Sleeping is the part of the night time that I impersonate a bulldozer filled with revving gas powered buzz saws cowering under an endless parade of fully charged monster trucks in a stadium filled with screaming, drunk truckers.

At least that's what the husband tells me.

OK I admit I've awakened abruptly to the sound of snoring before I just figured it was HIM. In spite of his denial I am convinced that I've heard him cracking knuckles in his throat. A few weeks ago he decided to mention that when I sleep the buzz saws start up in low gear then progressively increase to monster truck stadium scream until....

I suddenly stop.

For what seems like minutes there is no sound, nothing, just edge-of-the-cliff-like-Wile.-E. Coyote-suspended-in-mid-air-before-he-drops quiet. Until...

Like the one you take after holding your breath underwater too long. 

My jaw dropped when he told me. After the very bad heart day you'd think this might be a thing. Like something I'd need to know. Like right away or at the very least a YEAR BEFORE MY HEART STOPPED. But at least he mentioned it.

Within the week I had talked to my cardiac consultant, my doctor and the lady whose job it was to process my request at the clinic and was walking into a downtown office tower to spend my Sunday night in a 'sleep' clinic. Ironical operative word of note: 'sleep'. You don't get to actually sleep, you 'sleep'.

After signing my life away (again, what is it with the medical profession? We die, we get it), I was put in a examining room with a double bed. After I got into my PJs they started by smearing a cold, wet tooth paste-like goo in strategic spots on my face, head, body, then stuck electrodes into the setting toothpaste/concrete . They shoved stuff in my nose, wrapped TWO belts tightly around my body and turned on the florescent night light and left me to 'sleep'. 

Seriously. 

There was a camera lens pointed at the bed, the room was wired for sound so they could count snores and please-God-let-that-be-the-absolute-worst-thing-they-hear. It was mortifyingly uncomfortable and strange to have wires attached EVERYWHERE. I started to become hyper-concious of everything! I was grinding my teeth to the rhythm of that insipid Gotye song and began to wonder if they could make out what the tune was. Could they read my mind? Did they sense I was aware of not sleeping and worrying about not sleeping? Did they watch me trying to flip flop trying to find a comfortable position to actually do that sleep thing in? Was this normal for them, they, the unknown observers? Who would sign up to listen to farty, congested, snorers all night? What if I have to pee? How do I unhook.

After maybe ten minutes of sleep I had to go the the bathroom.

I thought I was speaking out loud, "Hello, I have to go to the bathroom."

A few minutes later, "Hello? I need to get up".

Again, many minutes later the feminine/Asian HAL voice came over a speaker.

"You need to get up? I come in."

Out comes the nose thing the wires are tucked into he belts and off I waddle through the medical office to take care of business. By the time I get back get hooked up again I'm wide awake. Soon I was grinding my teeth to a U2 song and worrying about trying to relax to maybe perhaps ease into sl...NOPE. Not going to happen. I have to go through the thought rolodex looking for something to worry about.

Ten minutes later the technician is unhooking me. Pulling probes out of the sticky, stringy toothpaste/cement. It's 5:30AM and I'm being turned out. I tried to scrape off the goo on my face only to realize my hair resembled Mary's gelled hair from 'Something About Mary'.    Looking and feeling ridiculous I bolted for the subway and hurried home. SevenAM I'm ringing the doorbell, waking the husband up to let me in. It's a good thing he can fall right back to sleep but I only have time to shower change and go to work. Running out the door I feel like I haven't slept all night and it's the beginning of the week. It was all I could do to NOT fall asleep at my desk; I'd hate to subject my lovely co-workers to my nocturnal noises. I save that for the husband.

Let's start with The Raptors. Basketball. That game with the tall men that goes on for a quarter of the time, entertainment and fist-thumping antics for the other three quarters? Yeah, that. Now, picture this as your first time seeing a basketball game, from a private corporate box with a group of your favourite people and catered yummies. Yup, basketball heaven. It was a special treat, a work without work evening and our whole team ("I love us!") was there with some of the talent from the shows we work with. An excellent time was had by each. It was actually hilarious to me that the fist-pumping music, and the cheerleading and the shooting t-shirts into the air entertainment fits itself in and around the game like a commercial break. Yes I'm new, why?

