Something About It

If your cardiologist says, "Someone wants you to live," what does it mean? That he did not expect you to live? That you nearly died during that first procedure? The anesthesiologist (I guess that is what she was) said, "You went too far under. We had to bring you back." And what does that mean, exactly?

Dr Reddy and I first met after Chad, the head of the ICU, had seen on my heart monitor a 14-second episode of Ventricular Tachycardia and had come into my room to tell me to sit down and to tell me how life-threatening such episodes are, especially if they last for longer than 14 seconds, like for 30 seconds.

When Dr Reddy came in, he mentioned the episode and told me the same kind of thing, a warning. It was then, I think, that I told him, "I didn't come here to die. I want to live." He said something like, "When it's our time to die, we have very little power over that." Or maybe he said we have no power. And I, being a bit alarmed by such a statement from the heart doctor, said, "But don't you have things you can do to help me live?" He said, "Yes. We do."

So. I am alive. Two stents later and flight cancellations and Alyce and Saxby flying out to Bountiful to visit me and Lola driving down to drive me home and food from many good people here and several sleepless nights--like last night. I call my recovery a slow recovery, which is not yet complete, but I am here and finally writing something about these first two months of 2015. The months of my humbling by way of heart attack and by way of my Heavenly Father saving my life.

"Don' t thank me," said Dr Reddy. "Thank God." Which I do daily. I thank Him for my life, for Dr Reddy, for my sister and brother-in-law who--I don't know how to say what they did for me, but I know that they took me to the Emergency Room. Crucial. And they just took care of me.

I thank Him for all who cared for me there, in the two hospitals, and here. For all who have prayed for me and fed me and helped me in my house and called and visited. And I ask Him every day to continue blessing all those people and me. Blessing me and healing me and making it so I never forget.

Because, as I realized today, we spend our lives learning from the things we experience. Learning important lessons, and then we forget what we learned. I don't ever want to forget this, what my Heavenly Father has done for me, so I keep praying to remember.

I'm still here.

If I could, I'd write in the east Indian accent of my doctor, Dr Bhavananda Reddy. Some of his words I missed at first, but we spoke many times, and my ears adapted.

Here is one of his sayings that I will remember always. "You have got to stop hating doctors and medications!"

My reply: stunned silence.

I could say he was right. I have felt disdain for some, only some--okay, most--doctors much of my life, and for auto mechanics (they both get paid even when they guess wrong) and have, for a fact, hated medications.

But

I'm taking them faithfully now. And I love Dr Reddy.

One more. When I thanked Dr Reddy, he said, "Don't thank me. Thank God!"

My reply: "I am thanking Him."
You may notice my use of exclamation marks when I quote Dr Reddy. There's a reason for that.

Of course, there's more to tell. Like about who actually saved my life. I'm still here.

Carol Speaks

I have tried to write a blog post since I came home from Utah.

It's difficult.

I may have to just say something like, "I'm still here." There. I've said it.

But I don't know if I have more readers than one. That's Linda.

All right. Here is the direct word. I got home from Utah 1/31. I went for three days, stayed for 16 days because . . . wait for it . . . I had a heart attack. Two procedures; two stents. I'm trying to get well. Good to be home. My sister and brother-in-law were so kind to me. I turned their family room into a not family room.

When I get stronger, I'll tell the story.

In the meantime, I feel very grateful and very humble.