(This I wrote in January of 2008, sitting in the basement of a hotel in Iceland having just been released from the hospital in Reykjavik after my heart attack. It’s a bit crude but was heartfelt and 10 year later, I’m still here!)
While you know me as David Ader, and right you are, I’ve been listed as David Ander in the local records. Local in this example is Reykjavik, Iceland (is there another?). I like the name and knowing that there’s a good chance we were never named Ader in the old world, have adopted it as my own.
Sagas are a big deal in Iceland – they are part novel, part history, part folklore, part bible. Sagas are considered the first form of modern European literature by many Scholars. The problem was, however, it took several hundred years for the stories to actually leave this lovely island, a few more hundred years to translate the bloody language, and the last hundred years to find a publisher who agreed with the scholars that sagas were worth reading, or at least had enough advanced orders from the half dozen or so Icelandic bookstores.
Here is mine.
I left New York on Saturday, January 5th on the redeye bound for Saudi Arabia. This journey in itself is a tale, but detracts from the main one. From there on Sunday night it was a redeye to Zurich, then the following early morning to Rome, and then the following day – now Wednesday the 9th, not to be confused with the Icelandic chieftain of yore Hwianssdeyh the 9th. That night in London I went to the hotel’s gym and ran 38 minutes at about 9 km/hour and felt fine.
Thursday was a busy London day with half a dozen meetings ending in a presentation to a humorless group of RBS colleagues. Let me add that my market ‘call’ has been really good and the economy is deteriorating rapidly, interest rates behaving, more or less as I forecast. I’m thrilled.
After the presentation, I rushed from the office to the tube to the Heathrow express to catch a night flight back home. And I was excited to get back home and also to rest on the plane as all the rushing around left me a bit breathless, the lack of sleep disoriented, and my heart was beating overly fast as I did my OJ Simpson routine around London (not the murdering, but the running bit).
How sweet it was to sit in seat 13D on British Airways and relax for the flight home. Business travellers will understand this phase even as the superstitious ponder seat 13D – D as in Damned.
And so Ragnar Magnussen and Gyrhedhgyf Levinsen snuck into the cave of the evil troll – sorry, that’s another Saga…
Right, so the flight takes off and I relax to a healthy meal as I ordered light stuff. I was minding my own business in business class, reviewing the meetings with clients, planning ideas for them, writing up notes, and get ready to present back to the sales and trading desk in Greenwich on ways to grow the business even more than I had already done. (Actually, that is not true but I add it in case anyone from work is reading this. In fact, what I was doing was planning which of the movies I would watch and debating whether I wanted a gin or vodka martini.)
And then I felt a ‘funny’ sort of twinge in my chest, a bit of tightness, which seemed to dissipate as I relaxed. Such a twinge is NOT the source of comfort mid Atlantic, or anywhere else for that matter. No, very much the opposite. But a twinge is still a twinge and I had the wherewithal to take some aspirin and nitroglycerin just in case….
You know what it’s like when you’re on a plane and some asshole has chest twinges that turn to chest pains and you’re forced to divert to someplace like, say, Rejykavik? I am that asshole.
The twinge became tightening and worsened even at rest and wouldn’t go away. And then there’s this left arm thing that’s like a bouncer at a bar (like I would know) squeezing it and dragging you out the door.
What am I thinking? Well, what if I die, or better, what if I tell the staff and they dimiss it, or even better what if they have to divert the plane to the nearest hospital, which by my calculations was in Greenland. I erred on the side of caution and told the steward, who asked me if it was nervousness about flying. I told him rather aggressively, and apologize for that, that it certainly was about nervousness over flying “PARTICULARLY WHEN HAVING A ——- HEART ATTACK!!!!” The BA staff really was superb and I can only praise them for their comforting calm, especially Laura – an ex nurse – who held my hand as I convulsed and shook with adrenalin rushes.
(Serious interlude – I was scared, and went over in my mind how Pippa and Geoffrey and Nicho would hold up in the event, whether I should use the cell phone to call, wrote a note in my diary about how much I loved them, gave them some post mortem advice on moving on, relaxed that our insurance was good, and held a picture of Geoffrey and Nicho to my heart the whole time to the hospital.)
The announcement goes forth from the pilot to the effect that “I’m sure you’re all aware we have a passenger in distress (understatement)” and that the plane would have to divert. He then goes on about not knowing what would follow after landing because the staff may have flown too many hours and I heard the groans of 225 passengers all at once and could only visualize them staring around to see which fellow traveller had his oxygen mask down.