Then the gastronomic bliss of dinner at Ruby Watch Co. consumed (hah!) the following Wednesday night. It's not just a meal, it's an experience. Chef Lynn and Chef Laura have created full menu nights, every night. You come on a Wednesday, (here's what you're going to eat..). It changes every day. Food is served family style, (here's the bowl, plate, basket, etc. help yourself) and the menu is as local as the ingredients can be. The layers of flavour and textures are courtesy of fresh-baked goods (I will marry that biscuit one day!), home-made butter, canned marinated, pickled and preserved delicacies, and freshly cooked ingredients. Lynn Crawford wasn't there but I could hear her voice in the descriptions of the courses. She has a way of making everything sound enticing, stimulating the waterworks in your mouth. Her staff is great at simulating her delivery, there's love and lust in every syllable. And that's just the description, eating it takes you to a whole new plateau. The restaurant was full, a great energy envelopes you as soon as you enter and it carries you through every course. Wine and cheese pairings are hand selected with care and every moment in there feels like a privilege.

I was in great company except the husband wasn't there. I got him the next best thing: A signed cookbook!

But the week of firsts continued...

I had a chance to meet the lovely and talented Lisa Ray star of the film, Water and recent cancer survivor. She's probably the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. It was a work scenario so I didn't have a chance to delve into her recovery story ala George Strombo but I'd love to one day.

Then the very next day...

Lindsay Wagner came a calling. She's friends with a producer friend and wanted to stop by to visit. I HAD to take her around to meet people because you just HAVE to show off the Bionic Woman. I apologized to her in advance and she was so gracious. Allowing pictures to be taken and hands to be shook (shaken?). We talked for over two hours about the TV industry, her life as a facilitator, teaching people to connect with who they really are. Her journey to self discovery is interesting but it's not about her it's about sharing her knowledge. She's quite fascinating and yes, absolutely beautiful inside and out. I left our meeting feeling like I'd received an incredible gift; her time and energy.

To top it all off  was at the Canadian Film Festival premiere of "Webdultary". Brilliant, funny, well-crafted and captivating. I just happen to know the DOP and he actually challenged me to come see it and experience the camera and lenses he used. I taunted him about budgets and expensive lenses and how nice it is when you have both. The irony is this full feature film was made with less that $40,000. Less than what it costs to make a music video these days... and it was brilliant. Special mention: Kevin Kincaid as O'Keefe, the brother. Exceptional performance, Genie-worthy for sure. Ironically it was my neighbor who introduced me to Kevin a couple of months ago, and she was my date for the evening!

Tonight the festivities wind down at a sleep clinic where I will spend the night to determine if sleep apnea is a factor. I suspect it may be the route cause of many things -including a few clogged pipes! Here's to a cure to stimulating senses when we're supposed to be SLEEPING! Huzzah!

Apparently it is very, very bad if it's a symptom of Sleep Apnea. 

C'mon how bad can it be? 

Well it can kill you. 

Yup, bad sleep = bad. Good sleep= good. 

Do you randomly wake up in the night  sweating, heart racing, adrenalin pumping? That can lead to: high blood pressure which can lead to ... wait for it... clogged arteries! Really. Here's how it goes. The flight or fight response is ignited when you're sleeping and stop breathing. Could be because your tongue is hanging far back in your throat, the water retention from the day in your feet is moving up around your neck (ew, I know!), or you hear some strange noise that jars you awake -it's your snoring that did that but you didn't know because YOU WERE SLEEPING. Sometimes in the night you might  just stop breathing. You may find yourself (in a shot gun shack) gasping for breath or just mildly miffed that you're suddenly awake. But PAY ATTENTION. It could be...wait for it... SLEEP APNEA! 

Kind of sounds like an editing term in English class. 

AWK

STET

DELE

SLEEP APNEA.

OK maybe not. 

So bad sleep equals tired equals over-eating equals weight gain equals fat all over including all under and around organs including face, throat, stomach. etc. 

(somebody illustrate this). Overweight equals high blood pressure, high  blood sugar, hypertension, irritability, unstable cycle (women), and in some cases anxiety. Anxiety leads to flight or fight adrenalin rushes which lead to high blood pressure. 

What does this mean? 

Interrupted sleep is killing us. It's the most under diagnosed illness around and I'm questioning whether clogged arteries could be not from stress during the day, but stress during the night?

