Writing about my brief hospital stay, I quipped that “I am 100%,” which felt true when I wrote it, but my body has had second thoughts.
It’s been a rough three weeks: First came my second bout with COVID, then the hospitalization and surgery for a flurry of blood clots in my lungs, and at the hospital I caught the flu, putting me flat on my back again soon as I got home. I’ve been feeling like a man made of pasta, but limp, not al dente.
Further weakening comes from the blood thinners, prescribed to prevent future blood clots. The instructions were to take two of the pills twice daily for a week, and then drop down to one pill twice daily for the rest of my life.
Doc said the pills could have side effects: wounds might take longer to stop bleeding, bruises could take longer to heal, and I might feel some light-headedness. Check, check, and double-check. The light-headedness was noticeable but not worrisome until the fourth night, when it started feeling like I was high, but without whatever makes it fun being high.
Snap decision made while floating at the ceiling: Three days earlier than doctor’s orders, I reduced my dosage to one pill twice daily, instead of two.
Had a doctor’s appointment yesterday, which was my first venture out in the world since the hospital. Last time I went to that doctor’s office, just getting there and back was exhausting. This time it was exhausting again, but I didn’t need to stop and rest every thirty or forty footsteps — a definite improvement!
Doc snipped out the stitches from my surgery, which were starting to stab like needles more than threads.
She said she liked my logic, in cutting back on the blood thinners a few days early.
And she referred me to a cardiologist, for fears that my heart had been damaged by over-pumping during the blood clots.
If money didn’t matter I’d make that appointment, but when has money not mattered? With no insurance, seeing a cardiologist would cost hundreds of dollars, and lead to follow-up appointments and follow-up bills for more appointments for more hundreds of dollars. So, no.
Saying no is not entirely me being stubborn and poor. The doc at the hospital had noticed the same heart injury, but he thought it was relatively minor, and said it would be OK to wait and see how and whether my heart recovers on its own. I’ll be taking daily walks, which ought to be good for my heart, and more affordable than specialists and endless cardiograms.
My first post-op daily walk was getting to and from Friday’s appointment, which left me empty of energy for the rest of the day. I was such a flatline that I clicked off last night’s playoff baseball game in the tenth inning, long before the Mariners won it in 15.
My second daily walk was today, a few blocks farther than yesterday’s walk. Afterwards I was a flatline again, but I’m starting to bounce back only six hours later. That quicker recovery has me feeling a bit like myself again. I’ve missed me.
My walks are very, very slow, and whatever you’re picturing from very, very, I’m walking slower than that. Foot… step… foot… step. But it doesn’t feel like there’s danger of toppling, and I haven’t even leaned on a telephone pole or anything (though I’ve been tempted).
I’m going to walk a little farther each day, toward the goal of eventually walking a mile without complaining about it. I could do that a month ago, and intend to do it again, and then never stop doing it until it’s time to stop doing everything.
And that’s this old man’s health report, as of Saturday evening, October 11, 2025. Like most things, it could be better, could be worse. Here’s hoping I don’t croak midway through tomorrow’s walk.
You know, 30 years ago I used to write and publish diary entries, all true but with an eye toward laughs or at least entertainment. Today’s entry is all true, too, but true is all you get. I’m too tuckered to go for laughs, entertainment, or anything but the facts.
10/11/2025
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