Listen to the Nurses

I went to my cardiologist (heart doctor) this week. He prescribes medications for my heart. I have atrial fibrillation (a-fib) which causes my heart to race to the point that it makes me breathless. The medications I take slow it down and keeps it beating slow and steady. Of course, at those times when my body needs my heart to beat fast, my heart can't beat much faster, so it can leave me breathless and having to slow my activity or stop for a break. But nothing's perfect.

Last year, the doctor prescribed a potent blood thinner for me to take every day. The a-fib can cause a blood clot that can travel to my brain and cause a stroke. The blood thinner is supposed to prevent that. Of course, taking the blood thinner has its own downside. For example, if I have a hemorrhagic stroke (a brain bleed) I can bleed to death before an ER doctor can administer the antidote to the blood thinner. That was the cause of death for that great fiddle player, Charlie Daniels.

I haven't taken the blood thinner. At this week's appointment, the doc asked me if I was taking it and I told him I was not. He asked why I wasn't taking it, and though my reasons were multiple and would take a while to explain, I summed them all up with one statement. I looked him in the eye and I said, "I'm not afraid to die."

Then the doctor did something I had not expected: he smiled and stuck out his hand and we shook hands. I suppose the handshake was the doctor's way of saying several things that would also take a while to explain. He didn't say anything more about the blood thinner, although he did leave it in his list of recommended medications for me. That made sense. He does, after all, have to think about lawsuits and what constitutes "proper medical advice" for his patients. In other words, he has to "cover his ass."  All doctors must do that.

If you're ever diagnosed with a terminal disease, the worst advice you may receive is to remain in the hospital because you've been told that if you do you'll live six months, whereas if you go home you'll live only one month. You can choose six months in a hospital bed with IV tubes, bedpans, and all the other misery that comes with being an invalid, versus a month in your living room, watching your big-screen TV, listening to your music, and having your friends and family stop in for visits. (They would visit you in the hospital, too, but it's neither an inviting nor a comfortable setting, so you might see less of them.)

My advice: If you find yourself in the hospital having to make a decision about staying or going home, don't listen to the doctors. Rather, listen to the nurses. They've seen it all.