Tuesday, October 6th. The Big Day.

This day started like most others. I woke up, made my kids their lunches, took them to school, returned home to grab my bike and a bunch of discs for disc golfing that day, and set off back to the school. My plans for the day involved going for a twelve minute bike ride with a grade 12 PE Class at Pacific Christian High School, teaching them to play disc golf for a few hours, then biking back to the school with them. These are all activities I have done many many times before. Disc golfing is often a multi hour event for me, and I used to bike from Abbotsford to East Sooke and back to visit my girlfriend (now my soon to be ex-wife) when we were dating. When school is in session I bike to and from, so non of my day was what I would consider strenuous.

Disc golf was great, I had a chance to get beat on a few holes, but absolutely destroy a few of the teens on others. I talked with John, the Athletic Director / my landlord / one of my closest friends, during our ride back to the school. This route took us down the side of the Pat Bay Highway from Vanalman to PCS. As we turned from Vanalman onto the path along the highway I went into autopilot mode and rode along the highway. I doubled checked that John that he could pick my kids up from school (our oldest kids goto school together) as I had a class till 4:30 that day. He said yep, and our paths diverged. I rejoined his pathway by the pedestrian overpass by the PCS high school soccer field, and when I was 20-30′ from the path splitting into school property I started to get sweaty. I sweat regularly, but this was an irregular amount. I also took a moment to taunt one of the teens

One of the teens was shocked to see that I had gotten ahead of her, and so I shouted back that “I was always ahead of you.” Which was a lie, but I knew it would bug her. As I covered the last 40′ or so to the path split I started to get a bit dizzy, and my legs lost their ability to pedal with any real effort. So I slowed up and as said teenager caught up she said bye and that she would see me after school if she brought my kids home for me, which often happens when John is busy at the end of the day. At this point I wasn’t sure what was going on, but I couldn’t bring myself to turn and say bye, instead I just sort of mumbled it and kept going. I figured if I was having a dizzy spell there was no point worrying the teens and having it right here.  After this split there is a hill that goes for about 30′ and 8′ up. I usually have enough speed at the bottom that I can practically coast to the top. This time round I spent a lot of energy to climb it, but by the time I was almost at the top I was so dizzy, and had new problems, that I was unable to make it to the top.

I got off my bike with sweat pouring off every part of my body, legs that had turned to jello, arms and jaw hurting like crazy, and a serious shortness of breath. I decided I needed to sit down for a moment and take stock of what’s happening, but within 30 seconds it all go so much worse. At first I was thinking I was dehydrated (but I’d had close to two litres of water over the last three hours), maybe I was malnourished (I ate breakfast that morning though), or maybe I had sudden onset covid (the symptoms were there). I wound up having an intense pain radiating from chest that I can only liken to having a truck stop atop you. I have never felt a pain like that before, and it was enough to trigger to me that I was not in a good spot. However, my brain was not attached, so my plan was to go home and have a bath and see if that helped sort me out. With unresponsive legs, and arms that were twitching from pain I climbed back onto my bike and finished the two minute ride to get home. Along the way I passed another teacher friend of mine, but as I rode past her and her class and she enthusiastically said hello, I merely grunted and kept going home. I didn’t mean to be rude, and I tried to say hi, but I couldn’t form words.

I parted from the class at roughly 10:55, I was at home and laying on my couch by 11:03, which is when I phoned my landlady to see if she could help me by getting a water bottle which was about 8′ away from me. I may have also called to let her know I couldn’t take her son to school that day, but I’m not sure. Regardless, she missed the phone call as she was laying on the couch and couldn’t reach her phone. I am supposed to be helping her during the day as she is recovering from knee surgery. So why would I ask her for help to get a water bottle since she would have to navigate a flight of stairs? Simple answer: my head was not screwed on straight. I flopped myself off the couch and made it to the water bottle, and drank whatever of it I could. I then semi surrendered and laid down. I could feel a pool of water forming under me from sweat, but there wasn’t anything I could do about it. I had phoned Jen from the couch at 11:01, and left a terrifying voicemail where I was gasping to form words, but no help was coming.  Her phone was in one room and she was miraculously in the other.  Her normal routine would have left her mostly asleep, on medication, at the far end of the room.  For reason today she decided to not take her medication, and so she was awake and aware of her surroundings, and most importantly, she was in the living room at the top of the stairs.  I dragged myself across the floor, a distance of about 25′, and collapsed on my side of the door that separates our houses. Thankfully this door was open or I would not be alive right now. From here on I have a few snapshots of events, but most of this is what I have been told by Jen.

