonder of lugging heavy, cumbersome tanks, but I understand the need for it. And that brings us to this afternoon.
I had a 2:15 p.m. appointment at the office of the dermatological surgeon who’d recently removed basal cell carcinomas from my chest and right arm. Naturally, I brought oxygen along. My tanks come in two sizes: about 20 inches long and about 30 inches long. I took one of the larger tanks; it fit well into a rolling cart, and I wouldn’t run out of O2.
This afternoon was my first time transporting a large tank by taxi. It and the cart were too large for the back seat, so they went in the trunk. That meant that when I sat down, short of breath from wrestling with my cargo, there was no remedy but gulping air. On the ride home, I came pretty close to hyperventilating, and it took real mental effort to stave off panic. (I have a whole new sympathy for asthmatic kids! And adults too, for that matter.)
This all took place in pouring rain, so I was sodden. Marjorie (my stoma) decided during both trips that the cab was the perfect place for filling my bag with waste, gas, and worry. By the time I got home, I was feeling pretty sorry for myself. Dripping and shivering outside the apartment door, I burrowed into my pocket for my keys. As I did so, a totally unexpected sentence lodged in my brain: “I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of this earth.”
Those words come, as many of you no doubt know, from Lou Gehrig's farewell to his fans at Yankee Stadium on July 4, 1939. I’d heard years ago about that awesome speech, but I’d never read it till tonight. It is simply astonishing.
Freshly diagnosed with ALS and bidding adieu to a stellar career he’d loved, Gehrig stood on the field in his pinstripes and enumerated the blessings of his life: “kindness and encouragement from you fans,” his 17-year career, the men he played baseball with and for, his mother-in-law, his parents, his wife. “So I close in saying,” he said, “that I might have been given a bad break, but I’ve got an awful lot to live for.”
The Lou Gehrig website says there wasn’t a dry eye in Yankee Stadium, and I believe it. Even this Mets fan teared up. And then I thought about my own lot in life. There have definitely been bad breaks (though nothing to rival ALS), and some days bring dark daydreams about escaping the new normal.
But then there are my blessings. Family and friends have graciously and generously seen me through good times and bad. Hardworking parents, financial aid, and summer jobs I still dine out on gave me a great education. For nearly three decades now, people have actually paid me to read and write. I live in a sunny, gracious apartment in a beautiful city. I carry keys to a President’s house and get to tell its stories to rapt visitors. I belong to a church that welcomes me just as I am and has surrounded me with love during the troubles of recent years. I have caring doctors and a health plan that pays for them. I live with a sweet, gorgeous cat. And I have so much more.
So yes, “I’ve got an awful lot to live for.” And you’re part of it.
Thanks and love!
Cheers,
DC
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