After we landed – and I figure it was about 90 minutes from the moment I called over the steward – the Icelandic EMTs Gjyur Karlsen and Ungaver Carlson came on board to ask me questions about what I was feeling and did I give approval for them to take me off the flight and go to a hospital. I felt asking me the latter was a bit after-the-fact and wondered what everyone would say if I had responded, “no, I’m really feeling fine and if it’s all the same I’d just like to get a sweater at the duty free and take off again. I won’t be a moment.”
But I didn’t. It was late, the shops likely closed, and I knew full well what was going on and said words that I vaguely recall as “get me the —- out of here and HURRY up about it.” I actually walked off the flight to the glares of the other passengers who probably were thinking that if I could walk then surely I wasn’t so badly off.
I immediately was put on a Gurney (an Icelandic nurse) and then transferred to a stretcher on wheels. Vitals were taken, while police surrounded and searched me – apparently BA warned that this could be a non-suicide bombing ploy, i.e. set the timer and get off the plane.
From there we went to the nearby Keflavik Clinic and cod drying facility, where young Doctor Robert again took vitals and told me that the pulse was fine, blood pressure fine, the EKG didn’t look gross, and that we needed to test the blood enzymes. He said it was most certainly angina symptoms, maybe more, but I was stable and, trust me, I was comforted, if in pain. To alleviate the latter he gave me morphine! Even now when I think about the mohpine my mndi beeeeeeeeengenz 2 knumm and i feeelllllll westeddd nda clam.
These clinics have to cover a lot of ground and so Dr. Robert also checked my hooves for rot and thankfully they were okay. He did say that their blood clinic was closed for the night and so put me back in the cart with Gjyur and Ungaver who whipped those ponies something good, I don’t need to tell you, as we rushed to the main facility in Reykjavik.
I think I was given more morphine on the way or took it by myself forceably – not sure which. I did call Pippa and was damn calm when I tried to use a bit of humor as I informed her of the situation. She held her own and I promised to keep her in the loop. What else was there to do? Fate was not in my hands.
To the hospital ER, to a room, where – it’s now 3 AM Friday – I could only wait as more vitals were taken, I was monitored, and more morphine given. I was calm, not from the morphine which frankly did little, but just from a sense of – I don’t know – riding it out. As morning approached, a Doctor, Gunnar Gunnarstottir, came by to suggest elevated enzymes (and I know what that meant) and that a Dr. Kjarlssen was on his way for an angiogram. I do recall some discussion about insurance and all that, to which I said I’m good for it, and was of a mind to point to both my passport and Cigna card. Really.
I was then wheeled into the cath. lab where Dr. Kjarllsenn turned out to be a very well spoken and competent cardiologist – indeed EVERYONE I encountered seemed as good as I possibly could hope for. I even refer to the lovely blond nurse, Gryundgefar, (I will encounter more of this) who shaved various parts of my chest and nether regions allowing the cold Icelandic wind that wafted its way under the door of my room to tickle me in ways I’d never been tickled before.
Dr Cjarlllssseen then stuck a tube up my ephemeral artery – I think that’s what he said – and showed me the picture of my heart. Now I know Pippa likes to follow things like this, colonoscopy for example, or giving birth while holding a mirror to her crotch, to see just what the doctor sees. I am not one for that. No, give me drugs, wake me up, tell me I’m fine and send me home. But Dr. Carrlllzen was enthusiastic as he pointed to the 100% blockage in my right coronary artery, proximal to the first stent I had as if he had discovered an Icelandic version of the Afekomen.
He then put in the stent and in about 5 seconds I felt the tightness loosen up and dramatically so. The good Doctor said he didn’t see much sign of muscle damage, some, but things looked good. From his side, anyway.
From there it was a bit foggy for me, but I vaguely recall being shunted to a room, cardiac unit, with 3 other fellows and resting. I thought it was still about 3 AM as the sky was so dark. And it may have been, however, considering that the sun in Iceland rises at 11AM and sets about 20 minutes later so I may have misjudged things a bit. The land of the Midnight Sun is also the land of the Midday Moon with a 6-month lag, but the tourist guides don’t mention that.
