THE DAY I BECAME THE AD

When I was in the Navy, we had a saying that we used whenever someone made a mistake or ignored a nonsensical command. "They can't take away your birthday."

On June 1, someone nearly did take away my birthday.

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I'd seen the pitch for Plavix ad infinitum [the Latin makes a nice little pun, don't you think?]. Fatty yellow plaque in the heart building up for years; one day a rupture turns it into a Johnstown flood of debris and the life-giving, oxygen-enriched blood sent through a major artery to your organs and extremities stops like a shut faucet.

Despite the preachings of Big Pharma, I ignored the crushing pain I'd had three or four times a day for weeks.

What the hell did I think it was? Years before, when making a stop at an ER because of exactly the same symptoms, I'd been told, "It's only an anxiety attack." I never questioned that diagnosis again. Anxiety? Pshaw! Nothing to worry about; I could deal with this.

Instead of seeking medical attention, I doctored myself. Thinking congestion might be exacerbating the problem, I took Mucinex and ate mustard by the bowlful (a bona fide relief for any kind of cramp, usually taken in teaspoon doses and washed down with water or milk). Both helped. Momentarily.

I'd been pushing away the ubiquitous dread brought on by a long and growing press of problems: Jobs lost; my only credit cards cut off without warning after being a member in good standing of the Idiot's Club for years; a mortgage I wouldn't be able to pay in one more month; a home of 25 years in the balance; no savings; no one at all to lean on.

Then about a month into this long bout of on-again off-again distress, I made a visit to a woman who had offered me a free box of audio tapes. As usual, I lost the piece of paper on which I'd written her address but remembered the street directions and figured I could find the place. Instead, I took a wrong turn, didn't realize it, and began knocking on doors hoping someone would recognize her name.

It was uncharacteristically humid in Fresno and my breath soon came in short gasps. The pain I'd been feeling for days descended again, like a bagpiper squeezing my heart - hard. Then the radiating pain kicked in, stringed instruments sawing away inside me, scratching and clawing across my chest, down both arms, boring mercilessly into the center of my back, and burning a path up my neck and across my jaw.

The only person on the street was a man washing his truck. I asked if he knew the person I was looking for. He didn't but when I told him I was having an asthma attack (I was embarrassed to say 'anxiety attack'), he kindly gave me an unopened bottle of water. I went back to my car, took the Mucinex I'd dropped into my pocket when I left home, and turned the car's AC on full blast. Within five or ten minutes, the pain subsided and I was able to find the house I was looking for, retrieve the box of tapes from the porch, and drive home.

I still didn't get it.

The next morning, as soon as I arose from bed, the pain returned with a vengeance. (Even the mildest exertion was now triggering it.) I'd been thinking about my dad for several days and when the pains were at their worst, wondered if I'd outlive him. I'd be 58 at the end of the month and he died at 60 thirty years before. On Monday, June 1, in the midst of administering the mustard treatment and popping more Mucinex, something (someone?) managed to get through to me.

Go to the hospital. Now!

Even then, I stopped to take a shower.

When I arrived at Fresno's VA Hospital, there were a dozen people ahead of me in the waiting room. I went to the desk to check in, explained my symptoms and, in nanoseconds, was taken ahead of everyone else to the inner sanctum of the ER.

Only then did it sink in that I was in big damn trouble.

Two weeks afterward, I was still sporting the enormous black-and-blue marks on my belly that probably saved my life. They came from the blood thinner Lovenox administered several times straight into my stomach before I was ambulanced up to San Francisco the next day. The nitroglycerin took much of the crushing pain away, although it had to be ramped up a number of times over the next 48 hours.

My doctors at Fort Miley, the VA Hospital that sits on a hill above the Cliff House and the sea, said I cheated death twice. Once by getting to the Fresno VA when I did and having a staff who knew to rush me in ahead of others and shoot me up with Lovenox, and again in San Francisco when the dye injected into my system during the catheter procedure set off an allergic reaction, causing my lungs to fill with fluid. How grateful I am that I was in the hands of highly trained and caring experts and, because of them, have lived to tell the tale.

It is now a month and and a week past my D-day (and you can imagine what I believe that 'D' might have stood for). I got to see my 58th birthday come and go and hope not only to beat Dad's record on this earth but by a significant margin.

I didn't balk, as I had done before, when I was prescribed Plavix and statins and several other pills of every size and color. I've set them up in such a way that I know when and whether I've taken them. I'm no longer interested in red meat, cream, or butter. (Note: This isn't the same as saying I don't miss them but, compared to death, I'll stick to beans, broccoli, apples, whole wheat pasta, and olive oil, thank you very much.)

I can't yet exercise a great deal, due mostly to a very painful leg condition that cropped up shortly after the heart procedure (but which, according to wary doctors, isn't related). I am making use of the athlete's imaging techniques to see myself healthy again. I visualize a lean and fit me, running down a road surrounded by fir trees on a refreshingly cool early morning. I can breathe without fear or pain and it is a beautiful feeling.

I'm also working very hard to ward off negativity, an extremely bad habit I've been practicing since infanthood. Fear is not conducive to good health in anyone and is particularly problematic in cardiac patients. I've had a few days and nights since the heart attack filled with overwhelming doubts and sorrows but, as time goes on and friends offer positive reinforcement, raw emotions are soothed and scary thoughts gradually dissipate.

1. Never wait if you have chest pain. Go to the hospital. Better yet, call an ambulance or get someone to take you.
2. If you're urged to take drugs before you've had a heart attack, think twice about refusing them. I was sure I could ward off family history and sky high cholesterol with half-hearted exercise and diet adjustments. I couldn't.
3. Find ways to rid stress from your life. Walking, singing, dancing, praying, meditating are all good - and communing quietly with nature should become a part of your daily routine.
4. When Hugh O'Connor died of a drug-related suicide, Carroll O'Connor faced the cameras and, looking straight into our souls, said "Do whatever it takes to get between your child and drugs." I haven't got a camera but I say this to you seriously: Nothing good will come from bad choices. We're not put on this earth to store up enough fat to fuel a Mack truck for a year or suck poisonous gasses into our lungs or play distressing emotional games that hurt ourselves and those around us. To ensure you live a full and healthy life, fight your addictions with every tool available.
   
5. No man is an island. Take time to make and keep good friends and neighbors who will be there for you when trouble knocks on your door. Always have someone trustworthy nearby who will feed and love your pets and pick up your mail in an emergency. I can tell you that nothing brings more relief when you're alone and helpless miles away in a hospital bed.
6. Finally, enjoy your life. We're here to be happy and to make the most of the gifts we're given. I believe that from the bottom of my heart!