I'm going to do a sleep study and see if this all makes sense. Right now this logic is completely fuelled by Barefoot Pinot Grigio. (No, it's not a symptom).

I adore this woman. 

She was an angel sent to gently guide my mother-in-law through her last days in a cancer-ridden body. She came and stayed with her and made her as comfortable as possible, she exuded such an intensely calm and loving persona we all felt safely wrapped in her arms and comforted. After witnessing and caring for my poor mother-in-law during her fight against such a relentless disease we all felt battle-worn and unprepared for the inevitable end. Nobody had the experience and confidence to be there 24/7 except Cynthia. She raised ten children and continued to work well into her retirement years. She raised geniuses, diplomats, leaders with a gentle hand and wise words. She dropped everything to come to Canada to be here for her dear 'Beanie', the tall lanky baby sister who was no longer strong enough to take care of herself (and reluctant to let her immediate family help her).

Aunt Cynthia is soft-spoken and was self-assured in her nursing duties, gently advising us how much, when and what our dear Claudine could handle. She possessed a true understanding of death and dying having worked in Palliative care for years and we let her lead us through the process, tripping and fumbling through the inevitable steps toward a loved ones' death. She cooked cod fish and akee, rice and peas and oatmeal but she cooked it just right. Whether it's the medicine or the cancer, Claudine's taste buds were the first to betray her and our attempts at cooking 'like home' were snubbed, Cynthia's were welcome. 

When Claudine left us, fighting death until her last breath, Cynthia took sotckm choosing the dress for her for the coffin, making sure she looked right. A job no one would ever embrace, she spared the family many of the decisions, working solely with my father-in-law to get him through that part of the process. She stayed until she felt she had done all she could, well after the service, well after the flowers began to dry up and the casserole dishes were piled up to return to their owners. She never shed a tear when we could see her. Her grief was private and profound. 

Ten years later, she's come back with her bear hugs and lovely laugh. She talks to you with words that will stay with you, meaningful always. We trust and adore her, hanging off her every word. She is a loving mother that we should all learn from.   She is a rare breed from an ancient time, she steps in when you need her for the most thankless job, performs it in the most dignified way and asks for nothing in return. 

We spent a couple of hours reminiscing -the twelve year old pretending not to be interested in our conversations- at the home of one of her brothers and his wife, (another aunt and uncle who are well into their 80's). At the end of our visit we join hands and are lead in a prayer of thanks for the visit and a request for safe travels after which Aunt Cynthia took both of the twelve year olds hands in hers, looked him in the eye and said, "Know that you are loved by all of us and we expect great things from you in the future." Never at a loss for words he replied, "I expect great things from me, too".

When we got home he was reflecting on the visit. He told me he thought the praying thing was cool and that he liked this Aunt Cynthia. I agreed. We don't stop and pray after we've spent time with people we love but what a lovely gesture that is. I think her words were profound and will never be forgotten by the12 year old. 

Her visit was another gift we will all cherish, a reminder of how important true love and family will always be.

Last week his aortic valve burst, killing him instantly. She found him lying down by the fireplace. Does this scare me? Sort of. Can I die suddenly? We all can. But if you live like death is chasing you you're not living. 

I knew a woman who lost her sister and her mother to disease. She interpreted it as a sign to live life fully. Her version of fully was really just 'excessively', but she had the right idea. Life is short, enjoy it or not, have regrets, or not, live well and properly, or not its still short. I'm not cynical, negative or petulant -the reality is one day it will be over. You won't know or care the light will shut off. 

Why do we hate funerals? It's like old fashioned church. It deals in mystery, capitalizes on fear of the unknown and funeral homes make up their own rules or take on yours -they get paid either way. Plan your own celebration! Pick out the music you want to be remembered by, burn a disc to hand out to the people who care to remember you. Don't make it about institutionalized rules you (and your entire generation) had nothing to do with.  Celebrate a life lived, remember the person on their birthday not their death day. Don't remember people for how or when they died. IF you're alive you were born and you will leave, go, die and that's ok. Don't listen to the doom and gloomers. Dying is NATURAL, we usually only get to do it once but it's NORMAL. Pick out an epitaph while you're here and have a say in how you're remembered. That conversation should be shared, not considered taboo. How would anyone know otherwise? If you're not a control freak who wants to control beyond the grave then don't worry. 

