What Was The Point?

A few weeks ago, I broke down.  A literal, crying uncontrollably, I don't know what's wrong with me break down.  To this day, I don't know what happened. All I knew was something was horribly wrong.   I had been in my cardiac rehab program a few weeks at that point.  I had grown pretty close to the nurses and counselor so I grabbed my cell phone, called the nurse, and stepped outside lest my coworkers call security.  The nurse put me through immediately to the counselor who knew I had been struggling with depression since this latest heart "event".  She basically gave me a telephone therapy session and recommended an intense outpatient mental health program that began the next day.  At that moment, with me standing on the loading dock in the rain, she made all the sense in the world to me.  I arranged the leave with HR and was ready to go.

The next day I reported to the mental health facility and immediately copped an attitude.  You see, I had some time to think, to cry it out, get a good night's sleep -- to come to my senses so to speak.  Plus, I wasn't about to admit to these people that I had gotten to a point that I couldn't cope.  Yep, Strong Black Woman came back with a vengeance.  An hour in and I was ready to go home and catch The View.  Until the nurse called me back to do an official intake.

It all came pouring out.  I described everything I had been feeling or not feeling since I had been in the hospital for this ICD implant.  For the first time in a long time, I admitted how socially withdrawn I had been.  It's very easy for an introvert to excuse the lack of social activities with "I'm an introvert".  Truth of the matter was, I was scared.  I was scared of getting overly excited and having the ICD shock me out of some strange rhythm my heart could possibly go into.  For the first time in a long time, I admitted to another human being how hopeless I felt.   There was not a day that went by that I didn't wonder why I wasn't enjoying myself to the max as I "only had a few months to live". What was the point of depriving myself of french fries, coconut chocolate chip cookies, potato chips and real cheese (not that 2% stuff)?  What was the point of going to this job I was less than happy with to pay for a house I no longer wanted in order to present an image that I no longer cared about to the world?   What was the point of all this exercising to improve a heart that was failing anyway and that would never be fixed?  What was the point?

I was going through the motions but that question lingered.  Right there at the edge of my consciousness ... where I didn't really acknowledge its existence but it was there aggravating me -- like a gnat I couldn't swat away no matter how many times I saw it out the corner of  my eye.  Long story short, I was diagnosed with a major depressive episode.  I was in the outpatient program for about 2 1/2 weeks - EVERY DANG DAY.  

I found out through my cardiac rehab educational series, depression is very, very common with cardiac patients (yeah we don't have enough to deal with - that's sarcasm).  From what I can gather, many in the medical profession refer to it as The Cardiac Blues -- that's how common it is.  It would have been nice if I had that class earlier in the program, but I came in mid-course and it just had not cycled around yet.  It was very hard to admit I had - gasp - "a mental disorder".   I don't care how progressive we think we are, you say the words mental illness, and people still pull away from you.  My mom, bless her heart, just asked me a couple of questions then started talking about the weather.  Denial be thy name but I love her anyway.   My daughter, told me she knew something was wrong but I always told her I was okay.  She was so relieved when I told her I was getting help.  I truly had no idea she had been that concerned about me.  Anyway, I feel a thousand percent better.  I'm still going to therapy and the doctors have added another pill to my arsenal.

As far as the answer to my question?  Thanks to the excellent medical care and education I've received, I have a much brighter outlook.  I'm still sick but my viewpoint is not clouded by the darkness of depression.  I'll share some of the symptoms I experienced and how they impacted my rehabilitation later.  For now, I'm content with knowing that the points are numerous:  my daughter, my granddaughter, my brothers, my mom, and the young woman who reached out to me because she's now battling heart failure.   

I'm Here

I haven't thought much about my blog these days.  If truth be told, I haven't thought much about anything lately but escaping into a fantasy world of TV and sleeping.   If you follow me on Twitter, you know that I've been going to a cardiac rehab program which lasts 12 weeks, three days a week.  It's a good program and is designed to get us cardiac patients into a routine of steady exercise, teach us about diet, stress management, medications, etc.   We even have a counselor who talks with us individually about the emotional impact of our diagnoses as well as teaching us about the "cardiac blues" and other issues we're dealing with.  All in all, it's been a very intense, and extremely valuable program.