I was soon roused to more nurses, Beowulf and Grendl, coming in to take more vitals, shave more of my chest, and withdraw a few liters of blood. The nurses were lovely, really, and very, very calming. They also, I think, appreciated the fact that I was the youngest person on the floor by about 75 years and didn’t drool quite as much as my co patients or – and this is gross – fart or belch like the other 3 guys in the room did CONSTANTLY. Part of me also thinks they liked saying “David” as it rolled off the tongue and caused less pain than, say, Thjrygorren Grfrofhtderborksen, one of my roomies.
Iceland is known for hyper cleanliness, and so, since I was still on blood thinning IVs, was subjected to sponge baths. While this is certainly degrading and makes you feel so out-of-control, I must admit the warm soapy waters, and the soft sensitive hands of a blonde Icelandic nurse have their place. In my case, however, his name was Sven.
Moving along, I did eventually get the IVs removed, allowing me to walk around the floor and shower by myself (“Do you mind KNOCKING first, Sven?!?). The shower took a while to get warm – 2 days by my count – and had a certain sulphuric smell given the lively volcanic nature of Iceland where 100% of the water is heated geothermically just prior to going through an 80 mile pipeline through a glacier where I guess it’s then cooled to near freezing.
The soap, shampoos, lotions, disinfectants, anti bacterial rubs, psoriasis balms, and conditioners were all there all right. Alas, they were there with Icelandic labels and so figuring out their proper usage was a bit of trial and error. Even now I ponder the purpose of Nuddencremen (nut cream?) or Tvalltslozian (twat lotion?). Fortunately, I had stolen some shampoo from my hotel in London and understand its purpose if not why they called something for cleaning yourself “Moulton Brown.” Think about that.
At the corner of the floor was a TV room, with TV shows that didn’t make it in America or the UK, but are at least cheap for Icelandic TV to buy. The views, however, were incredible – snow covered mountains just a few miles away, steam leaking fissures, the sea, Reyjkavik itself, and the most beautiful sunrise and sunset you can imagine, both within 30 minutes of each other.
I was feeling wholly better if a bit anxious over the “what now?” thing, though a few lingering ‘twinges’ in my chest caused (and still cause) me no end of worry – the doctors, Brundy Brjuoselssen and Kristian Annndeeersenn, said this was normal.
Pippa joined my on Sunday for an emotional reunion and an opportunity to translate what the doctors had been telling me, to which I politely smiled and nodded my head while understanding NOTHING. I have learned to appreciate her ability and dedication to arranging and planning, and apologize profusely that it took me 24 years, 7 months, 15 days to do so.
Hey Pippa, isn’t it great to laugh at that?!?! Right? I mean it’s funny, get it, cause we’ve been married exactly that long! You are laughing, aren’t you?
As I said, what an asshole.
Well, I’ve been released, Pippa and I had a couple of days to recoup in town and be true accidental tourists. To enjoy things under the circumstances, we needed money and so had to make it to the Hankki Banki to exchange funds.
While Reykjavik is not a large city, it can be a bit confusing, especially in the driving snow and slushy streets about which we were to experience. We did get to the bank, got Krona, and then attempted to go to a local museum. As we were crossing a street, the wrong street as it turned out as we were all turned around, I put my right foot into the road only to discover the road was a 12 inch slush-filled pothole. I immediately took my foot out and then before I could warn Pippa she’d put her left foot in the same puddle and then immediately pulled it out. We then reversed course, got a cab, and found the museum in question.
You might say we did the Hankki Banki and we turned ourselves about.
She’s just left and I’ll leave tomorrow.
What have I learned from all this? Believe it or not, I’m taking good/bad/ unknowns. The bad is, of course, that my heart disease got worse and, Christ, we all know where that can end. This is largely out of my hands and so we can only do what we can do and so is also in the unknown category. Also, unknown, is what changes in treatment I’ll get and whether they’ll work, and how better to monitor.
The good is that, well, I survived this one and won’t screw around on the slightest hints if/when it happens again. The good is that my company has been outrageously supportive – everyone. The good is that everyone has had me as long as they have and get me a while longer. The good is that I got a few days off work and some sympathy just ahead of bonus time!!!!
Another good comes from songs – Joni Mitchell, “you don’t know what you lost til it’s gone” or J. Geils “you never see love coming baby, you sure as hell know when it’s gone”. Well, believe me, I know what it felt to lose it and know full well what I got.
And so ends phase 1 of my saga.