On June 21, 2018, I rose at six-thirty a.m. but felt rested. Had a pleasant conversation with Nurse Jennie who is from Vietnam. She gave me a Lasix infusion to help me urinate. Dr. Gallinghouse came in at seven-thirty. He said everything went great. Inside of the heart looked as he had thought it would but felt that the work  he’d done would provide the hardened tissue needed for blocking the errant electric signals. (I guess; the procedure is still somewhat of a mystery to me.) He will have me continue my current medications until further notice. For a couple of weeks I’ll be on Carafate, a high-powered antacid, which will help any irritation that may have taken place near the esophagus, where he worked. Ken arrived at eight-thirty, missing the doctor’s visit. A young man with dreadlocks said he was going to help me shower and remove the surgical tape covering my groin wounds. 
 
Word came down that I might be dismissed before noon. Frankly, I believed they would need the space ASAP. When things were expedited, the shower was eighty-sixed. I might have needed some help because the surgical tape was so powerful it could have been used to patch broken plumping. It was so strong that it tore skin from my body when I carefully removed it myself.
 
Out at eleven a.m. 
 
I posted on FB that everything had gone well. In fact, I’d posted twice before the procedure, once while I was in the first holding room, and then again after I was in my room and I took a picture of the marker board stating: “Monitor groin areas overnight.” Two of my friends gave me some real grief over that, all in good fun, of course.
 
In closing, Doctor Gallinghouse is a very personable, passionate, and intelligent gentleman with a great haircut, using some of the most sophisticated knowledge and equipment at his fingertips at Saint David’s. More important, his heart is in the right place, caring more about ridding people of the annoying, debilitating, and potentially harmful condition known as A Fib than riches or fame. The organization of which he is a part--Texas Cardiac Arrhythmia Institute—is by many accounts one of the best, if not the best, medical centers of its kind in the country, if not the world. I’m NOT engaging in hyperbole! People from other countries journey to Austin every week to have this superior level of ablation performed. I can’t speak highly enough of the Saint David’s and TCA staff members. Each and every individual I came in contact with was exceedingly competent, helpful, and caring. And caring. I can’t say that enough: caring!
 
In the days since the ablation (thirty-seven and counting), I have NOT experienced one twinge of A Fib. I feel that the repair has increased blood flow to all parts of the body. I am now able to bend over or stoop down without triggering an episode or becoming dizzy when I stand. I can now do my complete Pilates workout without having to worry. I returned to achieving my 10,000+ steps per day within a week! I feel great, and I hope I never take that feeling for granted ever again.
 
If you are experiencing atrial fibrillation or believe you have its symptoms, I encourage you to contact TCA in Austin, Texas and make an appointment. Their surgeons meet with people from all over the state, so be sure and check with the Austin office for a cardiologist near you. And finally, if you’re worried about costs, consider that Medicare and insurance companies are willing to pay for this procedure because in the long run it reduces their costs. (Warfarin tests, drug expenses, appointments, cardioversions, and other charges add up over the years.) In fact, I have by now received the bill for my share of the expenses at St. David's, and my insurances covered all but 5%—an amount I can live with.

If you have any questions, please message me using the contact box on my Home page (I no longer have a Facebook account), and I’ll try to answer or put you in touch with someone who can. You or those whom you love no longer have to suffer! Also, if I’ve misstated anything, please inform me, so I can correct it. Thanks.

NEXT TIME: My Journey of States-16 Connecticut

This past week, I came to a decision I had been mulling over for at least eighteen months, when a foreign nation used Facebook to try and skew the election of 2016. I deleted my Facebook account. It was a decision I did not arrive at easily. After all, I had established lines of communications with high school, college, and childhood friends, as well as former students of mine, and contemporary acquaintances of all kinds.

However, I believe until Facebook cleans up its act and can secure our personal data in the way that our credit card companies and banks do, I'm wary of participating. I also believe FB must shore up its advertising scheme. When I was attempting to sell my book with ads on FB, I figured into their algorithms every English-speaking country in the world. Mistake. It invited all kinds of mayhem—people around the world desperate for attention—and virtually no sales. Many of the parties who searched me had a "ru" following the dot in their URL.

