Tuesday, July 12, 2011

I'm a 10 and my heart attack will not define me.

Should I consider it healthy that I get irritated at things like, say, my husband calling me at work, not leaving a message, and then when I call him back, it rolls right to his voice mail... which then, somehow, causes me to call Audrey (because she is home 'babysitting' her brothers while Matt 'works' out of the house), who runs inside... and asks Matt if he needs to talk to me... um, yes, he does, and then he gets on the phone and proceeds to tell me he had to call 911... because he thinks he is having a heart attack. Irritating? Healthy? Yes? Prolly not.

(And, he calls me before he calls  911? I think I have successfully fooled him into thinking that I am, in fact, educated with a medical degree.)

Or, do you find it healthy that after my darling, adorable husband calls 911 today, and informs our children of the squad's impending arrival, that they patiently wait out on the driveway so they can greet the ambulance, as though they are in a parade? The paramedics drove down the street and saw our children in our driveway hooting and hollering and waving, as though there was a party going on, so they didn't think the 911 call actually came from our house.

Where do those children get that from? All I have to say is THANK GOODNESS Matt was not inside the house in full cardiac arrest, if you know what I mean.

Apparently, me and the kids were the only ones who were aware that there was no possible way Matt was actually heart attack-ing.  

No, I do not know why I can find humor in it (or why I laughed a little at my own father's funeral thirteen years ago when my breasts starting leaking - I was 7 1/2 mos. pregnant with Audrey), but I can, and yes, I did laugh most of the day spent in the local Emergency Room. Which was a lovely experience, by the way.

And, I did inform Matt that if, in fact, he did happen to succumb to a heart attack, I would still be able to chuckle at a thing or two. Some things you can't change, so you may as well just find some light in them, you know?
Like, remember the time today when you THOUGHT you were having a heart attack, but it was really a panic attack?  
(Before you get all up in my business about being insensitive, I have not had a heart attack, which would be horrible, - truly, for anyone, of course - but I have had a panic attack, thank you. And trust me, I have had my fair share of loss. There is always time for drama later.)
Or, the time I thought Matt was succuming to a horrible liver disease, yet he 'only had' pleurisy?
Or, that other time that Matt thought he was dying of the poops when he passed out on the toilet? Or should I say, 'off' the toilet?  
Or, "I'm a 10. And, my heart attack will not define me."
Or, the fact that when we got home from the ER after Matt's heart / panic attack today and Matt mentioned that he was having some pain in his chest again... and, Audrey's response was, "I will NOT stay here with those boys again."  She had obviously paid her dues.
Okay, in all seriousness, here is what happened... today... right around 11:30am...

Crushing chest pain. Numb fingers. Tingly up his neck. Sweating. Nausea. WebMD. Me at work. Matt home with the kids. The rest is history.

Two normal resting EKGs. One devoured Subway sandwich meal while lounging in the hospital bed. Clean chest X-ray. Perfect labs. Ouchie IV port. No heart attack. Probable anxiety/panic attack. Which I also find comical because Matt's disposition is borderline-comatose. Or, is he just playing us?

(On a side note, it will also be super funny if Matt ended up on 'happy pills'. Just cause.)

We are FREE! Nothing 'strenuous' - and you know what I am talking about - until he has a follow up with his PCP (and, likely, a stress test). But other than that... all is swell.

And, within 5 minutes of being back at the office... I mean, 'at home'... he is back at the office. Still a bit of pain in his chest until he took a break for a good long time. Like all night. From that stupid computer. And the other computer. And his phone. And his brain.

'WE' have decided that 18 hour/day work days likely won't cut it any more. And, I am happy to report that, as of now, he is slumbering comfortably next to me as I type.

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