I know I want The East WInd by Gord Downey  to be heard at some point. I want my epitaph to be "Life was cool, wonder what's next" or something charming. I'd love a gospel choir to sing "Oh Happy Day" and have a moment where people listen to "The Land Of Make Believe" by Chuck Mangione. 

So why don't we take the sting out of death and actively participate in a plan before it's too late? There's nothing to be afraid of.

"Looks like my car is gone! The boys actually took MY car to hockey!" 

Kim looked at me and asked, "The car you're sitting in and driving right now?"

Yup.

That's what God said, I'm pretty sure although I don't recall; I was busy being dead. White lights? Tunnels of light? Faces of those past? Visions of myself hovering over my own lifeless body? Not part of my memory. My heart was on a break. Literally.

I read the book about the three year old boy who described heaven to his parents, his recollections were extremely detailed -right down to the throne. Me? Nothing. He  was shown different pictures of Jesus but the standard bearded, blue-eyed guy was not the face he remembered. In later years a young, gifted artist with her own visions of Jesus did a sketch that was broadcast around the world, when the boy -now a few years older saw her sketch he said, "That's Him". 

I didn't see anything. 

People tell me I couldn't have been 100% dead if I didn't have that out of body experience, or see a white light or meet Jesus. Really? Is there an expert in the house?

"Nobody's come back to tell us" my grandmother used to say when I asked her what happens after we die. 

Judging by my experience if God isn't ready for you, you ain't going.

Truth: You don't dream when you're dead and I repeat: Death is easy, dying is not. You just close your eyes and you don't exist anymore. Lights on, lights off. Those who are left behind carry on the memory of that lost life with the understanding that as long as they remember the lost one that person still exists at some level.

If God decides when our time is up He doesn't tip His hat even when you manage to push Him to the limit by putting yourself in a position to die. 

"I don't think so" says God.

"Crap, we're on" say the surgeons, rolling up their sleeves for a long, eventful night.

They worked hard, they had to stimulate my heart twice to get it started but they didn't give up on me.

Thank God.

Do we have a sense of impending danger? Yes. Even women who deny themselves when all signs point to potential health issues -AND IGNORE THEM- have a sense that something is wrong but can make the conscious decision not to act on it.

I had a feeling of numbness, stiffness through my shoulders that radiated down both my arms and made my hands hurt every time I walked quickly. Stairs were a breathing challenge.

"I'm out of shape. I'm not relaxing enough in my life. I'm tired" you tell yourself. 

"I'm fighting to keep you alive" your heart was screaming back.

"It's indigestion, it happens everyday at 5PM when I'm running to catch the train" you tell yourself.

"You're not IN oxygen, you're out of oxygen" screams Susan Powter in my head.

So I work harder, run faster, climb the stairs again. Everyday.

"The straps of my backpack are cutting off my circulation. My bra straps are cutting off my circulation" I reasoned.

"Your circulation is cutting off your circulation!" My arteries yelled.

The radiating numbness and pain in my cramping hands continued. I didn't stop shoving full hampers of food around the Food Bank or physically working until I was red in the face, sweat pouring own my head.

"Hot flash" I told myself. Damn that peri-menopause is a bitch.

I was losing some weight and walking hard and fast and the numbness just kept on coming back.

The paperwork for a stress test sat on my desk at home. I just didn't have time to take off and deal with that stuff. Truth is I didn't want to know. I could make whatever it was go away. I was healthy, after all.

I had a strong sense that we should do up our wills. Get our affairs in order. Deep down I knew it was time to be sensible. On the surface I was still in a reckless state. 

Then on January 28th last year I was at a neighbor's home enjoying many glasses of wine at her home party for cook ware. I hadn't eaten dinner and rushed over after work to enjoy the evening. I kept drinking, eating crackers and small bites of food. I was loosening up, starting to feel a little obnoxious and social. When the whipped cream came out I was done. Playfully one of the ladies took the can and pulled my jaw down, filling my mouth with sweet fluffy cream. The jolt of sugary cream on top of the wine did me in. I could barely stand after that. I remember wondering how I got so bad, I didn't think I had enough alcohol to make me so drunk. I left to go home (across the street), had a short slurred conversation with the husband and another friend, excused myself and went to bed. 

