Living Hypothetically

 Sent my stuff over to wordpress.  https://estrogenx6.wordpress.com/

* Starting this on Christmas day, but might not get published until the 26th.*

Today marks 6 months since my heart attack, or "cardiac event" as my rehab physiologists say. The memory is still pretty fresh in my mind but I want to write it down so that I always remember. The first thing everyone said to me was, "What the fuck happened?!" So here it is. 

It was Friday, June 25th. I woke up at around 8:00am to Rebeca getting out of bed and heading to the kitchen for coffee. Our bed was two futon mattresses on the floor. I felt a tightness in my chest and started trying to breathe through it while wondering why I was so "anxious". I started to feel a little bit of pain in between my shoulder blades but it felt like if I could just crack my neck it would go away. Same with my chest. If I could just "burp" the feeling would subside. 

I got to my knees and used the twin bed as a support, trying to concentrate on the sounds of the birds outside in the back. I tried to focus on 3 things to smell, 3 things to hear and 3 things to see. Every now and then the tightness in my chest would go away for a little bit and I would feel better. 

I suddenly felt a little nauseous and went to the bathroom. As I sat there I googled "symptoms of a stroke" and "symptoms of a heart attack".  My heart wasn't racing and I wasn't in any pain. I started sweating profusely. Like my shirt was soaked through in just seconds. I stepped into the shower and rinsed off. 

When I got out, I threw up out of nowhere. I felt like I should get ready, thinking that I might have to tell Rebeca to take me to the hospital. I put in my contacts and got dressed in a t-shirt and shorts. I took my insulin and my other weekly shot. I put my wet hair in a bun and put on my fitbit. My heartrate was high, but normal for me. 

I went out to the living room and sat in one of the chairs. I told Rebeca that I thought that I was having an anxiety attack.  At this point I had been trying to breathe through feeling "uncomfortable" for almost 2 hours. That's mainly what it was...uncomfortable. Nothing really hurt and I could breathe normally. I just felt, "not right". Kind of nauseous. Kind of dizzy. Tight in my skin. 

I finally told Rebeca that we should go to the ER. She said, "You can't breathe through it?" And at that moment my heart went wild. My Fitbit was jumping around from 50 to 117 to 78 to 100. As I got up to go, my mom said, "You feel dizzy?" I was having a hard time getting words out so I just said, "yeah". 

Isa was out on a run and Maya was still asleep downstairs. 

We got into my brother's Leaf and Rebeca drove me down to the hospital in my hometown. I felt like she was going so slow and was annoyed that I wasn't the one in the driver's seat. We got to the hospital in minutes and I was surprised to see it empty. Usually there are people waiting outside for their turn. 

We went into the ER waiting room and no one was at the desk. I rang the doorbell and two nurses came out. I told them that I thought that I was having an anxiety attack but that my chest tightness wasn't going away. They took me into a room and checked my pulse. They seemed like it wasn't what they liked to see and then hooked me up to an EKG machine. They also gave me a covid test and checked my other vitals. 

When they got the EKG reading they headed out to find a doctor. As they were doing that another nurse had me take off my shirt and bra to get ready for an X-ray. The doctor came in and said, "So, it looks like you're having a heart attack." She was extremely calm and matter-a-fact. I wasn't surprised especially after overhearing "vfib". All of my CPR/First Aid training came to my mind. I said, "Okay". I didn't feel scared but rather glad that I knew what was going on with me. That I wasn't imagining things or overreacting. 

She said that they weren't going to take the time to do the Xray and that they were going to transport me to a hospital in town right away. They gave me a couple of nitroglycerin pills to put under my tongue and a baby aspirin to chew. They started an IV in my left arm and had me sign a lot of paperwork. The ambulance arrived shortly after and Rebeca asked if she could go with me. They told her no. We kissed goodbye and she said that she was going to go home first to tell my mom and get me some things. She was crying but I was strangely calm. Just waiting to see what would happen next. 

As they transported me to the ambulance gurney, I noticed how narrow it was. There was still tightness in my chest but less. The main place that was uncomfortable was in between my shoulders. Laying on my back was not fun. 

My first ambulance ride was not as exciting as I thought it would be. It was bumpy and loud and felt like all the equipment would come crashing down on me at any moment. The EMTs had hooked me up to an AED machine just in case. Later Rebeca told me that the ambulance had passed her while she was on the way to town. 

We arrived at the ER and they wheeled me to the door. The paramedics didn't have the correct door code because they said that they rarely went to that hospital. Luckily a guard was nearby and he let us in. 

