Your Stories
This section is here for you to publish stories you'd like others to be able to read. So often we want to get our story down, whether it be our life story or stories we've always wanted to tell. Send your story in 1200 words or less to linda@lindacrabtree.com. I'll take a look and if you've gotten it together enough so that others can read it easily, I'll post it here. This section will be a work in progress because I have no idea what kind of talent is out there or what you want to write about. Let's just do it.
Authors:
Richard Burke
Help for male incontinence
William Wenham
The mountain of life
What on earth is happening to me: Surviving a heart attack
Richard Burke - P.E.I. - Help for male incontinence
I was born at 74 Main Street which I understand is now called Chetwood. That street is in the Western Hill area not far from what was once called Thompson Products. I believe the name has changed since, so you can see how many years ago I lived in that area.
I now live in Charlottetown, PEI, and read your articleabout NiagaraShares in our daily newspaper. I enjoyed the article and thought this information that I am giving you might help someone.
I had worked a few years in Welland, Ontario and joined the Navy where I spent 29 years and 11 days serving on and off the ships. I finally retired fairly healthy in April, 1986. I then went to Charlottetown, PEI, with my wife and one child. I stayed retired for three weeks. I then found work in the civilian world here in Charlottetown eventually ending up in a Sobey's Food chain store and did 10 years there. I finally retired for good in December 31, 2002. All the time in PEI, I had constant yearly checkups ad was told my PSA was starting to rise. My family doctor didn't think it was too important and didn't inform me. At that time I was kind of dumb about what PSA meant. That it is an indication of what is going on with the prostate and mine was becoming slightly more and more cancerous. Finally, when I ask what the PSA meant and it was explained, I asked for a urologist to determine just how bad this growing cancer was.
After seeing the urologist, I was booked for a thorough rectal exam which determined that there were a few cancerous lumps on my prostate. Since my PSA level was quite high, I was not a good candidate for the radio active seed implant. My only option was to have radical surgery, meaning I had to have my prostate removed surgically. PAIN.
I endured that surgery and after it the doctor told me that he had to cut many nerves that for some reason were attached to my prostate. Some of those nerves were vital ones. The pathologists who examined my prostate after its removal noted that the cancer had not gotten outside the inner wall of the prostate so I would have a greater chance that it would not grow back and effect any other part of my body.
After the surgery, and for the first year, I was having PSA tests every three months. The second year, and every year after, I have been having the PSA blood test every six months. But, because of the number of nerves that had to be cut and could not be reattached, I ended up with the muscles that control the sphincter (which is the valve that holds the water before relieving it on your own) were so weak that for two long and agonizing years, I could not get anything done even though I went to therapists and other people. I was incontinent...couldn't control my urine. Finally after the two years and going through more 900 male pads, my urologist referred me to a doctor in Moncton, New Brunswick to see if I would be a good candidate for the insertion of the male sling so that the sphincter could be controlled by the sling. I was told after a few exams that I was a very good candidate for the male sling. I was admitted (after a seven month wait) and I watched as the surgery was performed and the eight screws inserted into my pelvis and the sling straps put into place. The reason I could watch without pain was that I had been frozen from the waist down. After a two and on half day hospital stay I was sent home and three months later I had a visit with the same doctor and proved that the sling as working properly. That surgery was done in January 2007 and I have now full control of my bladder relieving capabilities.
My reason for telling you this information is that if you hear of anyone (male) that is having problems with trying to get the muscles tightened up after the prostate surgery, I suggest that they see their urologist and have them referred to a doctor that does the insertion of male slings as it does work.
The male sling is much like the ladies sling and does virtually the same thing.
I am now 70 years old and have changed my diet from fried and greasy foods to vegetables with either chicken or fish. By doing this I have become healthier thenI was when I was in my teens.
William Wenham - The Mountain of Life
As small children, we never really notice the mountain is there at all, even though we play and cavort in the endless meadows at its base. For us, at that age, the mountain seems to go onward and upward forever. Even as teenagers we are unaware of the significance of the mountain because we are brashly confident and we feel that the distant mountain is merely there for our own enjoyment and personal convenience.
When we reach 20 we suddenly realize that the mountain is solidly right there in front of us, and there are many challenges and opportunities for us further up the slopes. Consequently, and usually with little regard for those climbing beside us, we struggle desperately to pass the crowds of other climbers to obtain a firm foothold, in order for us to be able to take our rightful place on the Mountainside. We continue to play, but our play, like our climb, has become more personal and much more aggressive.