There are also practices of FB that I could no longer tolerate. The idea of establishing algorithms that prey on our buying patterns, our political choices, and a host of other preferences, appalls me. Algorithms dictating that we only see the posts of a certain twenty-five friends! Why? It is the epitome of Big Brother watching us every minute, and it is intolerable. And get this, Instagram and other apps are owned by FB, so I shall never be using their services, either. I am considering dropping my Twitter, LinkedIn, and Google + accounts, as well because they have many of the same problems as FB. 

Sooooo . . . until FB can get its sh** together, I choose not to participate. I will miss seeing what's happening with my friends, both close ones, and those whom I confirmed because we happened to know someone in common or because we met a long, long time ago. I am certain I do NOT have over 250 friends in my non-cyber life. If you do, congratulations. And if in the future FB, or some emerging social media outlet, should be able to set up a platform that is safe and secure, I'll see you there!

Until then, reach me here at my Web site on my Home page where there is a contact box. And I'll gladly respond. That's what friends do.

NEXT TIME: Defeating A Fib at Last-4 (final installment)

​St. Aubyn, Edward. Patrick Melrose. New    
     York: Picador, 2015.
 
I more often read a novel before viewing a film version, but less often do I read the novel after tuning into something like, say, Showtime’s “five-part limited series,” of the same title. It is one of those series which may have been equal to the book, or books, because Patrick Melrose is a compendium of St. Aubyn’s five novels about the same character, and it unfolds almost as luxuriously as the book.

Patrick Melrose may be one of the best contemporary novels to come to grips with the life of a drug addict. But more important, I believe St. Aubyn traces the aspect of abuse within a family over several generations, and how, unaddressed, it can devastate a family—wealthy or not. Substance abuse is merely a symptom of the deeper problems buried in the Melrose family history.
 
Patrick Melrose, born in 1960, approximately the same time as his creator, experiences physical abuse when his father perpetrates sodomy on him at an early age—repeatedly over several years. But then there is also the emotional abuse, when Patrick’s father, David, swears Patrick to secrecy or he will be “very severely punished” (79). (In the film, he says he will snap him like a twig.)

​Patrick’s mother? Well, her abuse of him manifests itself as ignorance—blissful, willful ignorance of how David is treating their son. She, too, has suffered abuse as a child and at the hands of her husband, and they, without even trying, do their best to destroy Patrick’s life. What is most remarkable about this novel is that St. Aubyn manages to limn the skeletal remains of the several generations of this family without any shortcuts or platitudes. On the next to the last pages of the book, Patrick has earned the profound conclusions at which he arrives:

My God, in a nutshell, the entire novel portrays the unraveling of this moneyed British family, their accumulated abuses and how they lead to “drug and alcohol abuse” by Patrick, his chosen method of coping. Cause and effect, folks. Cause and effect.
 
I have only a couple of observations which might manifest themselves as criticisms: In spite of St. Aubyn’s lyrical and commanding prose, sustained over nearly nine hundred pages, I was often distracted. First, he participates in what American workshoppers call head-hopping, that is, employing the third-person omniscient point of view, not commonly used since the nineteenth century. Yet, I must probably applaud him because he manages to employ it with great skill, and, in a novel of this breadth, it is amusing and strategically important for the reader to know exactly what each character is thinking at any given time.

And two, the author uses, repeatedly, speech attributions which seem inappropriate or awkward. What do I mean? Any speech attribution, to my way of thinking, ought to be a synonym for the word “said,” or “spoke”: “declared,” “replied,” or similar verbs. Not so here: “The daughter is impossible,” grinned Laura (408). “Grin” is not a synonym for “said,” and it gives the sentence an amateurish patina. I wonder: Is this an acceptable practice in the writing of fiction within the United Kingdom? I should hope not. Another scathing example: “You may well ask,” scowled Nicholas (704). Seriously? How is “scowling” like “speaking?” This questionable practice is rife throughout the novel, marring what is otherwise impeccable prose, and could have been nipped in the bud by a good editor. Please help me to understand, Mr. St. Aubyn. Why would you do this to your book?