This ER was packed! There were patients in hospital beds in the hallways and tons of people milling about. They rolled me to a room where a team of about 8 people were waiting for me. As soon as I was transferred to the new bed, there were hands all over me. One person was hooking my IV up to something, one was taking off the rest of my clothes, another person was having me sign release forms. There was so much activity! And through all of this I felt very calm. I knew that I wouldn't have to make any decisions anymore and that was comforting. 

I remember one doctor saying that I was going to be taken to surgery and that stents were going to be put into my artery. I had to sign for that too. 

As they started wheeling me out, Rebeca arrived. She was told what was happening and then I was rolled away. 

I was taken into a white room that was very cold. They let me know that the doctor would put my stent in through either the artery in my arm or one in my groin. Because of that I was quickly shaved half way. The nurse instructed me to hold on to a metal handle with my right hand. They sedated me through my IV but I was awake during the entire process. At one point I moved a little because my back was still aching. Someone noticed and gave me more sedation. Time seemed to pass quickly. I would get a little tired and would wake up to someone tapping on my forehead telling me to stay awake. I just wanted to sleep! 

It didn't feel like I was in that room for very long but the procedure took almost 2 hours. When the doctor was done one of the nurses was calling upstairs looking for a room. They wheeled me up to the cardiac floor and I was transferred to another bed. There was a huge plastic cuff on my right wrist and I was told not to use it for anything. 

Rebeca showed up soon after with her own wild story about her adventures while I was in surgery. 

Nurses and cardiologists came in to check my vitals and to remind me that I had almost died. Some doctors were more gentle than others. One told me that I might need to be on the transplant list within a year, while another said that I just had a lot of work ahead of me. 

Rebeca wasn't allowed to stay with me and would have to leave every afternoon at 4pm. That was really hard, especially those first two nights. 

I was hooked up to two IVs, one in my left arm and one in my right hand. It made it difficult to fully sleep as I was always scared of pulling something loose. I was also hooked up to an EKG machine, on oxygen and taking numerous medications. The lab techs would come in every few hours to draw blood and I soon ran out of places for them to try. Every time I got up to go to the bathroom, my heartrate would get super high, usually in the 130s. And of course, I started my period. Because of the many blood thinners I was on, I bled more than usual. Using the bathroom looked like a murder scene because they were also collecting my urine every time I went. I was on diuretics so needed to use the bathroom frequently. It was not a good time. 

Cardiologists came and went and it seemed like it was always someone new, reiterating how lucky I was to be alive. 

The heart attack I had is commonly known as a 'widow maker". The main artery to my heart was 100% blocked. If I hadn't gone to the ER when I did, I don't know what would have happened. I didn't let myself think about it too much, but sometimes I would wonder what would have happened if we had been at the beach or somewhere else instead of at home. It was scary to imagine. 

My vitals were taken every 2 hours around the clock and my blood was drawn every 4-6. Eventually I would barely wake up when the lab tech would come in and just hand them one of my arms. Sometimes they would have to call in a more "expert" tech to attempt to find a vein that wasn't overused. One nurse "rolled" one of my veins and I could tell that she felt horrible. Another one blew out one of my veins. I tried not to react to the pain because I could tell they felt so badly about having to stick me so many times. I had bruises all over the tops of my hands and my left wrist. My right wrist still had the plastic cuff on it and the nurse would loosen it a little bit every day to make sure I wouldn't bleed out of that artery. 

One of my night nurses remarked that "A hospital is not a place to rest. It's a place to work on getting better." That was definitely true. The longest stretch I slept was maybe 4 hours. I was tired but also energized by everything happening around me. 

The first two days were the most stressful. The doctors thought that they saw a blood clot in my heart and I needed to get an MRI. They also did an echocardiogram. They pumped me up with all kinds of drugs but completely took me off of my diabetes meds. I was placed on a cardiac diet and had a specific menu to order from for my meals. Rebeca ordered for me and we went through almost all of the options. I was never hungry but she made sure I ate. The sugar free jello was my go to. 

After the echocardiogram, the doctors came in to tell me that my heart was only functioning at about 29%. One doctor told me that he thought that parts of my heart were so damaged that they were essentially dead. Another doctor told me that those parts could just be "hibernating" and that they might regain functionality. So many conflicting messages. Hopeful then devastating. Definitely an emotional roller coaster. 

I was finally able to get an MRI on that Monday night the 28th. It was probably one of the most relaxing experiences of my life. The tech would come over the speaker, tell me to take a deep breath, hold it and then release after 20 seconds or so. It was meditative. The whole process took about an hour but it felt so much shorter. The next day I was told that they hadn't found a clot so I was finally able to go home. 

