Anita Swanson Speake - Heartsong: Living with a Dying Heart: A Memoir

Heartsong

Copyright 2019 Anita Swanson Speake

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Published 2019

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN: 978-1-63152-437-0 pbk

ISBN: 978-1-63152-438-7 ebk

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018961524

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If suffering alone taught, then all the world would be wise. To suffering must be added mourning, understanding, and patience...

Anne Morrow Lindbergh

We were hiking. Walking, really. It was something my husband and I did often, but this morning was especially promising. The recent warm weather and snow melt had given us reason to hope that the mountains just might be showing off. Creek beds, dry and rocky in the summer, would now be filled with crystal clear water rushing down the canyon. Snowcapped summits near our home, if winter had worked its magic, would be sending a waterfall tumbling over the cliff.

And so we walked with anticipationbut I, as usual, was worried.

Heres the deal, I said, slightly out of breath. What if I wake up dead tomorrow morning?

It wasnt an everyday question to ask my husband, but then again, I didnt have an everyday diagnosis.

With great patience, G tried to reassure me. Youre not going to wake up dead tomorrow morning or any other morning for that matter.

But I could, I insisted. And then youd be upset and sad about the fact that Id died, and youd have to call the girls, whod be all upset and sad as well, and everything would just be a mess. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and stay awake for as long as I can just to prove to myself that I havent died yet.

My husband looked skeptical.

Its true! I cried. And then when the morning comes, and I realize Ive made it through to another day, I give God a big shout-out. I glanced over at him. Now, you would probably think it would end there, but it doesnt. This whole worrying thing starts up all over again with a brand-new day. Its hard, G. Its really hard.

Well, if it makes you feel any better, he said evenly, I think you should know that I dont worry about it all.

I stopped walking and stared him in disbelief. You dont?

He stopped too. No, I dont. Would you like me to tell you why?

Yes. Yes. I would.

Because the doctors have said your heart is responding to the medication. Its getting stronger, and I think youre going to just continue to get better.

Hmm... I said, not convinced.

This am-I-living-or-am-I-dying had turned out to be tricky business. G believed the doctors, but these facts remained: without the meds that sometimes worked and sometimes didnt, my heart would die. And I, of course, would go along with it.

However, on this particular morning, Gs optimism was infectious, and so for the moment I gave in. We were walking. It was springtime in the mountains, and I was still alive.

Lets keep going. G placed his hand beneath my elbow and urged me onward. We can walk and talk about your worries at the same time.

I started moving, albeit a bit reluctantly.

Let me ask you something, G said. Did anyone ever tell you that you could wake up dead?

I shook my head. No.

So your mind just made this up?

Yes. Well, not exactly. When I worked in the emergency room, the paramedics would often tell stories. Some of them were about the early-morning runs theyd make for people whod gone to bed and never woken up. Theyd say things like, Yeah, we had a lot of woke-up-dead calls this morning.

Okay. Fine. So the paramedics told you stories. I just think that your medication is buying you time. Lots of time. Maybe even decades. Again, G urged me onward. Were almost there. I think I hear the creek. He sounded excited. The water level must be really high.

I encouraged my husband with a smile, but my thoughts took off in another direction. There were days when my coping mechanisms worked exceedingly well, but this was not one of them. My fear of dying kept darting in and out. One minute I was fine and the next minute I wasnt.

My cardiac diagnosis had stunned me. I wasnt ready for it; in fact, as it turned out, I wasnt ready for much of anything associated with disease or dying. But then who is, really?

I wasnt ready to leave G. I wasnt ready to leave my grown children or my young grandchildren. The thought of not being here for them was heartbreakingand believe me, I know a thing or two about broken hearts.

Decades. G thought I had decades left to live.

I was hoping to just make it another year.

T he cardiologist closed my chart. You no longer have the luxury of time. I need you to get an angiogram sooner rather than later. Its impossible for me to tell whats really going on with your heart without it.

This particular cardiologist was a very tiny woman who wore a pristine white lab coat that threatened to consume her. Certainly, the sleeves were too long. They nearly covered up her fingertips, and the length of the coat far exceeded anything that said I should take her seriously. Her name, however, was embroidered in red script on her left shoulder, and that, along with all the initials that came after it, left little doubt: I needed to listen to what she was saying. Petite or not.

Now, what shed said scared me. But did I believe her? No.

It has been a lifelong pattern of mine to minimize alarming news when I first hear it. Elizabeth Kbler-Ross called this Stage 1: Denial. I call it, You-Want-to-Run-That-By-Me-One-More-Time?,

Are you sure you read the right chart? I asked after her big announcement.

Are you Anita?

Yes.

Then I have the right chart.

With that one simple statement, my mind slipped into gridlock, and within a matter of seconds Id lost all ability to think. I could see Petite Cardiologists lips moving, but I couldnt hear any sound coming out.

This new loss of ability to cope was extreme, even for me mostly because for more than thirty years of my life Id worked in adrenaline-filled areas of recovery rooms, intensive care units, and emergency rooms. In the decade before retiring from nursing, Id been in charge of a small but busy emergency department on nights. Thinking fast on my feet was a skill that had come easily to me, and it was one at which I had excelled. Id triaged and treated even the sickest patients with ease.

However, the passing years had changed everything. Now I was the patient who sat on the exam table, wearing the greatest human equalizer of all: the little blue-flowered patient gown. I had to fight just to keep my brain engaged in present time.

Almost against my will, my mind raced through a mental Rolodex. I was searching for an event that had happened years earlier.

Finally, I found it.