The Dicky Ticker Diaries — Part 11
There is a faint light appearing. It gets a touch brighter and I hear voices.
I try to open my eyelids. I can’t manage even a twitch. I try again. Same result.
That was exhausting. It fades to black.
This continued for a few cycles, and finally, I open one eyelid — Just a crack. Then the other. Someone holds my hand and asks me to squeeze. I did, then the other hand, I squeezed that too. They seemed satisfied. But I can’t seem to sync my breathing. I am not breathing on my own volition. WTF is going on. I try to shout. I try to get someone’s attention. Panic sweeps over me like a terrifying wave. I am absolutely f’ing freaking out.
That does me no good. I calm myself down. Things start to fall in place. I realize where I am, but there is a huge hose sticking out of my throat and that’s what’s causing me grief. There is a little crowd gathered around me. Everyone is jabbering. I keep fading in and out and finally, someone tells me, they are taking the tube out and it may be a bit uncomfortable.
I brace myself. FUCK MEEEEE!!!! They are pulling my f’ing lungs out through my throat. I choke, and gag and I’ll spare you the rest of the gory details, but after what seemed like half a lifetime, I am laying back in a semi prone position. I am comfortable, and most importantly, I am breathing on my own.
It’s 9pm. I have been ‘out’ for 12 hours. I’m still dopey from the sedatives. Once, while in a similar state, I asked a nurse who was hovering around if she saw my butterfly during my surgery (referring to a tattoo I have on my hip). She didn’t even blink, and her reply was “No. There was only a wrinkled caterpillar.” I turned beet red and pretended to pass out. I have always been cautious of ‘semi-conscious’ conversation with nurses, since then.
Dr. Dev comes visiting. He gives me the details of what was done. 5 grafts were done, I had a full on, open sternum, cut down the centre. Tubes were grafted from my arm and leg, and the op was a success. He gives me loads of comfort. I was grinning half with relief and half because I was stoned on the morphine they were pumping into me.
I drifted off to a lovely, deep, drug-induced sleep. No dreams, no thoughts, just gratifying sleep.
I had insisted that Charlene didn’t see me till my ‘breathing’ tubes were taken out. Fifteen years ago, I saw my son, Sachin, being wheeled out of the theatre, all the tubing attached and it’s a sight that I will never forget and one I did not want to put in her head. Therefore, I didn’t get to see her till the morning following surgery. I grinned, squeezed hear hand, asked after the boys, and we jabbered. I kept dozing off on her.
I was scheduled for 3 days in the ICU. Each day was much the same. I drift in and out of my lovely drug fog, I am woken up to brush my teeth and then given a sponge bath. A rather humiliating affair of total exposure to the elements and all and sundry walking past. I am turned from side to side and scrubbed with a sponge, daubed with a rather sickly-smelling ‘eau de cologne’ and wrapped back up in my ‘mummy’ like swathes of bandages.
I have regular wake ups for meds and meals, which I had no appetite for, and visits from the physio, who would make me sit up, thump me on my back like burping an infant, and gradually get to a point where he would take me on a spin around the ICU. The nicest part is that I am ‘hooked up’ to the happy juice and all I have to do is complain of a tiny increase in pain and its ‘happy land’ from there.
It appeared the length of my left forearm and my left thigh from crotch to just below knee had been sliced opened, while my sternum had been cracked open like a clam. In addition, I have tubes popping out from various parts of my body. My neck, my chest, my hand, wrist, stomach and even my genitalia. I have a catheter in me. Not a pretty site, not a pretty thought.
How did I get here?
I was dead lifting close to 170kg, I was bench pressing over a 100kg, I could ride 100km without a break. At 57, I considered myself fitter than average. My attitude was, ‘I can do all this stuff, therefore, I am healthy.’ Hence, checks were not done, results from the random few I did were ignored, and I was swathed in a cocoon of self-denial and cockiness, propelled by my theory of ‘if it ain’t broken, don’t fix it.’
How wrong I was. I have had three weeks to dwell on my lifestyle and habits, and I realized, I was basically a train wreck happening in slow motion. I was ignorant, I was in denial and I was a living example of a ‘little knowledge is a dangerous thing’ and I was cocky enough to think, my approach to fitness and overall health was the right way to go about it. I deluded myself by saying, I earned it, and I would burn it off tomorrow. I worked out like a mad dog, but it still didn’t change the trajectory of my journey.
