It all started when I wrecked my bike...

So, about 5 or 6 years ago, when I was gung ho about cycling (not "riding bikes"), I was out riding the Interurban Trail, towing Laura behind me in a Burley. Joe and Cheryl were along. We went out about 5 miles and then turned around and headed back and decided to stop and rest and have some water, etc. I glided up, feathered the brakes, and ever-so-gently came to a stop. And then, realized my cleats were still stuck to the pedals because I had forgotten to click out at which time I panicked and instead of either a) clicking out and leaning over or b) PEDALING, I just fell over.

If there's a feeling sicker than that just before you hit the pavement because you forgot to click out of your pedals, I don't know what it would be. If you cycle, you know exactly what I'm talking about. If you don't, just trust me. It's the inevitability of the pavement meeting parts of one's body mixed together with the thought of "wow, I could have avoided this pain I'm about to feel if only I weren't a complete idiot" added to "sure are a lot of people around who are going to see this embarrassing spectacle". It's all bad is what I'm saying.

So, I hit the pavement. Hard. I also took a handlebar to the gut. Hard. Hard enough that the handlebar was all bent up and pretty much unusable in its newly current state. Laura, back in the Burly, was fine because the makers of the Burley are very aware that idiots like me exist and designed the burly so that if the cyclist goes Tango Uniform, the Burley remains upright and its passenger is spared the ugliness of being unceremoniously dumped out onto the pavement.

Laura, not knowing the agony I was in, thought it was pretty funny, which, in retrospect, it was, especially to a 3 year old. I, on the other hand, did not think it was funny. Actually, I didn't think about much of anything as I was concentrating on breathing; that handlebar knocked the wind out of me completely. I believe Cheryl and Joe were both concerned for my well-being because the next thing I remember is them asking if I was okay.

Well, I was okay enough at the time. It hurt a lot, but we still had 3-4 miles to go to get back to the cars, so I hauled this way and that on the handlebars to get them bent back into some kind of usable shape, and we headed back, and all was mostly well. Kind of. At the time, I was pretty sure that I had cracked a rib or two, but I didn't go to the doctor because I figured "what's a doctor going to do with cracked ribs anyway? tell me to take it easy and don't do that again?". In any case, I didn't bother with it and it wasn't long and all was well and normal again, and I replaced the handlebars and didn't think about the incident much.

Gross stuff coming; stop reading if you don't like gross stuff. On the other hand, if you are interested in why I would want to write the above stuff, read on.

Flash forward to about a year and half ago where I had this thing on my belly that was weird, but I didn't know what it was. All I knew was it poked out, and I could push it back in, and then later it would poke out again. I just figured it was part of a) being fat, or b) getting older or some combination thereof.

Well, I had this thing for a while, and didn't think much about it until it started hurting when I took my walks or played Dance Dance Revolution (a valuable part of my weight loss plan at the time, which was working, by the way). Still, I didn't really worry about it, although I did slow down, and eventually stop, the walking and DDR. After a while, though, I was starting to be irritated by this thing, and so was my family, and I had also figured out that it was probably a hernia.

So, I went to see Dr. Laura, our family doctor, and asked her about it and she confirmed that I had a hernia. About this time was when everything started the downhill slide, but I did not know it yet. She referred me to a surgeon and he looked at it, and we scheduled a surgery for early December. I angsted about the surgery, but did everything I was supposed to do: a bunch of blood tests, an EKG and show up at the outpatient surgery center early early in the morning. The surgery went pretty well, and I went home and did the recuperating thing, which also went okay. When I was "all better", though, I still had this frickin' pokin' out thing. So, when I went back to the surgeon for my follow-up, he said "Yah, I found exactly what I expected, an umbilical hernia and that's what I repaired. However, this other thing you have is not from that, and I really couldn't just do exploratory surgery while you were out (no consent), so we're going to have to go again."

Now we reach the point where I tie the bike stuff in with the hernia stuff. It turns out that most likely, this 2nd hernia (or the 1st one, from my point of view) got started the day I wrecked my bike and took the handlebar to the gut. To be fair, I do not think that had I rushed to the doctor that day, she would have found this and been able to give me a pill that would spare me future surgery. In any case, if you wear cleats and use clipless pedals, always remember to click a foot out before you stop and you can avoid this whole nightmare.

Back to the first surgery. Right before I went in, the anesthesiologist came to see me and confirm what I was getting done and so forth, and he mentioned in passing that I have a "funky EKG" and did I know anything about it? I, of course, did not know about it, but he didn't seem concerned and we went ahead with the surgery. I did, however, ask Dr. Laura what a "funky EKG" was and she got a copy of it and looked at it and had her husband look at it and concluded that I had Premature Ventricular Compressions (or PVCs), and referred me to a cardiologist to get checked out "Just In Case". As will become clear, this is the first and last "Just In Case" anything I'm doing because it all went sideways from here.

I had my first appointment with the cardiologist, and he ordered up a bunch of tests: another blood test, another EKG, an echocardiogram, a "Nuclear Stress Test" and I had to wear a monitor for 24 hours. I went and did all that stuff, which was a pain, and when it was all done, everything looked good except the results of the something-grams they took as part of the nuclear stress test were "inconclusive".

So, the cardiologist says "you need an angiogram." I had had enough of the testing, and really didn't want an angiogram. My surgery for hernia #2 (or #1, from my point of view) was scheduled for the end of the week and I just wanted to get it over with. Well, except, now I couldn't have my surgery; I was informed that no anesthesiologist would put me under with what was currently dictated into my file. So, I had to cancel the surgery and do an angiogram that day instead.

Let me tell you this: you do not want an angiogram. Not ever. They take a garden hose, and they shove it up into your femoral artery via your groing and use this to get a catheter into your heart so they can put a contrast dye in there and take picutres of your circulatory system. He told me I wouldn't feel anything other than a little pressure. What bullshit that was. In getting into the artery, they hit that big nerve that goes down the inside of my leg not once, not twice, but 3 times, and that utterly sucked.

The funny thing about all this is, about 30 seconds after they started actually taking the pictures he said I was "all clear, everything looked great", at which point I was wondering "Then why in the hell did I need this stupid angiogram in the first place?". He finished up, and they took me back out where I started and the nurses removed the garden hose, and I bled all over everything, and they applied pressure for 10 minutes and then I had to lay flat on my back for 3 hours and then I had to do laps of the recovery room and then they let me go home and I was sore for days. The cardiologist suggested that I could have the angiogram on Thursday and then the surgery on Friday, which in retrospect would have ended up working out logistically, but would have been a very bad idea for other reasons, chief among them that I would have been groin-sore and gut-sore and that would have been to much, I think.

I got my 2nd hernia surgery for the 2nd (1st) hernia a couple weeks later and here I sit, recuperating and healing up, and, truly, all's well that ends well, I guess. I'd just as soon have skipped the whole thing, which I could have done had just remembered that I needed to put a foot down a little bit earlier.

Also, medical care is expensive and I'm way glad I have health insurance. Oh, and the "funky EKG"? Perfectly normal, lots of people have PVCs.