There Seems To Be No Magic Pill

I’ve given up on the medical profession.  My body has failed me and has confounded them.

One day I was fine.  The next day I wasn’t.  I could barely get out of bed.  Normal activities defeated me.  Short of breath, movement was limited.  My heart was racing.

Finally, after four days of this, I contacted my primary physician, who advised me to go to the ER.  Ever compliant, I did.  Yes, it was annoying, but, no, it wasn’t the madhouse I have experienced there before.  Within a couple of hours, I got a cubicle and then there followed every test imaginable.

Nothing was wrong, except for the racing heart.  Thoughts of going home appealed, but the doctor said what if I collapsed at home?  I’m so easily swayed.  I agreed to stay.

The hospitalist came in and asked if I had an end of life directive.  Of course I didn’t.  If anyone’s going to pull the plug, it’ll be me.  So I asked him, well, what exactly does that mean.  He said, paraphrasing, if you have a heart attack, would you want to be resuscitated.  If I were 94 maybe not, I informed him, but at 84 damn right I would.

Time passed.  I was finally wheeled to my “room.”  Even the aide was apologetic, mentioning that at least I’d have a private bathroom.

I was placed in the newly created “observation clinic.”  They could observe me/I could observe them.  Lighted hallway, glass door, flimsy curtain, lots of noise added up to no sleep for me.

Two and a half days later, with more tests and no resolution, I was sent home—in much worse shape than when I entered.  I was so weak, I practically collapsed on the steps while my daughter opened the front door.  I had to take a shower.  I thought I would never make it out alive.  (May I say that taking a shower still uses up all my energy.)

From that point on, I’ve been in touch with various doctors.  Cardiology has no solution, despite me charting everything they asked for.  My primary discovered anemia.  She put me on iron supplements.  I was fortunate enough to get an appointment with a hematologist, who said the anemia was so slight  he didn’t think an iron infusion would make a difference.  But I shall have one anyway.  On the off chance this will make a difference.

Meanwhile, my life is in limbo.  It’s been a month and a half since I’ve even started my car.  I’m sure it feels neglected and will rebel the minute I feel able to drive.

My diet is crap.  Okay, it’s always been crap but it’s even more so now because I can’t drive and my poor daughter is only an occasional food delivery service.

Some days I think I’ll be fine.  Other days I have this internal shaking that I can’t seem to get rid of.

Now being eighty-four maybe I should have expected something to go wrong.  But I’m a very healthy eighty-four-year-old.  I’m not ready to be thrown on whatever trash heap my ashes end up on.  Nor do I care that I’m ending sentences with a preposition.  Old age gives one certain privileges.

So now, instead of doctors, I’m relying on my body to kick into gear again.  Because frankly, I need my hair cut and colored and I need to start living my life again.  And believe me, I will not let this medical mystery be my life.  I’m taking Dylan Thomas’s advice and raging against the dying of the light.