Let’s start with diet. I love food. Most meals were takeaway Chinese, Indian, burgers or fried food in all shapes and forms. Even rice and curry needed to have a good mix of fried accompaniments.
Fried manioc was a favorite and my cook would indulge me with a bucket at least once a week. I also loaded up on processed food; bacon, sausages, lingus being my top picks.
I would order two portions of hot butter cuttlefish to snack on. I would have most of my meats, deep fried, even at home and my approach to eating veg was, I eat the cow, the cow ate the veg, therefore, I am sorted. I called myself a second-degree vegetarian.
I drank moderately, but daily. I smoked the occasional cigarette, but not enough to cause alarm. The only thing going for me in the consumption department was that I didn’t eat a lot of sweets and I didn’t eat much quantity.
I had been put on medication for blood pressure and cholesterol. Both drugs were tossed out after a few days as I believed my workouts would cure everything. I was noticeably slowing down during my bike rides; I was unable to run more than 150m without gasping for breath. I suffered dizziness after lifting heavy weight, but I put that all down to ‘low bio rhythms’ and motored on. The stabbing pains I would get in my heart was put down to ‘gas.’ I couldn’t be sick. I was fit.
Had Savantha not convinced me to get my tests done, I would not have made it much further on this journey. I would have either popped like a firecracker, dropping stone dead, or worse, I would have had a massive stroke and ended up a vegetable.
For those of you reading this. How often do you get your car serviced? Would you run with dysfunctional parts? (if you had a Land Rover, you would have no choice), chances are no. You would get it fixed. The truth is, I took better care of my dogs, my bikes, my camera equipment and my car than I did of my own body.
Regardless of what state your fitness is at, and how careful you may be, there is a lot that goes on in this body of ours that we will never quite understand. Get regular tests done. Take the results seriously, and fix what needs fixing. None of us are invincible. There is no shame in having to ‘fix’ yourself. It’s called being human.
My ICU bed has been code named ‘Tattoo Island.’ I have regular visits from groups of nurses and doctors, who, more than checking my temp and BP, want to know the stories behind my tattoos. I am relieved that Dr. D has spared them all. No slashes through the artwork. Most times I oblige, sometimes I feign sleep. I am given the option of leaving the ICU in 3 days, but I opt for a 4th. Who wouldn’t? I have morphine on tap!
I wake up one morning. Wired up as usual. I am sobbing and crying. Tears are pouring down my face, but I am grinning like a monkey. I just lay there and gave myself that moment. I was just so fucking happy to have been fixed and so happy to be alive.
3 days in a room and I am discharged. Dr. Gota does an ‘echo’ on me and says, “Machang, your heart is perfect now. It’s good for another 30 years minimum, if you take care of it.” 30 years will get me to 87. Fuck that, I have been planning my 100th. No way I’m missing that.
I head to our apartment in the city. I have to avoid going home, as our doggies are a risk to my wounds. I reunite with my sons; I have a lump in my throat. I don’t talk much. Relief shows on their faces. Gentle hugs, to spare me pain. I speak with my father who had been kept in the dark to avoid unnecessary worry. Life happens around me. My wounds need dressings changed, which Charlene does, meticulously every day. In our boredom, we measure my cuts, 32 inches. I read, do my physio, take my medication and limp back to normalcy.
It’s been 23 days now. I am back at my home. I am watching the rain come down as I sit in my favorite armchair. My dogs are by my side. I can’t seem to get this stupid grin off my face. My ‘recuperation’ is going well. I am walking up to 6kms now. It’s a long way from the fitness levels I want to be at, but I will work on getting there.
Will I change my habits? My approach to life? I guess time will tell. Let’s just say that now, I appreciate the second chance I have got, the chance to ‘build back better,’ to steal a phrase from my employer. A chance to live life with a ‘ticker’ that’s no longer ‘dicky.’
I got my second chance. I am not going to waste it.
If you missed it, click here to read ‘The Dicky Ticker Diaries — Part 1’