Going downstairs and outside for the first time in 4 days was overwhelming. The light was too bright, the sounds too loud. It seemed like people were too close to me and moving too quickly. Driving home was nerve wracking and I could feel my heart racing. I was dizzy and disoriented. 

When I got home my mom, aunt and Maya were waiting outside. I got emotional hugging Maya and went to my room to take a nap. I wasn't totally comfortable being out of the hospital where I knew that I was being taken care of. Now I was in charge of the 9 medications I had been sent home with. I was in charge of watching my diet and taking my blood pressure. I had to pay attention to my body once again and I was nervous about all of it. 

For the first couple of weeks I got tired very easily. I would wake up, take my meds, eat a small breakfast and then go back to bed. If people came to visit I would need a nap afterward. It was a strange feeling...not trusting my heart and feeling exhausted all the time. 

It's been 6 months and so much has changed. My heart attack seems to have reset my body. My blood sugars are excellent, my cholesterol numbers have been cut in half and now my blood pressure runs on the low side (not a great thing but definitely different from before). It's almost like I had to have the heart attack to get everything else right. 

 It’s been about a week. A very heavy week. I need to write this out to stop it from sitting on my chest. Every video I see, every post I come across is another reminder.  

I saw:

Stop Asian Hate!
We are not a virus!  
We stand in solidarity with our Asian family!
Protect Asian lives!

I also saw

They’re basically white.
Go back to your country!
Did you eat my dog?
They’ve never stood with us!

Every day that I got ready to write it out, something else happens. A 76 year old auntie shown bloodied and bruised. A mom with a young child punched in the face as they walk to an anti-racism protest. And it would just take me back to the starting point. Not sure where to begin.

I’ve heard so many voices lately, many of them younger than me, speaking out against what has been happening, recounting their own incidents around racism. The scenarios so familiar.

Six years old being chased around the playground at my California elementary school by two boys. They are yelling “Ching chong Chinaman” and pulling up the sides of their eyes. My friend tells my favorite playground monitor and I feel embarrassed. I do not tell my parents.

There is a culture of silence, a feeling of not wanting to call attention to ourselves. Of not wanting to be singled out. Never bringing anything negative to those you care about.  

In the movie “The Farewell”, this is painted so wonderfully. A grandmother is diagnosed with cancer. She does not tell her family so as to not burden them with the news. Her family knows about the diagnosis but does not let the grandmother know so as to not burden her with their sadness. This collective consideration is both beautiful and infuriating.

Seven years old. Everyone laughs at my lunches talking about how gross it looks. I hear “Chinese, Japanese, dirty knees look at these” gleefully sang daily. I beg my mom for baloney sandwiches on Wonder bread. But I don’t tell her why.

Nine years old at a pool in Virginia. I see my brother, who is around 6, being picked on by two older boys. I swim closer and hear the familiar “ching chong” chant. I stare at them from behind him in silence. They swim away laughing. My brother has angry tears in his eyes. I am furious! At my brother. Why didn’t he stand up for himself! Why did he “allow” that to happen. My fury misdirected. I didn’t know how to stand up to something like that. We don’t say a word to each other and definitely not to our parents.

In all of these incidents I am humiliated and ashamed. I don’t want my parents to know. I don’t want them to be burdened by what’s happened. I keep it inside and know there’s nothing I can do. I can’t stop people from making fun of what I look like.  I can’t change the shape of my eyes. I have never been mistaken for white.

During college I am called a Jap and a “harbor bomber”. I hear that Asian women “are sideways ‘down there’”. I am greeted with a bow and an “ahhhh sooooo!” randomly. I learn to say “here!” quickly before the professor attempts my last name. I get asked where I am from more times than I can count. “But where are you REALLY from?” I hear words like chink and gook thrown around so casually. People tell me jokes about slanty eyes and their perceived vision like I’ll laugh along. I don’t tell my parents.

And still, even when writing this, all I can think about is how this is nothing. Nothing compared to what my Black, Indigenous and Brown fam experience. I feel like I should hold all of it inside and move on. I’m still embarrassed. I’m ashamed of how hurt I feel, at how furious I am. I’m playing my own oppression Olympics in my head and I don’t even feel like I should be a participant. I am ashamed when my BIPOC friends check in on me. I deflect because I don’t want to add to their own worries.

