Wednesday, October 11, 2017

What's A Heart For ?

Waking today has been a pleasure even though at the beginning of the week, today was never to come, only to be left for memory lane. Went to the hospital, Sunday, October 1, late afternoon. My eyes had gone haywire, my head was whirling, and without a clue I was coughing up the dry heaves for minutes at a time, for periods of 10 minute duration.

The ambulance crew took my vital signs upon loading me and one in particular stuck out, my heart rate, which constantly recorded below 40 beats per minute. For one period the rate dipped below 30 down into the high 20's. They took me to the ER at Sarasota Memorial and I was admitted there.

The admitting ER doctor asked me of any pains, which having none, he said a pacemaker would be the only thing he could suggest that would address the apparent problem with my heart. Where at, I asked him if implanting a pace maker would that improve my overall life issues ? No, he replied. I would still be confined to a walker and would decline further from ordinary age infirmities. He could not predict how poor my heart was, only that the slowing in beats, was an indicator of something in my heart functions were happening negative to norm. Norm in our population is between 70 and 100 beats per minute.

My thought was, why in Hell would I extend an undesirable life of decline, pain, and anguish ? Beyond that, my thought was, I've given life nearly 83 years, so is there some gate keeper keeping track of my accomplishments while living and I haven't given enough ? Or, Is my heart just telling me, Ron, you've done plenty but now's the time to let go. You've wet enough diapers, soiled your share, put more than your share of helpers busy tending to your individual needs.

Friday came and my five days were up as the ambulance team swept in and whisked me away delivering me back to Nokomis. I'm still in the .Hospice system but now at home where nurses and social workers come to deliver services. I now have a wide seat Wheel Chair, a newer hospital bed, a rolling table. My only wish would be that infirmities would pop up to be corrected, but not so, they seem to pop up to accumulate into a deadly group of singing goodbyes.

Ronald C. Downie