An hour later I woke up feeling horribly nauseous. I was going to faint. I know this because I am a fainter and the best place for me is on the bathroom floor

I almost made it.

When I came to the husband was frantically calling my name. There was blood all around my face and I knew I had to respond. 

"I'm ok". I said, weakly.

"No you're not! There's blood all over the floor! I heard a loud crash from downstairs and you were on the floor flailing and moaning!" He cried.

"I'll be ok. You need to leave me. Go away. I'm fine." I said starting to feel the pain set in.

I passed out before I made it safely to the bathroom floor. I did a face plant into a marble ledge that separates the toilet from the tub. Marble doesn't give. I then went to the floor face first. My bottom lip was cut open, one of my front teeth hurt,  my nose was swollen and my eyes were swelling, turning black. 

"Pretty" I said to myself in the mirror. I needed to sleep after I cleaned myself up. I was exhausted and in pain and all I wanted to do was sleep.

In the morning the husband couldn't even look at me. He was disgusted and scared. He blamed it on me and my lack of control with alcohol. I knew there was something more but I wasn't connecting the dots. I went to the hospital emergency where I'm sure they thought a pimp had messed me up after a bad night.

"Your blood pressure is high" the triage nurse announced in full judgement still not buying my story. He sent me to a room to wait for the doctor.

"Your blood pressure is high" the doctor announced, taking in my bruised and broken face. 

"Im a fainter. I have Vasal Vagalitis, apparently. This time I didn't make it to the floor before I passed out." I tried to sound nonchalant.

"I've been experiencing numbness in my shoulders, arms and hands when I walk fast do you think it's related to the fainting?" I asked.

"What happens when you stop walking fast?" he asked.

"It stops" I said.

"Then it's not your heart" he stated, bored with me already. 

"You may need plastic surgery on the lip but for now just keep it iced." He said as he was walking away.

That was the moment I knew I had to connect with a doctor. I made an appointment the next day and was able to meet my new doctor who heard my alcohol/fainting/numbness story and immediately prescribed nitro-glycerine, a stress test and put me on cholesterol pills without even seeing my levels.

A little over a week later I had a heart ultrasound and a tread mill stress test. The cardiologist told me I failed the test, my heart was showing signs of stress when it was slowing back to normal. He told me the next step would be to have an angiogram and possibly angioplasty. He explained that the angiogram would determine if there were any blockages in the arteries, it is a dye test. If a blockage is found you have angioplasty,stents are injected into the arteries, it's an easy procedure, you go home the next day. The angiogram was scheduled for February 28th. Our wills were completed a few days before.

Apparently (I say this because my ability to comprehend was impaired, not because I was drunk, just not quite alive) my heart "was sick".

Going in to the operation the doctors were very optimistic. They told the husband I would be fine, 90% chance of recovery, good odds. etc.

After the operation the prognosis was grim. My heart was sick. 

When it's literal and medical and scientific a sick, broken heart has a much different connotation from the love songs we normally associate with 'hurting hearts'. My heart just wanted to hang on with the assistance of a by pass machine and had no interest in beating on its own. They had to KA-CHUNG-AH it twice. TWO times they had to kick start my reluctant heart to get it to beat on it's own again. Not bazinga, that would be easy and funny, this was full alert ok-we-just-took-veins-out-of-this-woman's-leg-and-grafted-them-to-her-heart-dammit-her-fricken-heart-better-fricken-work!

Apparently.

My husband was informed that if I survived the next 12 hours there was a good chance I would fully recover.

(I'm writing this with a lovely glass of McLaren Vale Cawarra and I just ate a Kobe beef burger -medium- in a fresh kaiser with arugula. That said, please don't assume that the three revival attempts were any indication of my dying, because I lived to drink red wine from McLaren Vale in Australia AGAIN).

That night the husband went home and asked for prayers on facebook. He was still in shock, baffled at the seriousness of the 'simple' procedure. He accidentally dropped a glass, it exploded on impact, shattering shards of glass everywhere. He finally broke down and cried. 

Through the next twelve hours my health steadily climbed to levels deemed acceptable by the medical staff in ICU. I remember the pole being removed from my throat, I remember the ice chip, I remember the vitamin and I remember my mom being kicked out. The back rub, the long trip out of ICU into a real hospital room and the removal of all the franken-hoses all seem like a dream now, but in that dream-like memory state that keeps coming back.

