I’ve not been doing a very good job of posting the bits and bobs I wrote during my month away from the blog with that medical setback.  Below is an update I wrote in February.  I’ve deleted a giant part about guilt. Cliff’s Notes version: I feel really guilty about my husband having to do all this extra work because my capacity for doing anything productive is so low and for transitioning our family from “just making it” to “financially ruined” because I can’t work.  See?  Even the Cliff’s Notes version is maudlin and depressing.  And it’s not like the rest of the post is a barrel of monkeys as it is.  I guess I was feeling a bit weary in February.  Anyway, here’s observations from +/- 3 months post-HA:

2/20/14 Observations: 11.5ish Weeks Post-Heart Attack, or Grumpy Whining Part II

Bruises.

I am a pale person. Fair of skin. In the sun, I’m practically reflective. So I am used to bruising easily. I used to joke that I am so pale, I would bruise if you looked at me hard. Being on a high dosage of Coumadin as well as two other blood thinners, my natural Irish pallor has dramatically increased.  It’s like my new superpower. I’m Super Irish! Someone get me a shillelagh, stat!  I haven’t counted, but it would not surprise me if I had in excess of 50 bruises on me at all times. Actually, I just counted and I have 15, of various sizes, on my right arm alone at the moment.  I could probably up my estimate to 75 and still be in the right ballpark.

I often sit cross-legged with my laptop on my lap. I have a set of four bruises where the corners of the laptop touch my legs. No trauma, no impact – simply the weight of the laptop and gravity. I have a large constellation of bruises that encircles my right upper arm; it’s from the blood pressure cuff they use at cardiac rehab 3 times a day, 3 days a week. I have additional bruises in the 4 spots on my collarbone and ribs where the heart-monitor leads attach to me. I don’t know if it’s from the pressure of affixing them or the tug against my skin when they are removed, the adhesive fighting to hold them in place. I’ve been wearing my wedding ring, a Clauddagh, on my middle finger because it’s been too loose on my ring finger and I don’t want to lose it. Now I have bruises in-between those fingers from when the ring spins and the heart/crown part touches the sides of my fingers. I reckon that’s way more than enough examples.

I’ve never considered myself vain about my appearance; I can’t tell you how many times in my life I have arrived at work only to realize I am wearing my shirt or sweater inside out. I brush my teeth in the shower, so I’d rarely see a mirror until I was at the office or the courthouse. Yet, these bruises… they are really starting to bum me out. I’ve looked like I’ve been in a bad car accident every day for almost 3 months. It compels me to wear long sleeves, high collars and long pants when I go outside, lest people assume I am a victim of domestic violence at the hand of my gentle, harm-no-creature Buddhist husband.

And I won’t even get into the bleeding. I get bloody noses a lot. It’s messy and annoying and makes me feel like I am made of glass.  Boo Coumadin.  I hope what you’re doing for my heart is really helpful because what you’re doing to the rest of me is a pain in the ass.

Concern.

Now that I know so much more about cholesterol and HDL vs LDL; about poly- and mono-unsaturated fats vs saturated and trans fats; and about how much salt, fat, and cholesterol we’re all supposed to ingest daily, I find that I worry about you. I know you’re adults and it’s rather parental of me, but I see all the pictures everyone posts on FaceBook of their food and I think “Wow, that looks delicious. Please eat a smaller portion.” On the rare occasions when I am in the grocery store, I read labels and get angry at the unnecessary fat and salt and sugar that manufacturers put into our food – especially when it’s food one would intuitively consider “healthy.” On the even rarer occasions when I am in a restaurant, I see your burgers and deep-fried potatoes and rich sauces and desserts and I mentally implore, “Don’t eat that! It’s not worth it.”

I don’t judge anyone for what they are eating. How hypocritical would that be?  But I do feel this weird, uncomfortable concern for us as a society. We are so habituated to eating foods that are horrible for us that we don’t even notice we’re doing it. We have an obesity epidemic but also such a hatred of fat people that we condemn and ridicule folks rather than assisting each other in making healthier choices. We have a market system in which it is exponentially cheaper to feed your family fast food than to buy fresh, whole foods at the grocery store. And we make fun of legislators who recognize the problems and, in desperation, try to change the law to make it a little easier to encourage folks to reduce the poisons they ingest unthinkingly. We call it a Nanny State and rail about how it’s downright un-American to limit a free person’s options or to tax certain items until they are cost-prohibitive for most people. We believe that every American should be able to exercise their god-given right to eat unhealthy food that is full of chemicals, empty of nutrients, and addictively laden with fat, salt and sugar.

I’m not suggesting that legislation is the way to remedy the country’s problems, particularly those of personal choice.  But I totally understand the motivation. I’m a fairly clever girl and though I intellectually understood that some foods are healthier than others and I was eating all the bad ones, it never once occurred to me that I could have a potentially life-ending heart failure at 43. Not once. So now when I see others adding extra “butter” to their popcorn or ladling on another serving of gravy, I get this little sick feeling inside that says “if you knew – really knew – the danger you are putting yourself in, you probably wouldn’t be doing that. I love all those things, too, but they nearly cost me my life.”

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Wow. Maybe I should stop doing these “observation” posts.  It really does feel like I’m just standing on the rooftop shouting complaints at the world.  The world has its own problems and most of them dwarf my own.

So something a little lighter (hehe, get it?)…

Greek Yogurt. 

Stop saying Greek yogurt tastes just like pudding. It doesn’t. You know how I know? I have never once, immediately after having put a spoonful of freshly opened pudding in my mouth, examined the container for the expiration date. I do this virtually every time with Greek yogurt. So stop raising my expectations by acting like it’s some magical dessert analog that’s practically like eating chocolate mousse.  It’s not; it’s like eating yogurt – particularly sour yogurt. Feel free to remind me that it’s got lots of calcium, probiotics and almost 1/3 of the protein I need for the day, but knock it off with the dessert business. You’re just harming your credibility with me.

Dammit, now I want some chocolate mousse.