Death Becomes Me, NOT!

Death is highly overrated, I did it once, and I don’t particularly care ever to do it again.  It has a way of sneaking up on you, of knocking your socks off, and convincing you that life is nothing more than a prelude to your eventual demise and if truth be known, it wasn’t even the slightest bit dramatic.  I saw no bright light, no bridge or tunnel to cross, no fanfare whatsoever, I was alive and then I wasn’t, that’s it.  How disappointing!

Death stalked me, and found me on November 30^th, 2007, the night of our city’s annual Santa Claus Parade.  I don’t remember that day at all, and any details I could or would supply would be second or third-hand information so I’m going to limit my discussion to only the critical information.  Fact, I was clinically dead for five to seven minutes, long enough to suffer major brain damage (the verdict is still out, but I don’t think I did), and thanks to a few of my coworkers, John Warner and Walter Tidd and their nonstop application of CPR until the ambulance could navigate the parade route, I was resuscitated and kept alive long enough to reach the hospital.  I survived the ordeal.

My sudden death was caused by a possibly genetic problem with the electrical system of my heart, more commonly referred to as an arrhythmia.  There are different types of arrhythmias, but the type that I am more prone to is called ventricular fibrillation, a condition where the heart just flutters and is unable to pump blood, leading to death.  This is when the doctor rubs the magical paddles together, yells “clear,” and then sends the body bouncing off the table in grand fashion.  I’m not sure how many times I was “paddled” that night, but I know it was more than once.

Because of my erratic heartbeat, and the possibility of future incidents, I was implanted with what is known as an ICD (Implantable Cardioverter Defibrillator), and after twenty-four days in hospital I was released on Christmas Eve and got to spend Christmas with my family.  All went well until January 18^th, 2018 when my ICD malfunctioned, giving my heart five shocks it did not need, which sent it into a tailspin and led to another few weeks of hospitalization and a replacement ICD, and that is when my mood started to change.

I received the very best Cardiac Care throughout my ordeal, and I will forever be grateful for that, what I didn’t receive was any type of mental health care, no counselling, no coaching although to be fair that may have been included in the outpatient Cardiac Rehab they offered me a couple of hours away from my home, which I chose to skip for economic and accessibility reasons.  The heart had been taken care of but my mind, now a mess, was starting to sink into some kind of abyss, and the more I wanted to talk about my ordeal or about how I was feeling, the more I was shut down and reminded that I should be grateful that I made it through, and move on!

The following year I practically lived in the emergency room of our local hospital.  Any twitch, spasm, or heartburn sent me running to the ER and because of my recent history, they would connect me to monitors and settle me in for the night, I could sleep then because I knew that I was in a safe place.  At home, my mind would run incessantly and convince me that death was waiting in the shadows for me, that it felt cheated and would claim me very soon to complete its cycle.  I didn’t want to die; I wanted to live, damn it!

About a year into my recovery I met a doctor who wasn’t about to coddle me and tell me how it was always a safe bet to come to the hospital whenever I had any sign or symptom that could even be remotely connected to my heart, this is what the other doctors did, no, Dr. Groh, she was different.  She was firm but kind when she told me that there was absolutely nothing wrong with my heart, but if I continued to act as if I was going to die, it would eventually lead to heart troubles.  She prescribed a ten-day supply of Ativan and ordered me to speak to my family doctor about it.  By the time I got my appointment with Dr. Britton-Foster he already knew I was coming, Dr. Groh had written to him, and we talked about some of the issues I was facing, he prescribed an anti-depressant that was also good for anxiety and my mood started to change, a little bit.

There would eventually be a Cognitive Assessment, a Psychiatric Assessment and a diagnosis of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder from the day that my ICD malfunctioned, as well as a consensus by medical professionals that I was majorly depressed.  My medication was adjusted, counseling was suggested, and I was on my way.  I did attend counseling, but just for a short period of time, I had convinced my counselor that I was doing what I needed to do and that I felt great, and the therapeutic relationship was considered successfully completed.

There were episodes over the next several years but only one major one, in January of 2011, when my heart stopped a few times, resulting in further hospitalization.  Until now I had been faking it until I made it, acting as if everything was great in my world and apart from the decline in the condition of my home, things really did seem to be going well for me.

After the episode, my mind relapsed into my old thinking patterns, and I convinced myself that I was going to die.  I stopped caring about my appearance, about my home, and about life in general.  I honestly believed that death was imminent and would literally get upset because it was taking its sweet time to claim me.  Now don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t suicidal, I didn’t want to die, I just knew I was going to, and if I was going to, then there was no use prolonging the agony.

In February of 2016, I finally reached out for help.  I had had enough of pretending that my life was perfect when it wasn’t, and I knew that the mess my life was in would only get worst unless I took certain steps to change myself.  I let go of all shame and opened up to people about how I was feeling, how messed up I had allowed my life to get and was determined to do whatever it took to get well.

I agreed to a course of counseling in the form of Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (CBT), to another Psychiatric Assessment, and to a medication adjustment, and decided that I couldn’t hide behind the stigma anymore.  My only chance at true recovery is to make sure that the people close to me are kept informed of what is happening in my mind, in my life, and in my home.  It’s a long and tedious process, but I am doing what I need to do, and slowly but surely my life is becoming a wonderful experience, and I can honestly say that today when I say that I am doing great, I truly am.  I won’t hesitate to tell you if I’m not. 

Love you all very much!

Luc