A Small Matter of the Heart, Part 1

I recently underwent major surgery and I thought that the gory details would be of interest to someone. Considering the fact that this blog is about as well hidden and unread as anything could ever be, the "someones" who may find this interesting number somewhere between 1 and 2.

At any rate, I shall begin with a bit of my medical and family history. Strokes and heart attacks have been the cause of many untimely deaths throughout my ancestry. Even my father had a tough time battling heart disease. When I was a wee child, I was plagued with strep throat. After a good number of infections hit me in succession, my doctor sent me to the hospital because she suspected I might have contracted rheumatic fever.

Now, whenever I have my teeth cleaned (or have any kind of dental work performed), I take an antibiotic before the event. When I had an impacted wisdom tooth extracted in December of 2004, I both premedicated with Amoxicillin, and took a steroids following the operation. You see, the mouth of homo sapiens is filled with bacteria. This bacteria is continually released back into the body when we brush our teeth, get them scraped clean, or floss. It's not a big deal.

People who have had rheumatic fever, on the other hand, need to protect themselves a bit more because rheumatic fever often damages valves in the heart and this bacteria has a higher chance of sticking to the damaged valve, thereby causing some serious problems.

Well, all had been quite normal with my life until one dark night in the middle of January 2005. I went to bed and began shivering. After five minutes of this, it went away. At the time, I probably thought that the temperature in the house was a bit too low for me, so I did what guys apparently do best: I forgot about it.

Two days later, Deb and I went out to eat at a local retaurant. While sitting in the booth, I began to shiver. This lasted about twenty minutes, during which I tried my best to remain still by wearing my coat and drinking hot coffee. Deb was mystified and I was just a bit alarmed, but the shivering stopped and we went home.

The next day, Deb had to go out of town for work and I was home alone that night with the doggies. At approximately 6 p.m., I became extremely cold and my teeth began to chatter. Thinking that I most needed warmth, I got into bed, wrapped myself with all the blankets, and rode out the shivers that followed. This time, however, my entire body shook. This lasted about fifteen minutes, after which I realized that I felt feverish and thoroughly worn out.

This happened every night at about 6 p.m., with one exception wherein I woke up at 3 a.m. out of a dream, shivering in the dark. Deb was out of town most of the week. When she returned, she decided to do something about the shaking. For three nights, I went through the now-familiar routine of shaking, trying in vain to keep warm with blankets. On the third night, that being January 23rd, Deb took me to the hospital.

Let me explain why. Each night brought on a worse episode than the days preceeding. I would take medicine to bring down the fever, but the shaking began to get a bit out of control. By the time I began to calm down that sunday evening, my temperature had soared to 104.5 degrees (Fahrenheit). I also remember screaming in pain while the shaking was going on because, in addition to the chills, I was convulsing rather violently. Anyone who's experienced a high fever would understand the awful headaches and weakness that accompany the rise in temperature.

So, off we trotted to the emergency room. The nurses in attendance were very nice, but I had unfortunately broke the fever before we finally found ourselves in an examination room. The chills and fevers, we were told, were hallmarks of an infection and, because of this, they drew several vials of blood from me and sent it off to the lab for culturing. Meanwhile, the hospital contacted my doctor -- a general practitioner -- who in turn authorized a prescription for a very strong antibiotic (levaquin). We knew the blood cultures wouldn't show anything for several days, but the stuff I got was supposed to be very good at killing a wide range of bacteria.

During the next week, I saw my doctor a couple of times. I had a CT scan done on my chest, abdomen, and pelvis, just in case the problem had anything to do with lymphoma. And, the fevers sort of went away. I had no episode on monday, but I did every other day. The shaking never got as violent as it did the previous sunday, but my temperature rose every night, reliably, to somewhere around 102.

The CT scan showed a slightly enlarged spleen, which is consistent with infections, but it also showed nothing else of importance. Thus, cancer was ruled out. The lab results from the cultures, unfortunately, all turned up negative. This was really bizarre, because blood cultures are a very good means of identifying (and verifying) infections.

It was at this point, I believe, that my GP found himself outclassed. He had no idea what to do next, claiming that my condition was probably just a virus. The antibiotic that I was given lasted ten days. During that entire time, I was still getting nightly fevers, although they were not quite so dramatic as they had once become.

I also noticing something else: I was gradually becoming weaker. By the time the next weekend arrived, I had trouble standing for more than 30 minutes before I had to sit down. I noticed that my heart pounded harder than normal when I rested. I also noticed that I sometimes felt like something was in my throat when I went to bed, causing me to swallow over and over again until the feeling went away. We thought that it was probably due to the infection or the antibiotic.

On February 7th, Deb had to go out of town again for work. This was monday. I had been trying for several days to get my GP to suggest another test or try something else to see what was causing me to get the fevers and become so darn weak. Since he was clueless, he was very reluctant to see me.

On the eighth of February, Deb called the GP's office and basically told him that he was showing disturbing signs of negligence. This apparently caused some alarm, and I was in his office at 4 p.m. that afternoon. He asked me about my symptoms, blathered on about how bitchy my fiancee seemed to be, and gave me the impression that he wasn't much of a physician. Finally, as an afterthought, the good doctor decided to listen to my heart.

While I waited, I could practically see the blood drain from his face. He turned to me and said that I had a murmer. Furthermore, I was told to get my happy arse to a hospital.

Thus began the second phase of my ordeal.