I remember visitors, specifically the pastors from my church coming in all teary-eyed. I remember telling them that I was fine and to stop crying! Really. I was giddy and obnoxious, challenging the older men to a race with walkers down the hall, stealing treats from the pantry in the middle of the night for my room mate (she had a pace maker put in after a stroke that left her unable to walk), I remember crying when the husband showed me the pages and pages of prayers and responses from friends and acquaintances once they heard I was in the hospital in serious condition, I remember laughing after the doctors told me I could go home after one short week after dying. I remember my first bowel movement after surgery.

This is good, stay with me here...

Cardiac patients (me) could not go home unless they a) had a bowel movement and b) could go up and down a flight of stairs. Most heart patients are elderly but I was this anomaly -not even near 60- so they were astounded that I could out 'walker' any patient and seemed anxious to try the stairs. Determined to show them that this recent cardiac 'activity' was a freak of nature I worked hard to move around as much as possible. Remember I had my rib caged wrenched open and my chest bone sawed apart for the triple bypass surgery that required veins to be laparoscopically extracted from my leg and grafted to my heart after which my heart had all but given up so I knew if I wasn't determined to get out I could be stuck there for weeks. So after several days of stool softeners and hospital food I was praying for the bowels to start moving again. When I thought there was an inkling I'd carefully raise myself from the bed (a REAL challenge considering the state of my rib cage), shuffle behind the walker to the bathroom then pee all over the floor (not my fault have you ever tried to use a commode hovering over a toilet?). I always found hospitals repulsive, the rooms always smelled like pee, now I know why. So on the 6th day and after several days of stool softeners I experienced the full sensation of triumph. I bowel move-mented!

In the euphoric state of victory I shuffled back to my bed and pushed hard on the communicator (button to the Cardio desk).

"Yes?" the voice answered.

"I just had a bowel movement SO epic, it should have it's own theme music" I announced, proudly.

"oki'lltellyournurse" the voice answered quickly. The next day I did the stairs and they told me to go home. 

I don't ever remember feeling 'sick' or like I wouldn't recover but none of that mattered. The one thing everyone wants to know is whether there was a white light, or if I saw God or if I hovered over the operating table and saw myself in surgery. The answer is no. Maybe I didn't die, maybe I was just unconscious. 

I don't know but I'm still here and my attitude toward life has certainly changed.

A flurry of activity ensued in the Cath. lab but it wasn't me doing the moving. I was on lock down with a mask over my face, full metal oxygen tank at my side, a co-op student monitoring my breathing (ok they said she was 'training') and they let the husband come in. 

"I'm sooo sorry" I said to him. I told him it would be routine, that he only had to stick around if I needed a ride to the other hospital for a stent now look at the mess I stuck him with. He looked like he was in shock. 

"You're apologizing???" He was in shock, normally he would have said something sarcastic. 

The mask got in the way of much further conversation and there seemed to be a lot of people moving around the space.

"Thank you for your help everyone, now if you don't need to be in the room please leave!" my cardiologist's voice boomed. The husband held my hand, not leaving my side as the remaining medical staff continued to rush around -I'm not sure what they were doing. An ambulance was called, there was something stuck to my left leg that felt like metal, IV lines were attached and changed. I felt tired.

"My chest bone hurts" I said starting to realize that something besides fainting happened.

"That's because you had CPR" the high school student said.

"Oh". It was slowly sinking in. I remembered the sound of fluid filling my brain and the nausea, I remembered telling them I was going to faint, but I didn't remember the DYING part! 

"I had a heart attack?" I asked, shocked.

And here's where the first correction came.

"No. You had Cardiac Arrest". 

"Isn't that the same thing?" I asked.

"No. Your heart stopped. You fainted and the bottom dropped out -your blood pressure dropped so low your heart stopped. It does that, it shuts down when too many confusing signals hit your heart at once. A heart attack is a signal your heart is in danger of stopping." The doctor explained. 

I vaguely remember another doctor coming in and introducing himself and telling me he was going to do a procedure but the timeline of that is still fuzzy. I believe that was the temporary balloon injected into an artery that was keeping me alive until I had surgery but again, it's now unclear. 