I called for help, a word that Jen has never heard me utter before. So she flew down the flight of stairs on her crutches, then back up to find her phone, and dialled 911. Her time stamp for calling 911 was 11:05, 4 whole minutes after I had entered the house, roughly 12 minutes after the heart attack started. I was unable to speak at this point, and she devised a system in which I would slap the floor in response to her questions. I was pinning the door closed, so she could not make it through to me. But her son (4), who had been playing in my half the house anyways, could. Apparently he asked me questions such as “Aaron, what you doin’ layin’ on da floor?” “are you breathin’?” “What is wrong?” before he was coerced into going upstairs. I have absolutely no memory of him even being present, let along trying to engage with me. Nor do I recall any of the questions that the operator was asking Jen to ask me. The only thing I can recall from this was worrying about what would happen to Sebastian and Jack if I died and feeling a strange bit of guilt that the poor girl who was the last to talk to me would probably spend the rest of her life recovering from the shock of knowing my dying moments began while taunting her about being a slow bike rider.  9 Minutes after the call was initiated, 21 minutes after the start of the heart attack, there were paramedics in my house.

One aspect of this that make the whole situation less likely is that not only did it happen when Jen was off work due to a knee surgery the week prior, but she was also briefly off her pain killers.  The day prior her medications kept her in bed and only semi conscious for the entirety of the day, but primarily early afternoon: the time during which I needed help.  The day after she never left her bed she was so wiped out.  But the day of my heart attack she was awake, coherent, and at the end of the house where she could hear my feeble attempts at calling for help.  I’ll call it divine intervention.

My first recollection of there being people in my house was after being put on a stretcher as I was being wheeled out. They gave me something to keep me alive, and I have no idea what, but my first thought was “Holy crap, there’s like 14 people standing in my tiny kitchen…” During this time my landlord had come home since his wife had not responded on her phone about whether or not I was taking their son to school or if he needed to. He rolled in and saw a pair of ambulances and a fire truck in front of his house. After a very brief description of the events happening from his wife he rushed around the back end of the house and was met with paramedics debating how to get me outside, since their stretcher was wider than my front door. Its a sliding glass door, and he had it off its track within a few seconds, stretcher was inside, and I was on my way out. As I was being wheeled out someone decided to grab my phone from the floor and send it with me so I could communicate if I survived. I was not of sound mind, and I recall going on this really long drive, which I assumed was a parade, and I waved at passersby casually letting them know I was having a heart attack. What really happened was that I tried to sit up when I got outside, looked at John, and sang to him (yes, I sang it) “I’m havin’ a heart attack!” The tone was lighthearted and cheery sounding, which in my opinion only makes it that much eerier.

While I was being whisked away to the hospital a friend of mine and my landlords stopped by to see about lending a hand taking their son to school, and was shocked to arrive with ambulances leaving. Not knowing what had just happened she came in to what could have been a war zone. She dove straight into action and cleaned my suite for me. The dirty dishes were washed, furniture was put back in place, and the river of sweat that ran from my living room through my kitchen and partway down the hallway was cleaned up. From what I have been told this was an actual river of standing water. Not a few drops, but a stretch over 20′ long and several feet wide.

I do not remember the trip to the hospital outside it being part of a parade. But looking back later I told my EDCI 336 pod, who I was supposed to be meeting with shortly, something along the lines of “I’m not count. Hart Art”. It made no sense, but I guess I was trying to be responsible and let them know I wasn’t no showing our meeting. I can recall being whisked through the hospital and vomitting up all the water I had drank less than 40 minutes earlier, and the medication they had apparently given me. I felt bad for the nurse who had to go through my vomit to determine the medication was out, and apologized to her. I do not know if they gave me more medication or not. I can recall a few sharp pains, and my shorts being cut off of me. I have no idea why they were cut off, but they were. I am sure there are some vague moments where I was talking and asking questions, but I really have no concrete memories of the surgery itself. I can recall there being a screen beside me, but it being hard to focus on. I can recall several moments where I felt stabbing pains in my arm, and those make sense. I remember being shocked that I was being given Fentanyl, as I know that as a deadly street drug, not something used in a controlled setting like a hospital.  I can also recall them painting my hand with an iodine like thing that turned it vibrant red before they could start threading things through me.  I can also recall asking the doctors if I was going to die.  I do not recall an answer to that question, but I told them my kids needed me alive, and someone asked how old my boys were.  I do not recall if I answered or not.   The first real and concrete thing I can remember is the sudden sensation that my chest was no longer being crushed and I could breath comfortably again for the first time in a long time. The other thing I remember was the sensation of the catheter being threaded out of my vein through my shoulder. When I questioned what I was sensing I was told they were removing the catheter. My foggy mind then queried “Do I pee through my shoulder?”