NEXT TIME: Final Installment of Defeating A Fib At Last

My father was born in Greenwich, Connecticut and grew up not far away in Port Chester, New York, graduating from PCHS in 1938. His was indeed a suburban upbringing, as my father preferred the woods to entering the wilds of the city. I first saw New York City as a four-year-old. When we returned to Wichita and were downtown one day, I commented on the tall buildings, and my mother nearly slapped me, reminding me of all the tall buildings we’d just seen.

In 1974, while at a teachers’ convention, I attended the Broadway show Pippin ​starring John Rubinstein and Grease, though John Travolta and Adrienne Barbaux had both departed from the cast. The music from those shows continues to resonate with me largely because I saw them in New York when I was twenty-six. Over forty years later, Pippin was still winning Tony Awards for its 2013 revival.

On June 20, at Saint David's Medical Center @stdavidsmedctr, in Austin, Texas—in association with Texas Cardiac Arrhythmia  Institute @tcainstitute—Doctor Joe Gallinghouse @GallinghouseMD performed an ablation on my heart. Doctor Gallinghouse is one of the preeminent doctors in this field, worldwide, and I felt very fortunate to be in his care. Ablation is a process just short of a miracle. Sending a scope up arteries on either side of the groin, Doctor Gallinghouse used energy (re: heat) to ablate five key places inside the heart, correcting the errant electric impulses that had been causing the heart to misfire. The procedure hardens areas of the heart which then block those wild electronic impulses—causing the heart to beat in a normal sinus rhythm. I’ve not had any symptoms since before June 20. More than thirty days and counting!

The day began at 7:00 a.m., as usual, except that I had no breakfast, of course. While I scoured my body in the shower, Ken had something to eat in the hotel restaurant. We used Uber to get to St. David’s. Again the driver had some difficulty (or else it was his app) finding our hotel. I finally had to enter the address again! It was amusing watching the phone screen as that little black car kept turning around!

We knew exactly where the hospital's main entrance was because we had scouted it out the day before. I got checked in after more filling out of a form on a tablet. There was a man who served as sort of concierge, making it the most efficient hospital check-in I’ve ever seen. Then more answers to more questions ad infinitum—perhaps a truth-check to make sure facts are consistent? I was then placed in a “holding” room for over two hours, dressed in an odd-patterned gown of oranges and browns. During that time, lying on my back on one of those comfortable gurneys, I met my anesthesiologist, then an assistant/intern, and consented to become involved in two different tests or studies: 1) To check if half-saline solution would work as efficiently as the usual saline solution. Preliminary studies show yes. 2) I can’t recall the second study . . . 
 
Then off to the next holding room, which was colder, three walls with a fourth facing the hallway and only a flimsy curtain. And . . . oh, yes . . . yet another nurse named Clayton who would roll me into the OR soon enough; he was a Labrador retriever in nature, friendly, nurturing, smart and alert. As I lay there alone, I used my usual meditation mantras to try and relax. There was noise coming from every direction as I waited. I believed it was the OR doors opening (and I would be right), and the roar of tech would emerge as well as heavy metal rock music. Please don’t play raucous music during my procedure, I pleaded. Maybe some Mozart, Debussy?

I sent my silent message down the hall, imagining it taking wing as it fled through banging doors, noisy alarms, and raised voices. Not complaining. It’s just the way of a well-functioning contemporary hospital! In another thirty minutes Clayton rolled me across the hall to the OR, which he stated was kept at fifty-eight degrees. I asked why so cold, and he said it was to keep the technical equipment cool, but also the staff (I later learned it also cuts down on bacteria growth). Clayton was kind enough to place some heated blankets over me.

At that point, three chatty female nurses began to prep me for the procedure, having me slide from the gurney to the table, sliding a hose pumping warm air under my blanket. Thank Christ. They hooked up the IV into my left forearm. Then I realized they were engaging me.
            "You are NOT seventy," one of them proclaimed.
            "I can show you my birth certificate," I said.
            "We just want to know what your secret is."
            "Good, clean living," I quipped.
           "I missed out on that a long time ago," one of them said.
          "I think it’s probably just good dee enn aaye," as my voice slowed, and I went under. Probably their ploy all along. We always flatter patients. That helps them relax and get out of themselves so the anesthesia can do its job.
       