When the dye was injected (in my foot) to travel through my arteries to detect any blockages, it acted like a kink on a hose. It cut off the flow of blood to my heart and confused my body went into fainting mode and my heart stopped. 

It seemed like forever until the ambulance came and when they arrived there was another flurry of activity. I was hooked up to multiple 'things', the attendant introduced himself and was very nice to the husband who got to ride up front. I don't remember hearing him ask to work the siren but I'm sure he was thinking it.

Side story: My good friend, Pat who was my partner at the food bank was aware I was going for the stress test. She is the regional intake nurse manager for the cardiology department in a nearby, much larger hospital than the one I was being tested at. I was joking with her at church the day before the test that I had better NOT see her the next day. We both knew if I showed up at her hospital it would be for an operation to open up the arteries, most likely stents, a one night stay at most. 

"I better not see you!" she joked.

She was the first face I saw when the ambulance arrived at her hospital. She looked worried.  

"I'm sorry" was all I could muster. She stayed close to my side as they got me into a room somewhere. Jay was not around, I was resting, snuggled up to a cold hard steel oxygen tank. Apparently he was busy on the phone.

"Lissa, your family is here" Pat my friend 'nurse-whispered' at me.

What? Why was my family brought here? How did they get here? Who drove? Who -

"Is it THAT bad?" I asked her calmly.

"The doctors thought it would be a good idea". She answered calmly.

That was a pivotal moment. I could die. That stupid fainting was now going to kill me. Instead of panicking I went into ultra calm mode. I remember telling God.

"OK. If you think you need me, I'm ready, your will, not mine". No anger, depression, bargaining, nothing just full on acceptance and complete calm. Not something I would predict considering my usual neurotic self. My family came in my daughter in tears, my mother in shock, Jay hovering around and the twelve year old looking at me calmly, shrugging. He was taking in the drama but not buying what everyone was selling. I think I apologized, told my daughter to stop crying, shrugged at my mom, in a 'such a bother, don't worry, sorry to drag you downtown' kind of way. Everyone seemed to be working at hiding their fear. But for some reason -maybe the sedative- I felt no fear just calm. A doctor came in said they were taking me to surgery and the family left. 

I woke up in Intensive care. I was in and out of consciousness. Sometimes my mother was standing there then a code blue would be called and she'd have to leave. Sometimes my daughter was there, I tried to talk but there was a ten foot pole shoved down my throat so I tried to explain I couldn't talk because I had a thing in my throat. She laughed because I was just repeating what the nurse was telling in the distance.

 I remember the pole coming out of my throat and feeling happy, I remember an ice chip being dropped into my mouth and saying, "THAT'S THE BEST ICE CHIP I'VE EVER HAD!", I remember this tiny nurse flipping me over to give me a vigorous back massage. I remember feeling positively euphoric when they dropped an orange flavoured chewable vitamin in my mouth. "That's the BEST TASTING VITAMIN EVER!" 

I think it was that moment they decided I could get out of ICU and into a room. For me, it was affirmation that I had one very bad heart day and now I was going to be ok. Not so for the daughter, the 23 year old. Her dad, my ex died mere days after surgery the year before and my family knew what I didn't about the surgery I had just come through.

Cardiac arrest. 

It ain't no heart attack, heart attacks are a warning, a pain, but a cardiac arrest is a finite experience that shows no favourtism between life and death. 

You die or you live. 

You don't even get to experience dying; dying is a whole other thing. It's a process with hills and valleys and emotion and a chance to comment on the experience.

Cardiac arrest is literally do or die. Luckily they did.

During a not-so-routine Angiogram my blood pressure dropped to the point where it crashed. Moments earlier I was lying on an examining table in a Catheter Lab. '70's music was pumped in to the room, with several medical staff  performing various duties in their scrubs. They set up an IV or something on the top of my foot where earlier they marked a spot with pen. When they began the injection I heard the fluid flowing into my cranium, an eerie sound and an equally shocking feeling. It sent me spiralling into unconsciousness. I fainted. 

The last thing I heard was the cardiologist yelling that he only got one picture off. He sounded pissed. 

The rest of the story was provided by the husband.

"Code Blue. Cath. Lab. Code Blue." The detached voice announced throughout the hospital.