I've learned a lot.  I've been working hard to get up to where they want me as far as exercising.  My last trip to the grocery store was filled with reading labels and buying more fresh fruits and veggies. Shoot I even lost 1 1/2 pounds of the total 10 they want me to lose.  I've been doing what I can do at the job and not freaking out if I'm not Wonder Woman.  With medication (enough that I have to count out the pills in the morning to make sure I'm not missing one), diet changes, and regular exercise, my blood pressure has been spot on.  Of course, I'm exhausted but that's to be somewhat expected and I have to learn to listen to my body more and rest when I need to.

But I didn't start the program with a "let's do this" attitude.  In fact, I was probably defeated before I even stepped on the treadmill that first day.  I think my next few posts will focus on this whole process thus far.  Part therapy to help me come to grips with my condition and partly to share my journey in the hopes that I can shed some light on the very real problem of heart disease in women.

For the first time in weeks, I've truly felt "here".  This song by the legendary Diana Ross says it all for me right now.  Enjoy.

It's All In the Name

My granddaughter is going to spend the weekend with me.  I need it.  As tired as I know I'm going to be running after a 5-year old with non-stop energy, I need to spend a few days with her.  You see, last Sunday, she called me something she had never called me before.  It wasn't a bad name, it just wasn't the name she dubbed me.  During a phone conversation with her, Peanut called me (cue music) -- "Grandma".  GASP!

I've been "Gamma" for about four years.  When Peanut was learning to call her mom "mommy" and her dad "daddy", she referred to me as "Gamma" and I've been Gamma ever since.  There's something about the name your first grandchild gives you that is special beyond special.  My daughter was my mom's first grandchild, and dubbed her "Nanny".  My mom has 10 grandchildren now (including two step-grandchildren ... of another race .. but that's another story) and every last one of them refer to her as Nanny.  It's an honor the first grandchild gets to bestow and most grandparents cherish the moniker and try to live up to it with every fiber of their being.  I have vivid memories of my daughter ready to fight her cousin when cousin called my mom Nanny.   Looking back, I can say it was my daughter's first "oh hell naw" moment.   My daughter and all of her five year-old self explained to cousin that this is "my Nanny" and you are not allowed to call her Nanny.  I remember telling daughter that as the first grandchild, it was up to her to teach the cousins who Nanny was and what her name was.  She was cool with being the "first" as long as cousins recognized.  Needless to say, they learned to recognize and there was peace amongst the cousins.

When I heard Peanut call me "Grandma", I knew it was time for some quality time.  It reminded me of that moment in an adult relationship when you stop referring to your partner by the nickname he/she has always been and calling them something ordinary that doesn't convey the specialness that is your relationship.  That moment that usually signifies a subtle shift when things start to go downhill.   When the love of my life and I started drifting apart, I can almost pinpoint the day because he was no longer "Pet Nickname" but "First Name".  It didn't seem like a big deal when it happened but in hindsight, it was a huge signal that something was off.

Now I don't mean to imply that a 5-year old calling me "Grandma" is a sign of something on the scale of a marriage or relationship ending, but it did jolt me out of my own head.   I don't have the scientific evidence to back it up, but my gut says it's pretty easy to slip into yourself and have an all out pity party when faced with a serious illness.  Especially if you're prone to episodes of depression anyway.   But it's not the time for a pity party.  It's the time to embrace life fully (which we should all be doing anyway).  It's the time to really focus on what's important -- getting healthy and making sure your relationships aren't focusing on the dumb stuff.  And if your relationship are all about the dumb stuff, then it's time to build new relationships.  I realize I've been caught up in my own health drama (which is understandable).  I've been wallowing in my own self-pity and not giving too much thought to how those closest to me are affected.  I've pulled inside my own little bubble, determined to get through this on my own and refusing to allow those that love me to give me the strength that is their love.  

My goal these next couple of days with Peanut is to become her Gamma again.  I've built an online identity around that moniker so it's important that I keep it (just kidding but not).  Seriously, I'm going to let my family and friends "in" and accept the encouragement and hope that is their love.  So when Peanut wants to see my scar and asks me if the doctors fixed me, I want to hold her on my lap and tell her they've given me something that will make me feel better and then commence to coloring or writing notes to her mommy.  I won't sink into my "woe is me world" and put in a Scooby Doo video for her.  I'll just be her Gamma.

It's all in the name.