Alive, Not Dead

In what will eventually become Chapter 34: I Hate IVs and Ambulances in my New York Times best-selling memoir, I am happy to report that I cheated death this weekend, yet again. Ernst & Young conservative accounting reports indicate that I am on my seventh life, give or take.

The short version: A working hypothesis is that it appears that perhaps neuro drugs do not play well with other organs, specifically hearts, but we will need more testing to figure out what the hell actually happened. Because doctors seem to have very little clue when it comes to actually knowing the answers to such things when they happen to me. The definitive diagnosis is, "I have no real clue. Huh." It is like I am that footnote in the medical school textbook, on the page they skimmed because they been out at The Wharf Rat the night before for 50 cent Purple Hooter shooters and $1 day-old oysters, and besides, it probably would not be on the final anyhow. (A personal apology to all the doctor friends that I know and love, but that has been my experience as an Extreme Health patient. McDreamy, don't give me that look; so judge-y with your judgement eyes.)

The long version: 911, 4 am ambulance ride, lots of nitroglycerin and other heart stuff, loss of consciousness, more IVs than I could count. "CLEAR!!!" and paddles and George Clooney running down the hall in scrubs, with Dr. McDreamy behind him, who told me he would have to do an awake craniotomy, but it would be fine because when it was over, he would buy me a unicorn named "Sparkles" and then there was tea and Divinity candy with my Nana on a cloud of pink sugar ... OK, so maybe that last part had a little to do with the morphine?

But the first part really happened.

PS Home now, recovering. Slowly. Bed rest. Am not supposed to exert myself or get stressed. Um-kay, have we met?