When cancer weaves its way into one’s life, the impacts can be significant. After working in the health car business for 23 years, I was neglectful of my health. I change my perspective after a cranky heart let me know, in no uncertain terms, that I am a piss-poor model for proactive healthcare advocate. I scheduled a quick trip to Tucson, AZ, to assist my mother with some financial matters. The journey from Ohare International to Tucson Internal began with hastily packing on Friday. I went to the American Airlines terminal at Ohare, would spend several hours flying, and get dumped off in Tucson. My mother would pick me; I’d deal with some financial matters, complete her 2023 taxes, laugh and joke for a few days, and return to Chicago.
Everything was on track until I went to use Ohare’s Admirals Club. There was no issue with getting in. “Club Card, Mr. UB?” I swiped, and I heard the ‘beep’. In I went. Did I notice the shoulder blade pain from left to right, then right to left while walking the terminal? Sure. It’s the same pain I experienced hundreds of times. ‘Attributed to osteoarthritis’ or ‘no problems now,’ my doctors would always claim. I decided to enter the bathroom. The stall was spacious and clean. The left side chest pain was immediate and sudden. Usually, when such pain occurs, the pain lasts five seconds at most. It didn’t.
Ten seconds. 15 seconds. 20 seconds. 30 seconds. 40 seconds. 50 seconds. Honestly, strange thoughts roll through your mind while thinking of death snatching you crumpled on the bathroom floor of an Admirals Club. My first thought was, “A bathroom? Come on, God.” Second thought, “OK, I could die in worse places. An Admirals Club may not seem all that bad. I mean, the floor is clean. And it’s quiet.” Third thought, “Geez, what if they never find me for a week or two?”
When living in Redondo Beach, California, in 1995, a family member asked, “What’s your biggest fear about moving to LA?” Without hesitation, I responded, “Dying while using the toilet.” A confused look fell upon the questioner. Before he could react, I followed up, “Think about it. You’re on the toilet, pants down, and a 9.0 earthquake hits. Where do you go? You don’t even get a chance to wipe you’re behind. You’re dead.” I envisioned some recovery expecting to locate me and find a crushed white guy with three-day-old shit. Not even the cadaver dog would want that.
I presume an Admirals Club janitor would eventually find this geriatric body, but it’s not the way to go. Out of all the ways I envisioned my death, this wasn’t what I expected. I could have died traveling all over the world via a plane crash, robbery, shot during an overthrow, or any number of hurricanes. Still, no one should die from a heart attack, regardless of where or when it occurs. But there I was, in a bathroom. After 70 seconds or so of crippling pain, the attack subsided. And what did you presume I did?
Did I go to Ohare’s medical unit? No. Did I call my doctor? Nope. Did I go back home? Nadda. I gathered my luggage, returned to the club lounge, sat on a chair, and ordered ice-cold water. It was strange; my chest felt tight but not overly oppressive. When boarding neared, I got on the plane and flew to Tucson. I haven’t said a word about the event. Of course, you’re thinking, “You idiot. What the flying f***? Why didn’t you call someone?” Yeah, I should have called emergency services. However, I know I have a complete heart MRI on February 21 after returning to Chicago. I will tell the MRI technician and heart specialist all the details then. I just hoped to stay alive for another ten days.
I have yet to experience any grief. While the terrain of sorrow is unfamiliar and estranged for many, it is not for me. I repeatedly note that I’ve felt death was chasing my ass around the globe for twenty years or so, always ten steps behind. Sure, one day, death’s grip will snag me. When that happens, I presume I will fall into the shadow of heaven’s best, where I will reside for a couple of thousand years. Once there, I expect only the kindness of others and the mercy of God will bail me out.
The tightness remained for two straight days. I was careful not to strain myself, but I felt fine early on the morning of February 13. Using an MRI to diagnose the heart for AL Amyloidosis is rarely used. Heart AL Amyloidosis has long been considered a rare disease. However, recent advances in cardiac imaging have led to increased identification of hidden AL Amyloidosis in patients diagnosed with heart failure. This shift suggests that the actual incidence of AL Amyloidosis is underestimated.
Further, the prognosis of AL Amyloidosis of the heart is generally poor, especially in patients with advanced heart failure. Yet, if the past echocardiogram is true, I am at moderate heart disease. So, if the MRI doesn’t show AL Amyloidosis, then maybe the MRI will reveal the actual cause, and the clinicians will get to a heart clinic or kick my galactic ass out the door for bothering them.
The statistics I stumbled across during my research chilled me to the bone. The chill deepened as I learned that no one gets cured of AL Amyloidosis. Clinicians can help you live longer, but cured? No. I wondered if my mother knows? I pray she does not.