The next sensation I felt was the most intense cold feeling I have ever had. Every inch of me was shivering and the doctors / surgeons / nurses needed me to remain still. The catheter went back in, I was bundled with over a dozen heated blankets, and the stent(s) were placed. The catheter was removed again and the clot was shown to me. Ever taken the main vein out of a shrimp? Imagine one of those but red and about 1.5″ long. I was told that at some point in time an artery had ruptured and that clot was what sealed it up. When it did its job it broke free and nearly killed me. I was wheeled into a recovery room at approximately 1:05 in the afternoon. From onset to recovery room was approximately 2 hours and 10 minutes. I have a new appreciation for the Canadian medical system now. Elective surges may not happen as quickly as we would like, but hot damn, when a person’s life is on the line they move fast.

That said, Jen certainly cursed out the paramedics as they were getting my age and name wrong (I am not Ben, nor am I 25). She also cursed them out when they ran a variety of tests to see what was wrong, not putting heart attack at the top of the list because:

1. I am far younger than 85% of heart attack victims
2. I am far thinner than 90% of heart attack victims
3. Everything happened far quicker than a standard heart attack

She was the crazy lady on the other side of a door shouting at them and telling them what to do.  They snapped to action after one of them decided to put an EEG machine on me and check my heart.  Then they knew what to do and I was on my way right quick after that.

The first hour and a bit that I was in the recovery room I was never left alone.  I had a nurse applying pressure to my hand to get some blood that was under the skin to return to where it was supposed to be.  The hard plastic cuff they apply to keep my wrist vein stabilized while they work their magic was preventing this pile of blood from returning to where it belongs.  They took a blood sample (I believe) from this site, and in all the excitement blood managed to get under my skin.  Now I had a space a little larger than a toonie, that was about an inch and a half high.  I am fairly sure that this was the first time since at least March that someone, other than my children, had held my hand, so it was a very weird sensation no matter how you look at it.  During this time I also had a variety of people stop in to ask me questions and check how I am doing.  My blood pressure was being taken every five minutes, I was hooked up permanently to an EEG machine, and I was still not quite sure what was going on.  When several people ask you “Is there heart disease in your family?” and you constantly respond with “I Don’t know, my parents died when I was young.” It starts to get very repetitive.  But the repetition was not about to end there.

By roughly 2:45 I was told I was going to be left alone to relax for a little while.  I may have the odd visitor but I am stable enough that they won’t be back in for a few hours.  I was then told not to use my right hand, and that I will want to keep it by my side, otherwise the bruising and swelling will get worse.  I was confused, but I complied.  I asked if I could use my phone, to respond to the multitude of messages I had received, and was told that yes, I was allowed to.  So  I responded to a few of the messages I considered a priority, and had a laugh at one.  I had taken my nephew out for costco poutine the week prior and he has a great sense of humour.  I had 40+ people message asking “Are you okay?  Is it true? I’m praying for you.” type messages.  When he texted me it didn’t start with “are you okay?” or “what happened?” He opened with “Costco poutine really did you in eh”.  That one, along with “When we told you to be ‘wild at heart’ this isn’t what we meant” from the leader of a men’s bible study group I am part of (that’s the title of the current book we are reading) are the two messages I have appreciated the most.  By 3:00pm I was tired of trying to text people left handed, and so i decided to take a break and go to class.  I had psychology class happening, so I popped in.  I got absolutely nothing out of the class though.  My brain was not ready to absorb things, my phone would not stop beeping with messages, and I wound up muting the class several times as doctors and students came in to ask me questions.  So much for being left alone, but at the same time, I was a special case.

