Well, it turns out that Diet Coke is not trying to destroy me, after all.
It’s my DNA, that fiendish double helix.
I talked to my mom for a while today, and she told me that heart arrhythmia runs in the family. Both she and her sister experienced different types of it, and they both eventually had to have a surgery called Something Something Ablation (that’s the technical term, of course) to take care of it. My mom’s arrhythmia was progressive, with her first and second attacks coming a year apart, and I’m experiencing a second one right now, which is a little concerning.
So it looks like I’m going to be following up on this at the cardiologist’s office. Hopefully my little chest-dwelling chihuahua will be in a showing off mood so he (the cardiologist, not the chihuahua) can figure out exactly what’s going on.
I’ll keep you posted*.
Please pray for me, friends!
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*But not in that long-winded, annoying way of people who love nothing more than to give you a non-stop rundown of their health problems every time you see them. I’ll try to keep it brief, i.e. “Update: feeling better today.” “Update: palpitating. Should probably bail on this afternoon’s spinning class.” “Update: I’m coming, Elizabeth!” (Thanks to Alyson for supplying these timely and appropriate last words. I hadn’t given it much thought, but it never hurts to be prepared. Please submit any other suggestions for last words in the comments.)
Wow, talk about getting desperate for blogging material! Today was so quiet on the blogging front that I decided to whip up some exciting heart palpitations and carry myself off to the emergency room just so I’d have something to write about.
Well, okay… It wasn’t exactly like that. It was exactly like a freaky, fluttery feeling in my chest that started a little after dinner and made me think I might possibly be getting to see the Lord a little sooner than I’d planned. Paul and I had just finished eating and I was settling down on the couch with Willie Ford to watch an old episode of Smallville when my heart started thumping extra hard somewhere up around my throat and I suddenly felt as if I couldn’t quite catch my breath.
“Paul, something’s wrong. I’m scared,” I whimpered, pressing a hand under my collarbone. He checked my pulse, then laid his ear against my chest. The next time my heart skipped a beat, he heard it. Just like that, he was scared, too. Instantly, he was on the phone with the emergency room, answering questions.
Chest pain? No.
Dizziness or fainting? No.
Weakness localized to one side of the body? No.
Shortness of breath? A little.
Shaking? Definitely.
I was getting a little panicky, which certainly didn’t help. The doctor on the phone said it didn’t sound like a heart attack, but that I probably should come in to the Urgent Care center next to the hospital and get checked out.
At Urgent Care, I answered questions about my medications and habits and tried to describe the sensation in my chest while the kind nurse attached wires for the EKG. She switched the machine on, and said, “Oh, yeah–you’re definitely beating irregularly. Try to relax, and we’ll get a couple of good samples to show the doctor.”
I did try to relax, but I was scared, and the whole time I could feel my heart jumping around like a tiny chihuahua trying to find a doggie door in the dark. When she was done, she shut the machine off, disconnected my wires, and told me the doctor would look at my EKG and be right in to talk to me.
I climbed down from the examination table and sat in a chair with my arms clasped around myself, trying to will the muscle in my chest to calm down and do its duty. It must have worked, because by the time the doctor arrived, that fluttery, breathless feeling had eased. He listened through his stethoscope and confirmed that my heart had pretty much returned to its normal rhythm. He ordered a second EKG just to be sure; we repeated the process with the wires and the machine, and, with a big grin on her face, the nurse declared it “boring”.
The doctor said that, while he wasn’t sure exactly what caused my little bout of cardiological salsa dancing (or PVCs–Premature Ventricular Contractions–if you’re the medical type), irregular heartbeats aren’t as rare as we might think, and usually aren’t dangerous to a healthy person my age, as long as there are no signs of underlying flaws in the heart. He recommended that I cut my caffeine consumption in half, watch my stress levels, and follow up with my family physician if I continue to experience palpitations.
So now I’m home, thirty dollars poorer, but very happy not to be exiting the world just at this particular moment.
Not that I wouldn’t be happy to go Home, of course, but, silly mortal that I am, there are a few things I’d like to do first.
Like see my kids grow up.
And write a book.
And travel the world.
