Don’t let your husband’s heart attack kill you

“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.

Bill and Dixie enjoying the surf

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.

 

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