But then I see the pictures and read the stories. The 84 year old man killed in San Francisco. The child spat on in Queens. The 52 year old woman beaten by a group of teenagers in the Bronx. The 61 year old uncle whose face was slashed with a box cutter on a subway. And of course the killings of the 6 Asian women in Atlanta.

This is a Thing. It’s not my imagination. I am not being dramatic.

I can be vocal about protecting Asian lives and hopeful for BIPOC solidarity while also acknowledging the anti-Blackness in the Asian community. We all know who wins when BIPOC are divided and focused on hating one another. Can you imagine the nightmare we could cause if we stood together? If we all focused on the real evil?

“...we were like two people standing apart on separate mountain peaks, recklessly leaning forward to throw stones at one another, unaware of the dangerous chasm that separated us.”
― Amy Tan, The Joy Luck Club

 

It's heartening to see, and hear, the numerous voices of my Asian fam. No more suffering in silence to spare one another.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 During the summer of 2019, I finished an early childhood leadership program.  Our culminating event was our capstone presentation. I felt nauseous as I spoke to that room of 100+ strangers, some of whom, I was told, were very conservative.

When I would need some extra courage, or when my voice shook, I looked to my cohort or to Rebeca and Maya in the audience. They helped me to be brave.
The following is my speech. I did it without notes so some words may have changed, but the meaning was still there. I want to document this before my notes disintegrate in my bag. 
Seems fitting for National Coming Out Day. 

********************************************************************

My name is Stacy. My pronouns are she/her/hers. I am a gay, Japanese, cis woman who never knew my existence was possible until my late teens.

The first time I ever saw a positive representation of my secret self was in my English class during my junior year of high school. I found a book in my teacher's library called, "Annie on My Mind", a love story featuring two teenage girls.

I remember taking the book from the shelf and another one to place no top of it. I hid it in my book bag and took it home.

I felt overjoyed as I read it in my bedroom behind a locked door. I also felt a deep sense of shame and self loathing. What did this mean about me? I was terrified that someone would find out what I was reading. I didn't even fully trust the teacher who had it in her classroom. Maybe she didn't know what it was about. I read and re-read that book numerous times as I dove deeply back into the closet for five more years.

Why? Fear.

During my research I connected with numerous queer and trans people who had very similar experiences. We laughed and cried as we shared our stories. We talked about our fear and of being invisible.

Our teachers only read stories about moms and dads and lined us up in boy lines and girl lines.

Our churches told us that "those people" were an abomination and could never live an authentic and happy life.

Our families made fun of "fairies" and our friends used "gay" as a slur.

Most people we came into contact with told us not to be who we were.

As educators we know that queer and trans children exist in our classrooms, or they have loved ones that identify that way. They need to see themselves represented in our programs.

Their friends need to see this representation so that it is not "other". It just is.

Our classrooms may be their only safe haven. We may be the only adults who see them.

When I asked a group of over 50 queer and trans folx what they would say to their four year old selves the responses were often the same.

You are perfect the way that you are.
You are loved.
You are beautiful.
You are who you are meant to be.

These are affirmations that they didn't hear, or know, as children.

Every child needs a champion and a safe place to land. Children will tell you who they are. It is our responsibility as adults to listen, and to believe them. 

Today was Day 2 with children. Not my children. The children who come to our school. We’ve been prepping for this inevitable day. Worrying. Crying. Gut turning anxiety. About this day. Teachers revolted and wrote a letter to a big boss to no avail. They were basically told, ”We bought you some gloves and masks. Go to it or…”.  I spoke out and got nailed back down. I told Them that what we were asking of our teachers was horrible and that we speak so much about supporting our families but so many of our teachers come from that same population. We are asking them to choose their jobs or their health, and the health of their loved ones. It’s not right.

All because we don’t have a government that takes care of it’s people. Especially its most vulnerable people. But you all know that.

This is a completely off the walls time for everyone right now! Every day seems to bring some new What the Fuck?! On Monday it was 90 effing degrees. Yesterday it snowed and was in the 30s. WTF.

In the past week I’ve heard of at least 5 different people dying. Most of them suddenly and tragically. WTF.

This year needs a good dunking in some holy water and then incensing the shit out of it.

A couple weeks ago I went for a “jog” for the first time in months. I felt okay. Didn’t complete the week 1 day 1 requirement, walked more than I should, but felt okay. I got home and started sweating profusely. I felt good about it…like yeah! Die fat!!! I took a shower and started feeling strange. I laid on my bed but couldn’t get comfortable. My chest was hurting like it normally does when I’m running, but it wasn’t going away. I went downstairs and sat on the couch. My left arm hurt and I was having pain between my shoulder blades. I, of course, start WebMding and think, “shit. I’m having a heart attack.”  