And, of course, there’s still the matter of that one last Harry Potter movie…
It’s amazing how quickly a day goes by–especially when you’ve committed to spawning a blog post every 24 hours on top of your usual goings on.
Today was full, and we’re only just now going home from our small group meeting. What we talked about there could fill several computer screens, and I’ve been planning to post about our wonderful small group for a long time (have you noticed that the more full your heart is about something, and the more important it is to you, the more difficult it is to write about?), but since I’m in the car, typing with fumble fingers on my iPhone, I’ll save that post for another time.
For tonight, I’ll just say this: It’s good to be part of a family. Especially one that will last forever!
There are days during every NaBloPoMo when a busy schedule or a lackadaisical funk* prevents one from posting the long, brilliant, insightful but entertaining post that one would otherwise contribute to the daily blogging effort.
On days like that, I find that the muppets are my go-to guys.
*Lackadaisical Funk is a great name for a rock band.
I had a conference today with Katie’s fifth grade teacher, Marci, who also happens to be a good friend of mine. We talked for a while about the special joys and challenges of working with Katie, and then Marci gave me a sheaf of Katie’s finished work, including this poetry craft project that they did in class. I love the array of unique items Katie used in her collage–feathers, a skeletal dinosaur, sequins, puzzle pieces–but my favorite part is the poem itself, which opens a precious window onto Katie’s world:
However, when it comes to her brother agreeing with her, I don’t think she should hold her breath.
I have some garlic white wine chicken and butter-basted squash in the oven, so you’re getting a rather stream-of-consciousness post today thanks to the large part of my brain that is distracted by the delicious smells wafting around my head.
I can’t believe I typed that last sentence. I so rarely get to say that I have anything “in the oven”.
You see, I don’t like to cook… but I love to eat. It’s a problem. And not just for me.
Sometimes, when I hear other wives talking about their flaky pie crust or their super secret all-day lasagna recipe, I feel a little bad for Paul. All across this great land, men are trudging home from work, tired and hungry, only to be revived at the door of their warm, well-lit homes by the savory aroma of a lovingly prepared meat-and-potatoes dinner with a buttery homemade roll on the side.
Paul, on the other hand, often has to rustle up his own grub, as do I, in a process we jokingly call “grazing”, as in: “Do you want to go out for dinner tonight, or just graze?” Grazing can mean sandwiches, or chips and salsa, or even cold cereal. I imagine it’s how most bachelors eat before they find that loving woman who promises to put their days of Ramen noodles and peanut butter firmly behind them. And it must bother me, at least a little bit, because I keep bringing it up.
It’s not that I can’t cook. I’m actually okay at it, when I take the trouble. I just really, really, really don’t enjoy it at all.
Well, except for making chocolate chip cookies, but we all know that’s just about eating the raw cookie dough.
I told Paul up front, before he signed on the dotted line, about my kitchen allergy. He didn’t care. Strangely, he still doesn’t. Apparently, my performance in all other areas of wifely achievement is sufficient to overcome my culinary deficiency. And on those rare but auspicious occasions when I do don an apron and work the knobs on the stove, his gratitude is warm and abundant.
In short, he’s wonderful.
Today was one of those days when the sun was shining just right and the wind came from the southeast and I walked through the front door after work with the inexplicable urge to fire up the oven. Paul will be home soon from karate class, and I’m looking forward to seeing the pleased look on his face when the first whiff of baked chicken reaches his nose. It may even make me want to do it again sometime.
I suffer no guilt whatsoever while devouring juicy steaks, savory chicken, or crackling bacon. I can gnaw the meat off the bones of a whole rack of ribs with nary a pang of remorse. I rarely ever spare a thought for the animals that make the ultimate sacrifice to fill my dinner plate.
However.
Reading this description of the Turducken makes me feel a lot like one of those horrifying alien lizard people from V. I mean, imagine walking in on the scene of a turducken preparation if you happen to be a duck.
It’s going to be a little difficult blogging without a face, I’ll admit, but it’s a small price to pay for last night’s totally staggering concert!
Skillet has been one of our favorite bands for a long time, so when my good friend Alyson told us they were coming to Spokane, we ran right out and bought tickets, even though the concert was still six months away! That gave us just enough time to find a sitter who didn’t mind watching the kids for the eight hours it takes to drive to Spokane, stand in line, find good seats, and jump up and down to four hours of pure, unadulterated awesome.
