A Good Excuse

Ok, I’ve got a really good excuse, this time. My battery ran out in my cell phone and I had to get it changed. Except, it wasn’t just the battery and it wasn’t just a cell phone. It was an ICD or an Implanted Cardiac Defibrillator.

        Most known is a pace maker, but mine is actually a combo unit that also acts as an internal defibrillator. (Twice the bang for the buck!) I won’t go into my exact need for it, partly out not wanting to bore you with technical and medical details and partly because I don’t want to, but I had one, battery 

eventually runs out, have to replace it, which means a new unit.

        At some point down the line, they will have the ability to transfer energy wirelessly and eliminate the need for periodic replacement. The data and settings are currently down and up loaded wirelessly; an ICD check-up is done by a someone with a laptop and wifi, just like your iPhone, but instead of downloading songs and uploading pics, they are downloading how many times my heart missed a beat and uploading how beats per minute I must have before it shocks me.

        Since this was a replacement, I was prepared for the pain involved. The first one involved putting something the size of a small cell phone (pre-smart phone small) into the body where it had not existed before. (Please, no foreign object/Richard Gere jokes.) Even with the drugs, the body doesn’t like it and lets you know.

        So, I was mentally prepared this time, even though the doctor said this procedure would be easier. Frankly, I thought he was blowing smoke up my ass (see previous joke ban) just to ensure that I would show up. I really tried not to think too much about the procedure, realizing that I was only stressing out about something that I had to do and why ruin the days before when they could be pleasant. I was actually relaxed when I went to the hospital.

        Hospitals are most people’s least favorite place. You don’t go there to hang out, spend the day off there, or make plans for a family vacation. You are at a hospital because you or a loved one is sick, really sick. And sometimes they don’t come out.

        So, I think it really is natural that people dislike them, even though they are placings of healing and a vital necessity for society. One only has to live in the absence of one to long for its presence, but just never wanting to go there, like a married man needing to know he can still get a number at a bar without the desire to ever use it.

        The staff at my hospital (I won’t mention the name, not out of sense of objectivity, but I want my ad money before I give them a plug) was first class. Every step of the way, they were professional, courteous, and kind. My trepidation level remained low and I was surprised myself with how calm I was. The room didn’t even fell freezing like it normal does.

        I started to become worried when the first dose of the sedative didn’t really take the edge off. I’d felt more numbed by a couple of shots of Jägermeister, than what they initially gave me. The doctor came in and started giving the area some shots of a local anesthetic. I felt the first two shots. A lot. Then I was given some more of what I had (or a different drug), in any case, it kicked in, and hello Mr. Happy time.

        Obviously, the doctor knew what he was talking about. The replacement procedure wasn’t as invasive and painful as the first one because most of the hard work was already done. He used the same leads (some no messing around the heart) and the space needed in the chest for the unit was already created. In and out of the hospital (they did the procedure on an out-patient basis) was only slightly longer than the doctor’s visit when he is running late.

        So, I’ve used the procedure to get out of a lot of things. A memorial day weekend where I didn’t have to do any trash duty, skipping a couple of meetings that are almost as strong of sedative as what I was given, and this blog. Except, I really could’ve written something during that time. I could have pecked something out one-handed. (OK, put your one-handed act jokes here.)

        The staples are out, the steri-strips are off, and I can type. Let’s get a good streak of posts going.