I was told a bunch of different things at this point in time.  I came within 30 minutes of no longer being alive.  My heart is stuck in arrhythmia, which means it is beating at two different rates.  I was on medication to solve that, but if the medication did not work then they would put me under for about ten seconds, stop my heart, then shock it back into a regular rhythm.  No thank you…  The medication sorted this problem out, but I was monitored for a looooooong time.  I had a chat with Dr. Franco, who I will see regularly for the rest of my life, and we discussed my physical activity and diet.  While I do not need to change much of my diet (this is an edit, so more on this later) I did learn he has a sense of humour.  After determining I was active and ate well we started talking about how I used to eat and what my life looks like.  We discussed schooling and how it can be a stressor, but right now is not.  We discussed parenting and how much I love my boys.  And he asked if I have had any other major changes in my life.  When I mentioned that my wife left in May and its only been the last month or two that I have really made peace with this event he made a remark that I was not expecting.  “Between the food she provided (deserts mostly) and her leaving I feel like your ex may be trying to kill you.  Should we keep an eye out in case she returns with a knife to finish the job?”  This was the first laugh I had had since about 10:54 the morning prior.  This conversation was great because it meant that I am not making bad life choices right now.

You see, I am a fairly active person, I eat relatively healthily, and I am 35 years old.  By all rights I should NOT be having a heart attack, but I did!  By 10:30pm or so that night I had been 15 or so hours without food, and since arriving at the hospital I had only been allowed to drink about 1/4 cup of water, in teaspoon sized amounts.  But, I haven’t thrown up since just before the surgery, so I was given two whole digestive biscuits and a half cup of water!  I have also had more people come see me than I can properly recall.  Someone had the presence of mind to take a photo of me just after I was wheeled into the recovery room.  And I took a few photos randomly as I realized things.  I definitely documented the bruises on my arm as I can hit a blunt object hard enough to break skin, but I don’t bruise, so this was different.  I have now learned that I have thick blood.  This keeps me warm, prevents bruises, but also allows dangerous stuff to happen in the bloodstream easier.

The next morning I was given breakfast around 9:30 and it was the best terrible breakfast I had ever had!  Cold toast with peanut butter and jam, and hot porridge / oatmeal stuff that was gooey, lumpy, runny, and had nothing to add flavour to it.  Keep in mind, the texture of this stuff in general is one I dislike, so this makes the fact I devoured it particularly special.  I was starving.  I was also given permission to stand up just before lunch.  This was amazing as I had a toilet maybe 5′ from my bed, but I was not allowed to use it…  I can recall Jen saying that she knew I was okay, because things were annoying me again.  Namely that I can’t use my new fire staff and that I’m not allowed to stand up, let alone go pee on my own.

I have now had a lot of people tell me about heart attack stories in their social circles or families.  A marathon runner that suddenly vanished, killed in his 40s by a heart attack.  A nurses uncle who had a mild heart attack at 30 and went to lay down, but never got back up. Gym teachers (yes plural) who had life ending / threatening heart attacks in their forties.  A tour de rock hopeful who had his life ended at 32 due to a heart attack similar to mine.  A rock climber who had a heart attack while eating dinner and did not make it.  A grandson who had a heart attack while relaxing on the beach.  Plus many many more.  Most do not end well, so the fact I am still alive means something.

I had a chance to meet with Dr. Franco, who will be my cardiac specialist until he retires.  He came in to talk to me, as he explained that his particular area of research is young men with heart problems.  He told me that I was within five minutes of experiencing permanent damage to my heart muscles, and we will not know for sure that there isn’t any until we do a physical in six weeks.  He told me how close I came to death, 15-30 minutes.  He shared a variety of experiences he has been a part of in which patients have lived or died, to impress upon me that in a percentages game, my survival from this heart attack was incredibly low, likely in the single digits. The fact I was able to get home under my own power makes my survival that much more impressive.  He became visibly excited as he explained the long term study he is leading that follows the lives of young men, such as myself, who have heart attacks, and how this impacts them going forward.  I have obviously volunteered to join this program, it is now on to an advisory board to determine if I qualify.  There is no financial gain on either side, but I can help save other people’s lives in the future if they can figure things out, and in return I get medical care above and beyond what is normal.  It was a no brainer.

I have now learned that I should eat a few less eggs per week, and if given the choice I should consider eating fish instead of steak.  These are easy changes for me to make.  Otherwise any dietary changes I make are entirely up to me.  But the idea of eating a Mediterranean diet does not make me sad.  I also do not need to do much more exercising than I do now.  I lead the life that a recovering heart attack victim should aim to lead.  And since I had a heart attack this leaves them with a few questions.  Namely: why did I have one?  The answer to this comes down to genetics.  I was gifted the ability to collect cholesterol way easier than anyone else.  Pretty great isn’t it?  I mean, I would rather be able to collect lizards, fish, or even blackberries easier than anyone else.  But it is a gift, so I can’t really send it back, my parents did not include a gift receipt with this one.