At 30, we still struggle desperately with each other to maintain our perceived place in our society and on the Mountain. At the same time, we are both envious and jealous of those who are climbing higher or faster than ourselves.
At 40, we start to look back down the slopes with pride at our achievements and we tend to gaze smugly and without compassion at those who are struggling upwards beneath us. We count our blessings in terms of material possessions that we have accumulated during our climb, instead of appreciating perhaps, the good health that is allowing us to continue. Many of us have neither the time nor the thought for those who are less fortunate than ourselves. Like those poor souls who have managed to accumulate little or nothing during their arduous journey up the mountain. We are still not yet looking at the slopes we know to be above us, for we believe that we still have far to go, we are virtually indestructible and there is still plenty of time.
When we reach 50, we look upwards, perhaps for the very first time, and we are surprised we can now see the summit of the mountain. We pause for a moment to look around us and we are puzzled, for there seems to be a lot less climbers at this level than when we first started our journey. We reflect for another moment, to try to recall and remember those of our fellow climbers who have fallen by the wayside during their climb. Then we continue onwards and upward, since the rest of the Mountain still awaits us.
At 60, our outlook has now changed and we have become fearful of looking too far above us in case we should falter and also fall by the wayside. The climb seems to be getting far more perilous and frightening the higher up we get and fear of the unknown slopes above us now fills our thoughts. Our bones have begun to ache, our muscles are tired and we are weakening. For some of us our breathing has become labored and some now need medical and even mechanical assistance as well in order to continue. We look back constantly now and often question ourselves whether the route that we have taken up the mountain was the best one. Could there perhaps have been a better way? We also find now that our past memories are far more important to us than our future dreams.
When we reach 70, we are faced with a mixture of emotions. We finally find ourselves in full view of the summit and for some of us, the fortunate healthy ones; we discover there is yet another peak, stretching mistily upward beyond the first. It was just not visible to us at the lower levels. Yet we are tired now and many of us have forgotten the purpose of our journey. Some of us have even forgotten who we ourselves are now.
Was our purpose merely to try to do our best to reach the top? Or was it the quality of the passage and the love and friendship of our companions that was so important to us?Finally, at 80, we have arrived, exhausted, at the base of the upper peak and we can now see the whole world from a totally different perspective. We have now either done everything that we wanted to do, or we have not. Either way, it is too late now to worry about it, since we know we cannot retrace our steps back down the mountain to correct our many errors. We are surprised at how little space there is at this level too and at how little time some of us are allowed to spend there, even though many more of our fellow travelers have also long since dropped by the wayside.
We watch, perhaps in envy, as some of the other climbers set out to tackle the next and last peak. They will have even less time to climb since the space on the Mountain diminishes dramatically, the higher you get. But even though there is little space and so little time, we still hope to be able to join them ourselves.
The majority of us will have neither the strength nor the will to even try to climb higher, even though we desperately want to. We realize too, because there is so little space here, we must now move over to make room for the climbers who are still crowding up beneath us. It is easy for us to look back now, some with pride, others with serenity and still others with resignation and acceptance. We realize now that we can only look back since there is no more forward left to us and many of us seek solace and comfort in our memories. In our wisdom too, we try to point out the dangers, pitfalls and heartaches of our particular journey, but no one will listen, even though we have completed our own climb of the mountain and have reached our designated peak. We realize too, sadly and also with resignation, that our advice must naturally go unheeded because each of them is climbing a completely different part of the mountain.
Because of that, they must all make their own journeys themselves, each in their own way, by their own route and in their own time, until they find themselves, just like us, standing finally at their own personal summit of the mountain.
Very old, very tired, and for some of us perhaps, very much alone.
William Wenham - What on earth is happening to me?: Surviving a heart attack.
I am going to die.
It is April 1, 2007.
I am going to die on April Fool’s Day!
There is no doubt in my mind at all about the outcome of this day.
Just a moment ago I was on top of the world, strong, healthy and happy. Then, suddenly, without any kind of warning whatsoever my whole life changes, all in just one split second. I become dizzy, sweaty, disoriented and breathless and my legs begin to tremble uncontrollably. Moments later, my arms and shoulders follow suit until my whole body is shaking. I know what is happening is very bad but I am absolutely powerless to stop it.I can no longer see clearly as darkness crowds in from my peripheral vision. I am conscious of a deep heaviness spreading across the upper region of my chest, high in the left side.As I gasp for breath, I know this is very bad. Very bad indeed and I truly believe this is the end. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before. I am certain this is the end for me but I also have a curious acceptance of it.