I didn’t recall anything after that until I woke up in the recovery room with the words that everything had gone well. Rather than literal heart burn, I was experiencing more pain in my groin areas where the scopes had traveled up through arteries to my heart. I was put into a private room about six. Ken helped me negotiate my way until about seven-thirty when he took off for the hotel. He had had a rougher day than me, speaking on his phone periodically to Clayton to see where I was in the process—sitting, sitting, sitting.

I ate some chicken noodle soup and an entire baked potato. My sugar levels were a bit above average, and the nurse offered to give me a shot of insulin. Since I’m not a diagnosed diabetic and because it was offered as an option, I passed. I took my usual night pills at nine p.m. I ate some ice cream at ten-thirtyish and finished watching Rachel Maddow. Finally to bed after midnight. The nurse gave me five mg. of Ambien—enough to help me drowse between her visits. I did like it that she informed me when she would be back at three thirty and then again at fiveish—like most nights when I have get up to pee. Return next week as I conclude my story.
 
NEXT TIME: My Journey of States-15 New York

​Strout, Elizabeth. Anything is Possible.
     New York: Random, 2017.
 
Strout is a master at creating simple stories that are riddled with complexities and nuance that are difficult to apprehend with one reading. You might think you’re finished reading about one character, and then he or she returns to another chapter. Charles Macauley, for example, has layer upon layer added to his part until we might think we understand him. In the meantime, we learn of others: Two sisters, one who marries well, one who does not. And a prodigal daughter/citizen, who becomes a famous author and returns to her humble beginnings to have more than a little abuse heaped upon her. But now Lucy Barton is ready to face it all.

NEXT TIME: Defeating A Fib at Last-3

​Delaware is one of those states I can claim to have visited, but which I know little about. I simply traveled through the edge of the state to get to another. I hope to come back one day, since it is first of the original thirteen colonies. ¶ “It is known as the ‘First State,’” according to Delaware Historical Society, “because on December 7, 1787, it became the first to ratify the U.S. Constitution. In 1610 explorer Samuel Argall named the Delaware River and Bay for the governor of Virginia, Thomas West, Lord De La Warr. The state of Delaware takes its name from the river and bay.” ¶ The state’s bicenquinquagenary was also celebrated in 2012.

For a long time I was wary of having the ablation procedure done (They go inside your heart? I thought), as one is when one doesn’t have all the facts. When I ran into a friend who had had this procedure performed by Doctor Joe Gallinghouse, she had not experienced an episode in over a year after her ablation (it has now been over two years). I was intrigued, and kept Dr. Gallinghouse in mind (he travels twice a month to Lubbock from Austin to conduct follow-up visits, as well as consultations with potential patients). I continued to see my friend from time to time, and she would ask me how I was doing, and she would once again extol the doctor’s virtues.

One day when I had a routine appointment with my PCP’s Nurse Practitioner, I was experiencing A Fib, and my heart rate was 142. She had an EKG taken and emphatically said, when she showed me the results, “This is not pretty!” She, knowing the NP of my cardiologist, Doctor Brogan, called that office and set up an appointment with him the very next afternoon. I was still in A Fib at the time, and I informed him I was ready to consult with Doctor Gallinghouse. Brogan’s office scheduled an appointment for late April. At that time, I went in with a long list of questions, and he addressed them all and a few that Ken had for him. In all, he met with us for thirty-five to forty minutes—valuable as gold.
 
Monday, June 18, 2018 
Ken and I used Uber as a trial run to get to St. David’s Hospital, where I shall meet with Dr. Gallinghouse’s PA tomorrow. The ride went without a hitch, and the driver was flexible enough to drop us at the Garage #2 where Dr. Gallinghouse’s office is located on the seventh floor. We took the elevator up, and the receptionist told Ken where he would find the cafeteria on Wednesday.

