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An Affair of the Heart
Almost every Valentine’s Day for the past 20 years, Barb has taken me away on an overnight stay at a surprise destination. We’ve spent all those Feb.14ths at B&B’s or neat old restored hotels in Scottsville, Gordonsville, Charlottesville, Farmville, Appomattox, Staunton, Marion, Williamsburg — you name it, we’ve been there.
This past Valentine’s Day, however, we didn’t quite make it to the surprise destination, which would have been Lexington. Instead, we spent Feb. 14 and the three days after it in St. Mary’s Hospital.
I know Valentine’s was months ago, but it’s taken me some time to be able to write with at least moderate good humor about a scary experience that is apparently not that uncommon among folks in my age group — the “pre-boomers.” I’m talking about a little “episode” of disorientation, a brief spell in which things aren’t quite making sense, accompanied with a certainty that something is amiss.
“WHO’S THE PRESIDENT?”
Just before lunch that day, I had a departmental meeting at Virginia Union University, where I teach; but when I left the meeting, I became aware that I had no idea what the meeting had been about. I couldn’t remember the topic of discussion or what anyone had said. I carefully drove the mile home, sank into a kitchen chair and greeted Barb with “Is today Valentine’s Day?”
Since she and I had exchanged our Valentine’s cards earlier that morning and had had a discussion about saving our presents for the evening, Barb put down her spatula and took a good look at me. “Let’s go to the emergency room,” she said.
Once there, I felt pretty much myself — maybe a little dizzy — but to my horror, when a neurologist asked me who the president was, I could not come up with the name. I knew I knew it, but I remember going over in my mind, “Clinton? A Bush?” It took me probably a full minute to say, “Obama.”
(When I later told my staunchly Republican brother that I had been unable to recall who the president was, he said, “Most people would consider that a blessing.” I was not amused.)
I’ve since heard from two friends who underwent similar “spells” during other political administrations, and they, too, failed to remember their president’s name. That must be a pretty standard question for a patient who appears to be addled. Maybe politicians are the first thing we all want to forget!
When my son and daughter got to the hospital, they started questioning me like I was suddenly engaged in a losing game of Trivial Pursuit, missing questions that I ordinarily would have known in an instant. Who’s the Redskins’ quarterback? Name the starting five of this year’s Richmond Spiders. Strangely, it was the sports part of my brain that continued fumbling. I knew everything they asked about family, friends and literature — just not the truly important stuff like who won the Masters.
OUR NIGHT TOGETHER
Barb and I did spend Valentine’s night together, she in a chair by my bed. For the other two nights, St. Mary’s wheeled in a cot for her. One night in the dark she asked, “I wouldn’t get so lucky, would I, that you no longer remember the time I backed the car over your guitar?” No, I wasn’t so addled I would ever forget that.
Despite lots of tests and examinations, it was not fully determined what caused my lapse. A ministroke was initially suspected, but then I had none of the physical symptoms, except dizziness, that usually accompany a TIA — just the confusion. Doctors found a narrowing of my carotid artery, and I already knew I had coronary blockages. Whatever caused the problem, I feel sure — its having occurred on Valentine’s Day — it must have been an affair of the heart.
I’m more a believer in holistic medicine than invasive surgery and — while I certainly don’t recommend this approach to anyone else — I went home and returned to the strict Ornish diet and the exercise program that have served me well in the past. I’m feeling fine now, though having recently seen my hospital bill, I am really looking forward to the arrival of this new Eisenhowercare.
Randy Fitzgerald teaches modern American literature at Virginia Union University. He was a longtime public relations director at the University of Richmond and columnist for the Richmond Times-Dispatch. Contact him at
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