Acceptance or not, I still call out for my wife, but she is in the basement and I desperately hope that she can hear me. I also realize that my shouts are little more than whispers as I sit on the stairs gasping.
I try to call out louder since I cannot move off the stairs. I call again and again, now frantically.
Suddenly she is on the landing below me. A wave of relief floods through me.
Barely audibly I say ‘911’ . She doesn’t ask why. She just makes the call.
Below me, as through a haze, I can make out snatches of her conversation with the 911 dispatcher while I sit gasping on the stairs, waiting for the end.
The numbness in my chest has now developed into a deep and spreading dull ache, but there is none of the agonizing pain I would have expected. There is just a sense of disorientation, bewilderment and of complete and utter dread.Why is this happening and why to me? I thought I was healthy. Pure panic has long since replaced any thoughts of pain or discomfort.
My wife holds my hand as we sit on the stairs waiting for the ambulance. I am still gasping for breath as the doorbell rings and a paramedic enters through the open door. He says that his name is Glen and he tells me that everything is going to be alright now. I am in no state to believe even a single word of it as he and his partner bring in a gurney and strap me onto it.
Moments later I am inside an ambulance parked outside my home. The medics are treating me, trying to stabilize me, but I am all the while, on the verge of unconsciousness. Darkness seems to be pulsating at me from the edges of my vision. I mumble I am about to vomit and a plastic bag is snapped open in front of my face. The medic, Glen, gives me some kind of medication, but the only effect I am aware of is my mouth has gone very dry, making speaking even more difficult.
I am vaguely aware of snatches of conversation taking place around me as I swing in and out of consciousness.
One word that jumps out at me is ‘alert’, followed by ‘bad’ and ‘lights’.I also hear someone say ‘his blood pressure is down to 20%’.
We seem to be outside the house for a very long time before the ambulance actually moves, but from then on the trip to the hospital seems to only take seconds. Perhaps I am unconscious for most of the journey. I really don’t know. I have also been put on oxygen but I cannot recall when that was done either. Everything is done with such smoothness, efficiency and compassion.
Upon arrival, I am whisked rapidly into a darkened area, which seems to be surrounded by dark sheets of some kind. Is it really dark or is it just my imagination playing tricks on me? I think vaguely that it looks like something from M.A.S.H.
I am quickly transferred from the ambulance gurney to a treatment bed.There seem to be a great number of people coming and going to attend to me. They tell me their names, which I instantly forget. All of them are asking the same questions, over and over. Someone asks me for my health card. I am now on a different oxygen mask and speaking is extremely difficult. My mouth is drier than I have ever known it to be before. I am being told that I am in good hands and not to worry. Just as that is said, someone else says, ‘Oh, oh, look at that!’ Before I can panic any further, a doctor is talking to me. I believe that my wife is there with me but I’m not sure. I am not sure of anything. I am not even sure if I am going to live.
My feet are shaking violently, beating a tattoo at the end of the bed. My overall shaking is now uncontrollable. I am trying to will myself to stop but nothing is happening.
I am now being covered with a blanket and I am aware of someone removing my jeans and underwear. Someone else is taking off my undershirt and shirt.The doctor is speaking to me, repeating the same questions. Someone gives me several pills to take. I seem to recall the name ‘Plavik’ or ‘Plavix’. Another doctor comes in, also with the same questions. He tells me his name is Dr. Kim, I think. I can see that he is Oriental.
A moment later, I vomit again into a towel beside my head. I can tell that I have lost the pills that I was just given. Someone, a nurse, I believe, immediately injects something into my belly.
My mind seems to be clearing a little and the desperation that I was feeling is starting to subside slightly. I am still trembling uncontrollably and my chest still feels just as tight. Someone is asking me to describe my pain on a scale of one to ten. I am given another pill that makes my mouth even drier than before, if that was even possible. I am also asked to chew on two small aspirins.The nurse, who now tells me her name is Lisa, sprays some nitroglycerin into my mouth and applies a nitroglycerin patch to my right upper arm.The doctor asks me again to describe my pain on a scale of one to ten and its location. I tell him that I am not sure since there doesn’t seem to be any actual pain. I finally say that it is somewhere between a two and a three. He seems to be satisfied with my answer. I say that the uncomfortable feeling is located in my upper left chest at the shoulder. I tell him it is mainly numbness and tightness.
