"Keep That Arm Down...."

   On the first day home--the day after the placing of the pacemaker--I was somewhat subdued, mainly sitting around, resting, and occasionally dropping off to sleep. I sent an e-mail to the recording studio to say that  I thought I could resume recording the following Tuesday; I didn't think I should postpone it any longer than that because I am committed to do a very long book of Yeats's collected poems before we go to England at the end of May.
   The only serious problem was my inadvertent raising of my right arm. The orders had been strict: do not raise your arm so that the elbow is above the shoulder. I have some habitual 'poses' in which I do just that--without thinking. For example, clasping my hands together behind my head when leaning back in a chair and watching television. Even combing my hair or flossing my teeth seems to get the elbow up close to the level of my shoulder. And reaching right-handed for things on high shelves in the kitchen is something one does instinctively. Joan kept me under strict surveillance in this respect, and if that elbow approached my shoulder, a sharp remonstrance was always forthcoming, and rightly so.  The level of the remonstrance was perhaps a bit shrill, but reflected her justifiable concern that my wound would open up and she would have to deal with it. My excuse was--I do these things without thinking. ("Well--THINK")
   Sleeping has been a problem. My favorite side for sleep is my right side. Not possible. I have just had to sleep on my left side and lump it. As I have mentioned before, I cannot sleep on my back--'cannot' in the sense that I just do not fall asleep. So the left side it has been. An experimental turn to the right side this morning produced discomfort immediately.
   Mobility has not been a concern. I have walked several miles over the last few days. Joan has driven me around when we have used the car, with me sitting in the back behind her with the safety belt over my left shoulder. On a couple of trips on the subway, Joan has suggested--and I complied--that I wear the sling on my right arm so that I may be a bit protected from people jostling against me.
   As for "how do you feel?"--the answer is OK most of the time, but occasionally "strange" in an undefined way. And I often brood on the idea that my whole system had been adapted to my heart beating--at least on average--at a much slower pace than the pacemaker is dictating: do the various systems adapt to the new situation, or do they interpret it as something going wrong?
   One thing that clearly is NOT going wrong is the pacemaker itself. I was told to take my blood pressure several times on the first two days at home, and for the first seven readings the pulse rate was exactly sixty beats per minute.
   One disturbing effect, which I must control, is an urge to tell people about it. What is that? Is it pure narcissism? Look how brave I am? I always remember President Johnson exposing his operation scar in the Oval Office or at a press conference, and an acquaintance once insisted on stripping and showing his horrendous scar after open-heart surgery. Why do we do it--boasting, perhaps? My scar seems hardly worth showing anybody--just a thin, red line covered in so-called "steri-strips."
   We need to discuss all the precautions one must take with a pacemaker. This morning I went to the police station to report that one of my bikes had been stolen, and I was faced with a metal detector to go through. And later on in the morning, I was faced with another one at the Post Office. St. Jude Medical has given me a booklet about these things, and that will be the subject of my next pacemaker blog.