Our friend Amy came with us, and while standing in line we bumped into another friend, Carrie, who was there with her daughter. Here’s Paul waiting patiently with the other Panheads for the doors to open:
Skillet headlined the Awake and Alive Tour (named after a song on their new album), but they shared the stage with three other bands: The Letter Black, Decyfer Down, and Hawk Nelson. I’d never heard of The Letter Black; they opened the show with a fifteen minute set that thoroughly tested out the power of the amps scattered around the auditorium and showed off the athleticism of the very spunky lead singer, Sarah Anthony (in fact, Paul leaned over to me about halfway through their first song to inform me that he was pretty sure the petite vocalist with the Sarah Connor muscles could kick his butt.)
Decyfer Down was up next, and I was almost as excited for their performance as for Skillet’s. After rocking one of my favorite songs, “Ride With Me”, frontman TJ Harris dialed it back from the edge a bit with an acoustic rendition of “Best I Can” that showed off his grit-and-honey voice in a way that the album recording doesn’t quite do it. I wish they had played longer.
Hawk Nelson was a fun surprise for me. We don’t own any of their CDs, and their upbeat, pop punk style makes them, as their lead singer puts it, sort of the “odd band out” of the tour, but their showmanship was amazing. Right around the time I found myself belting out “Friend Like That”, I realized that I knew a lot of their songs from the radio. They played for about an hour, skillfully working the crowd into a finely tuned frenzy before clearing the stage to make way for the biggest set of the night. It took several minutes for the tech crew to set up the pyrotechnics and hydraulics; the vibration of three thousand people bathed in anticipation was nearly tangible.
And then, at last, it was time.
Skillet!
They were amazing!
Okay, “amazing” doesn’t really cut it, but I don’t have enough ten cent words or exclamation points to put you in my seat as the whole auditorium thrummed and shook with the thunder of heart-rending guitar riffs and three thousand people sang together at the top of our lungs, beating the air with a single wild thought. My barbaric yawp was lost in the glorious noise and all of us were dancing, jumping, fists pumping to the throbbing, relentless rhythm of the drumbeat that went on and on.
I can’t describe how it felt to stand in that press of humanity, all praising God with passion and abandon. In between songs, artists shared their faith, their stories of struggle, their victories in Jesus Christ–and in the audience, we roared our agreement and approval. It was a night of declaration.
I took some video on my iPhone, but that poor little microphone didn’t stand a chance against the wave of bass that washed over everything, so it didn’t turn out. As soon as I got home, I looked everywhere on YouTube for a clip of the beginning of “Comatose”, because I just had to show you the violinist. In case you didn’t get the memo: the violin is officially an instrument of ROCK! This video was shot by someone in the audience the night before our concert. It’s a little shaky, but you’ll get the idea. Watch the violinist; he was an animal!
The crowd went wild (of course), there was an encore (of course), and none of my favorites was left unsung. When the last note of the last song finally sounded, I was hot, sweaty, deaf, and completely exhausted, with a crick in my neck to remind me that headbangers over thirty should probably consider taking it a little easier on the upswing. Wrung out and happy, we poured ourselves into the car, turned up the radio, and made our way back to Coeur d’Alene.
We didn’t get home until well after midnight (picking up the sleeping kiddos from Grandpa & Grandma’s house on our way), but even at that late hour, it was hard to get to sleep with all that adrenaline still coursing around in my veins. I woke up this morning with last night’s songs still ringing in my ears, and wished devoutly that I could go out tonight and do it all over again.
I guess I’ll just have to content myself with John Cooper’s promise to come back to Spokane on their next tour. He said that next time they’d book the Arena. Good move. That will give us a lot more dancing room.
For those of you not in the know, I’m talking about National Blog Posting Month, a month long celebration of blogging in which participants agree to post something–anything–on their blog every single day in November.
It’s a lot of fun. It’s a pain in the neck. It’s a fascinating look into the strange meanderings of a thousand other minds as we all scramble to find something to fill the page each day.
And it’s a challenge that, after three years of participating, I find myself unable to ignore.
I can’t promise genius or insight or even entertainment, but there will be words.
