There is no simple way to recover from a heart attack. Impatience makes the waiting, the slow rebuilding almost too much to handle. I hate watching my husband crab about the lack of anything to watch on TV. He doesn’t watch television under normal circumstances. Despite his interest in my writing he doesn’t read books either.
He likes to be busy. He’ll l spend hours shopping for the right tool to finish a job. He’s hop in the truck and visit the lumberyard. Only he can’t right now. I have to drive him and he doesn’t like being chauffeured around. And I don’t enjoy taking him: to the hospital for blood-work or for rehab therapy; To the doctor’s office for check-ups; or for that dragging cough.
So he has pneumonia and has to be admitted again. Only this time he’s awake enough to complain bitterly about the food, the floor, the beds, the other patients. Why can’t they give him medicine and let him stay at home?
I have to admit I gave a sigh of relief. I’m so pooped. If he needs to be on IV antibiotics, then the hospital is the best place. I slept twelve hours that first night and woke with a severe cough. No joke. I called my doctor and made and appointment. I am diagnosed with bronchitis- not quite pneumonia but close enough to scare me silly. I didn’t know that pneumonia is catching, but it is if your defenses are down.
So I take heavy-duty antibiotics. I take cough medicine with codeine to help me sleep and I visit the hospital daily. He gets better faster than I do, but he’s there for five days.
To my horror, a dear friend’s husband dies and I don’t hear the news for days. They are in my prayers.
So my husband is home again. He spends a lot of time on the phone complaining. I don’t even ask who he’s garnering sympathy from. They don’t live with him, pick up his mess, cook or wash. They don’t get his meds arranged so all he has to do is take them.
In another couple days, he’ll go to have his heart checked for permanent damage. Maybe when he has the facts, he’ll be more positive. He doesn’t see the big picture he. He’s alive.
My sister suffered from diabetes for most of her adult life and lost kidney function. I prayed daily for her recovery. I prayed for her to get a transplant. I believed that God would answer with the wonderful miracle of health.
When she died after years on the transplant waiting list, I screamed my rage. “Damn you, God. I’ll never speak to you again,” I vowed.
I repeated my promise daily as I ranted at Him for taking this wonderful person from my life.
It took me two years to realize that I was still praying. Maybe not in church or on my knees, but the words were aimed to God’s ears.
To my shock He helped ME to heal.
Some things happen the way they are meant to happen. I still cry about the loss of my sister.
I also have long conversations with God. A little one-sided at times, but He has answered me over the years.
Prayer is an odd thing since you need to believe first. The methods varied from religion to religion. Tibetan prayer wheels spin in the wind. Incense burns in the Orient wafting prayers upwards with the smoke. Prayer rugs are spread three times a day to focus the conscious on the center of the Muslim religion. Worry beads are fingered in Middle-Eastern pockets. The Rosary with its repetition of the Our Father, Hail Mary and Glory Be, comforts Christians with familiar prayer.
Several years ago I read a scientific study done in an attempt to verify the power of prayer. Machines were used to measure all kinds of energy. The researchers were surprised by the results. When people pray the energy can be measured.
The more people praying together as in a house of worship, the more powerful the energy waves became.
So I’ve reached the point of my blog.
So many friends and acquaintances offered prayers for my husband’s recovery after his heart attack that I lost count of the numbers. I am so grateful for your help and support.
Thank you for your prayers.
I truly believe that every one of you added so much strength that the prayers reached God and he answered.
My husband’s struggle still isn’t over, but he’s getting better daily.
Please keep praying as he recovers.
I’ll pray for you, too.
“Don’t let your husband’s heart attack kill you,” our cardiologist warned.
I nodded absently, my mind on a hundred details of taking my husband home from the hospital
Yes, he made it. Now he’s going to recover and rehab. He doesn’t need to go into a facility after all. He can walk the hospital hall, feed himself and use the bathroom. Everything is paced at a crawl. The next four to six weeks will determine what the rest of his life will be like.
The heart recovers very slowly and any extra burden can hinder the progress.
It’s like getting hit with a baseball bat. Initially everything goes numb. The heart muscle goes into hibernation from the shock. This prevents further damage if you heed the warnings and take it easy. Rest is the great restorer.
He’s to rest, so who has to do all the fetching and carrying? Of course it’s me.
Take him home. Set him up in the living room with the tv changer, something to drink and a newspaper. Go to the pharmacy for his medicine: eight prescriptions that he never took before. Remind me to tell you how that got messed up. Take them home and put the right dosage in the right dispenser for am or pm. Go to the grocery store for food. I sort of depleted the fridge and cabinets over the last week. Unload the bags and bring them inside. Make his meal without using salt, fat or anything with vitamin K since he’s on Warfarin. Get the bedroom ready so he can get up when he needs to without stumbling over anything.
Our dog had decided he was gone too long and if she lays on his feet he can’t leave again. She is right in the middle of the floor, but I don’t have the heart to shoo her aside. She missed him, too.
I sit down just as he wakes, ready for a nap myself.
I’m tired and when my son calls, I realize I lost a day.
My husband needs extra care. He doesn’t want to sit and wait to get better. If he feels a little better, he’s up and walking around. Then the fatigue hits and he growls as he climbs back into the recliner.
He is angry. Shot-tempered. Impatient. And I’m in the target zone. I understand.
I really do since I have my own heart problem to deal with.
That’s probably the source of the doctor’s dire warning.
I’m tired. But I can’t tell you how happy I am that he made it. Sure it’s a long haul to full recovery, but we’ll do it one day at a time.