After conversing together for a few minutes, the doctors decide to send me to Hamilton General. I am to have a surgical procedure that is not performed at the St. Catharines General. One of the doctors tells me the procedure has a 1% fatality rate. He also adds he has been using it for 14 years with only one fatality so far. I remember thinking it was a little like Russian roulette. The gun may have 99 empty chambers, but there was still one of them with a bullet in it! Just that one thought alone tells me I am thinking rationally again.The nurse, Lisa, is putting a coat on and tells me that she will be accompanying me in the ambulance.
It seems like just moments later I am back again in the ambulance en route to Hamilton. Glen, the paramedic, is still with me, but it seems to me as though he has a different partner this time. I am really not sure and it really doesn’t matter. I am not in any great discomfort now either, other than the tightness in my chest. Not until we arrive in Hamilton’s bumpy streets.
It is Sunday, and without any preamble or checking in, I am taken straight into a large surgical room. They are expecting me and are ready. It is not like any other operating theater I have ever seen. The most notable part of it, from my horizontal viewpoint, is four large TV screens grouped into a square on my left. There is also a closed, beige plastic box arrangement on a movable arm that allows it to move freely over my chest.
The surgical nurses, three of them, I believe, introduce themselves and start to prep me. I instantly forget their names. Various points of possible entry on my body are shaved and washed in an iodine solution.
After a few minutes the surgeon comes in, introduces himself as Dr. Valettas and repeats the fatality statistics. He asks me if I am okay with that. I find it to be rather an odd question to ask me at this point. Do I have any option? If I say no, do I die? Naturally, I say yes.
He starts off by inserting something into the artery of my right wrist. There is no general anesthetic, just a needle for the initial insertion. I am told that I will be conscious throughout the whole procedure. Panic returns to me again in a rush.I cannot see what he is doing since he is operating from behind some sort of transparent soft plastic tent arrangement. Once in a while, I hear him call to the nurses for ‘wire’.
He asks me to turn my head to the left, towards the TV monitors. In that position, I can see my own heart on the screen beside me. Black lines wriggle around all over it. I realize these are arteries or veins moving around as my heart pumps.Apart from the initial entry and an occasional feeling of slight pressure, I feel nothing of the actual procedure. When the probe, catheter or whatever it is called, is removed, a clamp is applied to seal the artery. Within minutes though, my fingers of my right hand have turned purple and the clamp has to be loosened slightly.I am so engrossed in what is going on that I haven’t even noticed that all the numbness and tightness in my chest has now completely gone. I thank the surgeon, grateful I have been one of the 99% on the statistical charts.He confirms that I have indeed had a heart attack. He adds I have been very, very fortunate and there has been no permanent damage to my heart.
I am taken back to the Cardio Care Unit, the CCU, until I can be returned to St. Catharines. I point out to the attending nurse that my fingers are turning purple again. She loosens the clamp a little and starts to take my blood pressure on my left arm. I now have four intravenous sites set up there as well. Suddenly she becomes aware that the pillow on which my right arm is resting is soaked with arterial blood. She quickly tightens the clamp again. This time it is set okay and there are no more purple fingers and no more bleeding.
It is now Monday. I am feeling a little like a fraud, a malingerer, because I am no longer in any discomfort at all. I feel perfectly normal. Everyone else in the room around me seems to be deathly ill. I cannot believe that I have even had a heart attack. Even the arterial clamp has now been removed.The downside of all this is that from now on I will be faced with a lifestyle change, a major one. I am told that I will probably be on a regimen of 7 or 8 pills a day now for the rest of my life.The upside of it, of course, thanks to all these fine and caring people, is that I will have the rest of my life in which to make the change.How much more there will actually be of it will depend entirely on me and on how well I obey those new rules.But I am not going to die today after all!
Post Script. April 1st. 2009 - The above was written, in note form, while still in hospital in Hamilton, when it was fresh in my memory. It is now two years later, I am still alive and, due to the very few medications that I am now required to take daily, I am feeling more trim and fit now at 77-years-old and 188 pounds, than I have been in many years. My daily medications have now been reduced to two, plus a low dose aspirin.Once again, I would like to offer my heart felt thanks to all of those many nameless people who took such very good care of me.
It is so very good to be alive!
|