Mom keeps a list of Dad’s prescription medications in large-sharpie print on a white posterboard taped to a cupboard. And underneath are the pillboxes, one for morning and one for night. With his late-night reading, Dad often doesn’t take his a.m. medications until the p.m. “Did you take your pills, Nelson?” Mom badgers from her recliner, knowing she has to badger because he forgets and procrastinates. When he sheepishly shakes his head “no” she fires back, “You have to take your pills!” Bad things can happen when the pills remain in the pillbox. But eventually all the day’s pills get swallowed. What a great little invention the pillbox is. I even use one so the day’s medicines and vitamins and supplements are all ready to bottoms up. A pillbox is especially handy when traveling, so I do not have to take a bag full of bottles, although I have learned the hard way to strap the box closed with rubber bands. Come Sunday evening, Mom and I are filling Dad’s and my respective pillboxes. You have to take your pills!
During gym class, playing volleyball—that’s when it happened. My heart started to flutter and I became weak and light-headed. Sitting on the sidelines with my fingers pressed to my jugular, I managed to count 300 beats in a minute. Then it stopped, and I was fine. I was 17. My doctor trained me to stop the runaway heart-beat using vagal maneuvers, bearing down while holding my breath. Normally, lying on my back was all it took to slow the beat. Fully 40 years later, the vagals would not work, and my friend took me to the emergency room after two hours at 180 bpm. My cardiologist explained SVT—supraventricular tachycardia—a condition in which the electric circuitry of the heart becomes confused momentarily and takes an unintended and incorrect short cut, sending the heart racing. He thought low-dose Metoprolol would do the trick, and it did.
The roofing inspector had come to examine the 25-year-old shingles, and Mom watched from the back yard, seated on the rock wall. She began to feel funny in her eyes and head, stood up, became dizzy, and collapsed. The mortified inspector helped Mom to a chair. Her lip had glanced on a rock and was swollen and red. A brain MRI showed no stroke, no tumor, no inflammation, nothing but a very healthy brain. But the halter heart monitor revealed repeated episodes of rapid heart rate. Mom’s doctor, a neighbor, called me to explain the test results, the textbook symptoms, and the treatment. Knowing all about SVT, I jumped in to inform him of my condition and treatment. We chuckled in astonishment and excitement at the genetic coincidence. “Looks we know now where you got it from,” he said, amused. Chuckling felt appropriate, because Mom’s condition is not a heart defect, just a minor electrical short, and easily treatable, and because after four weeks of tests and consultations and worry, we both felt so relieved to have the answer, and such a positive one. Mom took her first dose tonight, and is already back on the stationary bicycle, albeit slowly and carefully, her fear ebbing, on her way to renewed strength.
Roger to his neurologist ten years ago: “I had a brain MRI two years ago.”
Neurologist to Roger: “Really? What did it show?”
Neurologist: “Really?! Well, I’m sure it showed that you have a brain!”
Roger, soto voce, Oh, you are just so clever, aren’t you?
Mom describes her brain MRI as a horrifying experience, one of the worst experiences of her life. And this from a woman who had her childhood cavities filled without Novocain. Despite the standard-issue ear plugs, the rhythmic clanging banging of the MRI machine smashed past the plugs and into her cranium and rattled around tortuously. While I fell asleep during my last MRI, she did not know if she would survive hers. She was so spent and disoriented after the scan, she found walking implausible and opted for a wheelchair, and was never happier to be home in her recliner. I will see to it that her next MRI is preceded by a dose of valium.
Her MRI report has come in, with its “supratentorial” this and its “intraparenchymal” that, showing conditions “not unexpected for age” but otherwise “normal in appearance.” No signs of stroke. No tracks of tumor. No inklings of inflammation. Mom wanted to jump for joy, but settled for a grinning cheer and a shaking of upraised hands. She felt so relieved! So did I. But the mystery of fainting and abrupt general decline remains. Still, with nothing now to fear, Mom has resolved to resume exercising on the stationary bicycle and walking to the mailbox and back. Get well cards arriving by U.S. mail all look forward to her quick and total recovery. And her name is being uttered in many a fervent prayer.