The husband was in the Cath. lab waiting room, waiting when her heard the code.

Immediately he googled 'Code Blue' on his iphone. 

"Hey, Lissa's in the Cath Lab. Cool.

"Mr. Fraser?" a scrubbed medic asked looking at the panicked faces in the Cath. LAb waiting room.

"I'm Mr. Kerr." The husband responded. "My wife is Mrs. Fraser Kerr", he answered.

"Please come with me". 

The husband jumped up and followed, completely panicked. 

He came along with me that cold morning because I wasn't sure if I would need angioplasty, a relatively routine  procedure that involves injecting a stent into an artery to open the flow of blood previously blocked by a build up of gunk. The hospital I was in didn't perform this procedure and if a blockage was detected during the angiogram I would need to go to another hospital -an overnight stay was the worst-case scenario. 

"What's going on, is she ok?" He asked.

The hospital Chaplain appeared at his side. 

"Are you here because she's going to die?" he asked her.

The Chaplain said  "No, that's not why I'm here. You're alone and I'm here so you have someone to talk to". They waited outside the room I was in for what seemed like an eternity. Suddenly a burst of applause and cheering exploded from the room.

"I guess she's going to be ok", the husband said. 

Eventually they let him come into the room where my first words to him were, "I'm sorry". 

Apparently after a rousing round of CPR and an emergency stent my heart started again. It was weak and worn but it came back. As I came to I remember feeling the pain from the resuscitation in my chest and I remember thinking they had completely over-reacted to my fainting spell. 

As the husband held my hand and scrubbed medics ran around the room I realized as they put an oxygen mask on my face that it may be more serious than me having a fainting spell. 

That was just the beginning. It was February 28, 2011.

The husband spent the last few days trying to crack the code that is stuffandjunk so I can get back to the fun of selecting words and turning them into sentences. We got this far, but he wasn't able to hand cut and paste my eleventeen hundred entries into this new and hopefully improved site. He picked ten. I've written about this before probably in 2004, but he hasn't changed.That's how he does dishes. He chooses ten and cleans them. It's kind of his version of natural selection. He washes his ten favourites and then just walks away. The rest of the dishes sit, encrusted, neglected and discouraged. "I thought he would choose me this time", they cry.

It's been over a year since our dog departed and I still look for signs of healing from the husband. The dogs' toys still lay at his feet under his desk where he spends most of his days as a sort of memorial to the past. One day he'll move them to a box and put them 'away' and we'll be able to say the official mourning period is over. In the meantime the rallying cry for a new dog carries on -sounding much like the baying of the Beagles' over the fence. Only louder.

The one picture I have of that little bastard (technically, correct) he looks like he's giving the camera a dirty look.

"F*** arf."

I mentioned the $10,000 in furniture, accessories and medication, yes?

Instead of the toys he barely chewed on (he was too busy working his way through the living room couch) I choose to keep the pile of receipts from his life under my desk. Just in case I start to soften. Monetarily, we don't want a dog. Emotionally? Well, we still miss that little guy.

So why is it that everyone we know who would NEVER own a dog suddenly has one? They whip out the 'baby' pictures and tell endearing tales of dog-training. Their stories charm me, make my heart skip a beat and I think "Maybe I'm ready!"

That is, until I get home and see the little pile of toys still sitting at his master's feet... and hear the howls of the damn dog next door.

Nope. Not ready.

It starts like a weakness in the knees and a shaky, spine-tingling shiver. As soon as the brain registers it, it's on the move like a shot of adrenalin, a bolt of heat that pulses through your body until it erupts at your head. Suddenly you're covered in a film of cold sweat and your body temperature flashes into super-hot mode. It lasts mere minutes. By the time you're loosening your collar, sweater, blanket, whatever -you're back to what I've come to know as normal.

I find it fascinating however my family doesn't share the same feeling. They have been known to hold strategy meetings when I'm out -kind of like Al Anon for peri-menopause. I think they should call it, Survival of the Flashes and there should be courses and support groups for loved ones on how to cope with that evil-personified-witch-of a-monster-who-is-subjecting-everyone-to-her-polarizing-mood-swings. If someone comes up with it I would like it to be named after me, The Queen of the Hot Flashes because heck if you're going to go through it you might as well own it (and have awards).

Remember. I invented it.