"THEM" would be that ragamuffin pack of mangy, flea-bitten hound dogs and lazy good-for-nothing cats that
take up space at Willow Oak, my 16-acre farm, which is situated just outside of Corinth, in rural Alcorn
County, Mississippi. Oh, they are not really mangy and flea-bitten, but the lazy part certainly applies to them
all -- the "good-for-nothing" part also. In addition to that the hoard of animals take up a lot of my time and
cost me a nice chunk of change. I spend most of my time each day cleaning and washing and mopping and
feeding and watering and breaking up fights, and when I think about what I could be doing with all that extra
time ...
And when I think about what I could buy for myself with all the money that I spend on dog food and cat food
and vet bills and flea and tick medication and Bonnie's seizure medication and cat litter and Ivomec and ...,
well, I dropped a nice wad of dough on a fence for the dogs; I dropped another wad of dough on dog
kennels so the dogs have a safe place while I am gone from home. The dogs all require their attention; the
cats require theirs. I cannot sit and enjoy some leisure time in front of the television without having to
referee a fight between and among various of the dogs and cats, all vying for a front-row seat in my lap or
on my shoulders. Those dogs and cats!
Well it all nearly came to an end on June 23, 2008. On that day I suffered a nearly fatal heart attack. I know, I
know: from looking at my photos I look like I'm in my 20's or 30's at most, but believe it or not (and I know it's
hard to believe), I am at the time of this writing past 50 years of age!
My boss had talked me into doing the "over 50" medical checkups, so I had been going to the doctor,
getting poked and prodded and having needles stuck in me and X-rays and all those nice things. I had
been diagnosed with high blood pressure, so I was on medication for that. Sometime along the way my
back began to bother me a little bit. I complained to the doctor and he agreed with me that it was probably
just muscle spasms, but let's use this as an excuse to do a heart stress test. He said that the insurance
company might not pay for it (it's expensive), without some indication of heart problems, and back spasms
could be interpreted as chest pain: that was his excuse, anyway.
I was required to fast for 24 hours prior to having the procedure and arrive at the hospital no later than 8:00
am. On the morning of the appointed day I bemoaned the fact that I couldn't have my usual cup of coffee. I
grew up in South Louisiana and was bottle-fed Community Coffee, so to deprive me of coffee is worse than
depriving me of air. I commute to Memphis, Tennessee, each day to work, and since I see a doctor there I
scheduled the procedure for a hospital in Memphis, so I had a good hour-and-a-half drive to the hospital.
Nevertheless, I arrived at the hospital in timely fashion.
St. Francis hospital in Memphis enjoys a stellar reputation around the country for their first-class heart
clinic. St. Francis has won numerous awards and on the day I had my procedure they had a chance to
demonstrate their expertise. Upon my arrival I promptly checked in, and as is always the case when you
visit the hospital, the first thing they did was to check my blood pressure. The second thing they always do
when you visit the hospital is stick you with a needle. This they did and within a very short period of time I
found myself prepped for the test, wires out the wazoo and on a treadmill, where I went right to work. And
almost immediately I began to feel funny, and within less than a minute -- BANG! The attendant technicians
grabbed me forthwith and threw me on to a gurney, and I don't recall a whole lot after that.
My recollection of events of that day are sketchy, but I do recall being thrown on to the gurney, and as I was
being wheeled down a hallway, one nurse was ripping my clothes off of me, while another nurse began
cramming pills down my throat and yet another nurse thrust more needles into me; and there was a doctor
running along side who kept yelling at me that he might have to "crack" my chest open.
It turned out that I had major blockage in one of the arteries of my heart -- 99% occlusion of the LAD (Left
Anterior Descending). The particular artery in question has one of those ominous nicknames: "the widow
maker." Doctors said that I had been within mere moments of being dead. They said that had I not been
where I was when I was it is most likely that I would have been dead that day. It turns out that I had the
same condition that killed Tim Russert, the only difference between us being that I was already at the
hospital, surrounded by heart specialists and a within a few feet of an operating room, and Tim Russert
wasn't. I am alive and he is dead.
I endured the medical procedure (I wouldn't really call it surgery), and after it was over and just before I was
discharged from the hospital, I made a visit to the heart-wing and the cardiac center to see those lovely
nurses and that wonderful doctor. They were all excited to see me. They appreciate it when one of their
patients returns for a visit -- especially after scaring them the way I did. Needless to say they saved my life.
Everybody there immediately started asking me about my animals. I had no idea what they were talking
about, but to a person they said that during the entire ordeal, while they were shoving pills down my throat
and stabbing me with needles and pumping me for vital information -- allergies; telephone numbers;
next-of-kin; etc. -- the only thing I would talk about was my animals. They said they had a difficult time
getting me prepped surgery; they said that I insisted that they call a friend of mine and make arrangements
for my animals and to inform me that my animals were okay. Bonnie would need to be boarded at the vet
since she takes phenobarbital twice a day. The other animals would have to be fed and watered, and above
all, if I did not make it, someone would have to make arrangements for them. The people in the hospital told
me that I would not let them operate or do anything until my orders were carried out. In the end there was
nothing else but for them to do what they had to do.
I got through the surgery okay, and subsequent tests indicated that there was no serious, discernable
damage to my heart. I was lucky. The surgeon who performed the procedure said that my case is one in a
billion -- like winning the power ball lottery, only the payoff was my life.
I was one of the lucky ones. I got to go home, and do so in one piece. Most who experience what I did find
themelves in a vegetative state after the experience -- I was back to work one week later.
I had left for the hospital on Monday morning and returned home on Wednesday evening -- three whole
days. And when I arrived home and saw all my crew, and they saw me ..., well, there was some great
reunion, with lots of hugging and kissing and barking and purring and meowing and tail wagging ...
..., and a couple days of mopping and sweeping and litter-box changing and fighting and refereeing and ...
I knew my heart was okay then.
| My heart belongs to them. |
| Pinky |
| Cathy |
| Fred |
| BKII |
| Lu Lu |
| Clyde |
| Pete |
| Taz |
| Willie |
| Princess |
| Cleopatra |
| Oscar |
| Buddy |
| BKI |
| Scamp |
| Smokey |
| Tiger |
| Grace |
| Prince |
| Thumper |
| Bonnie |
| Boots |
| Cougar |
| Sam |
| My Heart Belongs to Them Daniel Taylor |