The Death and Transfiguration of a Daydreamer, in Three Parts.

Part Three:

When last we left, I was back in rhythm and happily planning a summer in Oxford. Time is a little telescoped here, but I don’t have all day.

I lose weight. I learn to exercise on a serious level. I brush up my Shakespeare. Did I mention that I lost weight? Life is good and all is right in the heavens. And, of course, there is the weight loss.

Off I go to the UK and I have the time of my life. Oxford is something that I’ve always wanted and it turned out to be more than I had dreamed. If you haven’t read the Oxford portions of my Blog, you might wish to go back to the first entries and browse a bit. The Oxford sections are not only some of the highlights of my life, but this Blog as well.

Anyhow, back to the tale of Kenn and his Wacky Heart Machine. With all the dieting and exercise my body is coming along nicely, thank you. Before I leave for Oxford I see my Cardiologist and he orders a bunch of test. What these test show is that my heart is happy. The heart muscle has restored and is stronger than it has been for a long time. Not only that, but the blood work shows that I’m not a diabetic anymore. Whoa, Nellie. Life is getting better and better, despite having a boss who has a hissy fit because he missed two chances to see me dead. I really have to do something about him; it’s getting a little scary.

So, now I’m back from Oxford things are tap dancing right along, then the shock. My heart goes out of rhythm. Not for long, only a couple of days, but that’s the first time in months. Things are good for a while and then it slips out again. For the most part I don’t really notice it, only when I’m paying attention. At first there are no real symptoms only the beat that I can feel is off.

More test! The heart muscle is strong, and as an aside I’m am still no longer a diabetic, but fear thy name is fibrillation. After the New Year it is happening more often, only now I am beginning to see symptoms when, and as, it is happening. Shortness of breath when climbing steps, sometime a bit dizzy, a couple of time baby pains in my chest.

Two weeks ago I go see my Internist and fill him in on what is happening. That’s when he tells me that my Cardiologist is leaving his medical group and moving out of state. This is the guy that not only saved me but, is one of the few Doctors in the South that can prescribe the medication that I am taking.

I make the appointment and in the office he does an EKG and my heart shows that it is in perfect rhythm. This is on a Monday. Tuesday morning my heart is out again. I call my Internist who says I should call my Cardiologist who, now, is out of the office for the next week. I call back my Internist who insists that I go to the Emergency Room.

The final episode in the chronicle: My Cardiologist has told me that he thinks I should have an Arterial Abation. The benefit of this should be that my heart would stay in rhythm and I could stop taking the special medicine. Also I could drop the blood thinner, as I wouldn’t need to worry so much about a stroke. For this a catheter is inserted into your heart and then electric shock is administered directly to the heart muscle. I can feel my boss starting to perk up. In other words, this tiny wire zaps the crap out of places in your heart that are destroying the parts of the muscle that is causing the flutter. Does that sound like a fun weekend or what?

Back to last Wednesday. I go to the Emergency Room, they hook me up they find that indeed I am out of rhythm. Going over my condition with the ER Doctor I mention the Abation. He says, “You know, that doesn’t always work.” Oh Great! That was just what I was hoping to hear from yet another Doctor. “Nope,” he says, “with sinus problems, you just learn to live with them. Keep your blood thin and go on about your business.”

I mention my shortness of breath, my dizziness and he says, “Naww, probably psychosomatic.”

Now we arrive at the question: What the hell do I do? Who do I trust?

Breaking it down, this is what I see. I have an Internist, who I love to death; he is the best Doctor I think I’ve ever had. But, like all Doctors who need to worry about insurance and lawsuits, his position is, “It’s not my job, your honor, I sent him to a specialist. My hands are clean.” Then I have the Cardiologist who says, “This is what you need, try it, and you’ll like it.” I don’t want to say that he is motivated by money after all he is leaving the state. But, is he passing me and my rather good insurance, on to his buds, sort of some kind of parting gift in reverse? This thought has crossed my mind.

Then we have the ER guy who says, “Don’t worry, Be happy.” But, this is a guy that sees terrible stuff everyday. Heads lying on one examination table while the rest of the body is on another, guts on the floor from knife wounds, real heart attack victims are his daily bread. Whatever I have would seem to him to be a hangnail.

So, I am passing the buck on to you, my friends. What do you think I should do?

My choices, as I see them are three. First, have the Abation and let my insurance company deal with it. The downside is that according to what I read on the Internet there is a 2% chance of death with this procedure. To put it another way, I have a better chance of dying on the table than I do of winning the lotto.

Second, I don’t have the Abation and just get on with life. The downside here is that I still my have the shortness of breath or the dizziness and it may not have been psychosomatic. I may be a stroke just waiting to happen.

Third, drink a lot more Irish Whisky and just get on with life. The downside here is… wait a minute… I can’t think of a downside.

So, my dear friends, we are having a contest. In fifty words or less tell me what you think I should do. The winner gets to deliver the eulogy, should it become necessary, along with what ever is left of the Irish Whisky.

Oh, by the way, the good news I promised you three days ago; my heart seems to be in rhythm and I’m feeling pretty good. Maybe the Irish Whisky worked, and it was just the rotten ice cubes that caused all the trouble.