Later we walked from the hospital to the LBJ Presidential Library—fifteen minutes. The heat got to Ken so we won’t be doing that again soon. I didn’t like it either; I hate getting sweaty with good clothes on. While we wandered among the exhibits, I kept thinking ahead to Wednesday! Not good. Took Uber back to Holiday Inn Midtown.
 
There, I had a meal of fish tacos and potato crisps, both of which were spicy, but I enjoyed them. Buttered, steamed broccoli—al dente, just right. Return next week for Defeating A Fib at Last-3, when I head into the OR!
​
NEXT TIME: My Journey of States-14 Delaware

Jackson, Shirley. Raising Demons. New
    York: Farrar, 1957.

I loved this sequel to Jackson’s first memoir about family, Life Among the Savages. For those readers who might think that a successful writer with a family of four children (five if you count her husband) might neglect any of them, such readers should take note of the following passage, in which a mother who is in full grasp of the personality of each one of her children writes:

Shirley Jackson may have been the first Tiger Mother as she reared her four children in the 1950s. Now, I don’t mean that she micromanaged their lives, but she did see, by her own accounting, that they were properly cared for, not just in terms of the basics like food and clothing, but also their emotional and psychological development. She knew the essence of each child and attempted to open up the world to them, or, at the very least, she stayed out of their way. She allowed Laurie to be all boy, Sally to be a starry-eyed spinner of tales, Jannie to be just as bossy as her mother, and Barry, the youngest, he was allowed to drink in the wonder of life. Who could ask for more? (Perhaps her children’s memoirs would reveal a different dynamic).

NEXT TIME: My Journey of States-14 Delaware

I’ve battled A Fib @Afib_Disease #AFib since 2003, living through (if you want to call it that) episodes in which my heart speeded up to 130-140 beats per minute. For hours. Sometimes days, intermittently, until additional drugs and rest could coax the heart rate back to a normal one. When the heart is in A Fib, the upper two chambers of the heart beat fast while the lower two, unable to keep up, sort of quiver, inviting blood to pool, coagulate, clot, and possibly cause a stroke (thankfully, meds like Warfarin and Xarelto “thin” the blood to reduce the chances). In addition, I take a cocktail of four other medications to maintain this thin margin of being in A Fib or not in A Fib. The biggest trigger for me (although there does not need to be a trigger) was stress, inner stress I often wasn’t even aware of until it was too late, and there I was under attack inside my own body.
 
June 17, 2018 Austin, Texas
 
I can’t believe the hour has arrived . . . almost. Here in Austin for my ablation on Wednesday. We've flown down direct from Lubbock—only a slight delay and the flight takes but an hour and five minutes! In some cities that’s a driver’s daily commute. No wonder Doctor Gallinghouse makes the trip twice a month from Austin to Lubbock—easy peasy.
 
As we approach the cab queue, the first driver in line waves to us and smiles. His skin is the color of wintered pecans, and his teeth almost iridescently white. 
 
Midtown Holiday Inn, we say once we are inside the cab, and the driver hands us his phone—white but smeared with constant use—and asks us to type in the address. Lucky for us I have memorized it so that when I enter about half to it into his phone, the address pops up and I tap it. Then as we take off from the airport into Austin, I wonder if I have selected the correct address. “We might wind up at Big Lots,” I say to Ken.
   “Check your phone,” he says, and I do, opening my map app. Yes, I believe once he hits IH-35 that we are on our way. The fare winds up being $34.70 and Ken gives the man a fifty and tells him he's earned it. We had gotten stuck in slowing downtown traffic and for a neophyte, seemingly, he did well, weaving in and out, using the frontage roads here and there. I haven't been listening to the music he is playing until I hear the word Jesus and then I imagine he might be a seminary student. He has a Mother Mary decal glued to his glove box.
 
I read a more detailed account of what the ablation will be like—eight to nine hours flat on my back after the procedure is over. Possible palpitations. Pain because of the “heart burn.” But . . . I’m ready to go through with it because I’m tired of living half a life. I want to swim again. I want to do a National Geographic trip with long hikes. I want to do writing and photographic field trips. I want to get out of town longer than a couple of weeks. I want to live and live forever! Come back in a week when I continue this saga of conquering A Fib!

NEXT TIME: My Journey of States-13 New Jersey