I was sent home on the Thursday, roughly 50 hours after this whole ordeal began.  It felt like it had been at least a week, possibly ten weeks since this whole mess began.  Just before I left I was able to have a shower, which hurt like crazy because I got to pull off all the EEG tabs.  This process was not too enjoyable, but it meant  I was on the way home.  While standing in the shower I could look down and see something like 9-10 of these tabs.  The first one came off, slowly, and took a decent bit of hair with it.  The second one came off much quicker, it hurt more but for less time so that was my new system.  The very last one I saw did not want to let go.  It came off in four pieces,  and each one tried to remove chest hair with it.  Then, that night I saw I missed one right below my chin…  Upon arriving home I was greeted to a house full of food, and a crazy woman who is supposed to be on crutches cleaning my bathroom…

Its hard to describe the outpouring of support I have received since entering the hospital and coming home.  Instructors have been above and beyond with accommodating my needs, friends have shown up everywhere (via text and phone calls due to social distancing), and my church family has been along for this insane ride since the beginning.

The recovery period is honestly not fun.  I have two weeks where I am encouraged to do physical activity, but it cannot be physically activity in which I cannot hold a conversation.  So a walk to my kids school to pick them up the friday after surgery was surreal.  I was on the other side of the fence from where I collapsed, but now in a radically different point of life.  But the six minute walk to the school now took me closer to ten minutes, and I was unable to hold a conversation during that walk.  So I won’t be doing it again for another week or so.  I am not allowed to drive for the next month, which is restrictive, but not the end of the world.  I am not allowed to lift anything over ten pounds.  Which is a pain because I have a fire staff that just arrived, and it is under ten pounds, but swinging it around increases the exertion, so its off limits. BAH!  I also have a few doctors appointments to attend, and a pretty hefty physical at the six week post surgery mark.  But you know what?  I am alive, so I will not complain, much.

Long term where am I at?

• I owe my life to Jen and her knee surgery.  For some strange reason she chose not to take her pain killers that morning.  If she had, she would have been asleep and never heard me.  If she hadn’t had her knee surgery she would have been at work.  I have no idea where I would be at right now if she had not had her surgery and chosen not to take her medication.  The days before and after she spent practically unable to get out of bed, so this spells out a unique story in which I was meant to live for some greater purpose.  Hopefully not to be mauled to death by feral rabbits before the end of 2020.
• I will be changing my diet a little bit, just for the extra peace of mind that comes with it.  I have not yet figured out how I will be changing my diet, but that I can worry about in time.
• My new biggest fear in life is alien parasites that crawl under your skin.  I feel like I have now experienced that, and have absolutely no desire to ever do so again.
• Anything that gets my heart beating fast, or different, or whatever, now freaks me out.  The number of times I have gone and laid down because my breathing was different is ridiculous and I hope I stop doing it soon.
• In theory, six weeks post surgery I should be back to 80-100% of my old self.  With a full recovery and 100% activity being resumed eventually.

Terrifying details I now have embedded in my memories, and subsequently in this blog post:

• The sensation of a heart attack is one I will never forget.  The 30 seconds from full health to almost nothing is remarkable, and I could not imagine this.  Hearing from different people about their experiences, or family experiences with such situations happens a lot right now.  I am aware of people who had similar, but less potent heart attacks and decided to sleep them off, just to never wake up.  Or people who had smaller ones that lasted several days and when they finally went for help their heart was destroyed.
• I was a maximum of 5 minutes from permanent damage to my heart.
• I was a maximum of 30 minutes from my own death, but this number is a maximum, and in reality I have been told I was likely within 15-20 minutes of my own death.
• Major health issues can happen with no warning.  I was laughing and having a great time moments before I nearly died.  I somehow managed to get back onto my bike and ride home during a heart attack in which half of my heart lost blood and oxygen.  I have no idea how this happened other than a sheer will to not die on the side of a road and find some form of help.  If you’re reading this and you have any concerns, don’t be afraid to check in with a doctor.  I had no concerns and nearly died.
• My life is irrevocably different moving forward.  I have heart disease, and though its manageable, it is not curable.  There is a strong chance my children will have the same problems one day.  I will be on medication to keep my cholesterol at bay and to permanently thin my blood, but other than those nothing needs to happen differently for me.  Though my life does not need to change, and by appearance nothing will be obvious, this is still something I must live with forever.