I didn’t want to say anything to Rebeca because she would’ve freaked out and made it More. I sat there and squeezed my temples because my head had started pounding! I needed dark and quiet. As I lay there, and thought about my impending death, I wondered what would happen to the kids. I don’t think Rebeca would do well if I died. Really!  Would they ever eat a home cooked meal again?

Then I thought about how long I was going to lay there before I told her that I should go to the emergency room. And that we should drive because there was no way we’re going to pay for an ambulance! But riding in an ambulance would be cool…

Lots of thoughts.

Rebeca knew something was up. She got me something to drink because I told her that I thought I was a little dehydrated. I passed out for like 10 minutes and when I woke up I felt a little better. My chest and head hurt less. I skipped dinner and went to bed.

The next morning I was healed!

Ha. As I googled throughout the day I decided that I had had a large anxiety attack. I’d been having mini ones every time I go out walking, but nothing ever as bad as this. I don’t know why it’s mostly during outdoor activities. I’m fine when I go grocery shopping or being at work, but whenever I’m walking the dog my chest tightens up and I can't catch my breath. 

We went to Moab in June and hiking up that goddamn mountain to get to the arch took me forever! Every time a group of people would come near me I would have to step off the trail, look away and breathe until they passed. I looked very un-fit I'm sure. 

WTF

I’ve NEVER had anything like this happen to me. And I don’t get why it’s when I’m outside where it’s “cleaner” than inside air.

Sigh.

The day after my “heart attack” I told Rebeca that I thought I had been dying. She knew and when I said it was probably a mix of anxiety and dehydration, she rolled her eyes. She knew. She knows. She battles her own anxiety daily and my little episode was a common one for her.

So, I guess all of this is to say that I don’t know what to do about this new thing of mine. How can I get outside without freaking out?

And will someone start a meal train if I die so my kids can eat real food and not live on frozen pizza?

 

 

 

It used to take me about an hour to get through the grocery store.

Every Sunday I would take my spa vacation at 3:00 in the afternoon with a solo trip to do the weekly food shopping. Armed with my list and reusable bags, I had a very specific route around the store that was efficient and comfortable. I perused the aisles to the sweet sounds of Cher or Chicago, marvelling at my ability to save money on our favorite items. We always have about 6 types of cereal and a plethora of cheeses. Sometimes if I felt fancy I would get some stuffed olives from the self service bar. Garlic and goat cheese. Yum. And of course I would usually pick up a donut for the bae and children.

Now.

I get lost going down those same aisles. I wander around, even with my list, and my head is foggy with...nothingness. I find myself going past the pasta numerous times, around the avocados meandering amongst the milks. Everything looks so different. Has the store layout changed? Why does it all seem so foreign? It takes me almost 2 hours now to get through my short list of items.

So strange.

I've been done with work now for about a week and a half. A slow slide into "summer".

My days have been starting at around 2:00 in the afternoon. I go to bed when I start to hear the birds chirping at 4:00am. I've had to change up when I take my meds and pretend that 2pm is the new morning.

I bought a fishing pole and have decided that it's going to be my new hobby this summer. We went on a much needed trip down to visit the in-laws a week ago and spent one day fishing in the mountains. I caught my first trout and discovered that Maya is a natural fisherperson. The trip was rejuvenating and SO necessary for our hearts. I love my in-laws and it was so healing to be surrounded by solidarity and like minds. We had so many conversations about everything from protests, chile, babies, police, fishing and racism experienced and witnessed. It was so wonderful not having to explain...anything.



It's "funny" to me seeing some posts on social media. The articles and memes reminding people to self care during this time because this "new" reality is so draining. When I read those I know they're aimed at white people. White people who are so weary from all this talk about race and brutality. White people who are just NOW learning about how BIPOC are harmed EVERY DAY.

When I see posts from my white friends talking about how their mental health has been affected because of the media surrounding Black deaths, I wince. And that low simmering rage that is always present boils up just a little.

There is NEVER a time when I'm not thinking about race and racism. Especially working in Boulder, Fucking, Colorado. I know that's a pretty common experience for most POC.

The KKK once called Boulder, "The whitest city in America."

Joy.

Not much has changed and certainly the facade of Boulder is a deceiving one.  I've never experienced racism like I have in Boulder.

It is such a privileged post to make- about how you're taking a break from the media coverage of the protests. How you are struggling with how to explain to your white child about what's going on. Isn't nine years old too young? How you will read and read and read and read and read and read.

But what will you do?


Boiling.