Reflection

We're Dying out here. Does anyone care?

by Karen Emilson

My uncle Wayne was the classic Type-A personality. Driven, enthusiastic, hard-working and funny as hell. He and my aunt Pat were married 45 years and built a family business that made them quite wealthy. At 66, uncle Wayne was set to retire and was ready to do all the things he’d looked forward to. Suddenly, he became sick and died.
I flew back to Ontario for the funeral the weekend after Remembrance Day.


When I stepped out of the car in the funeral home parking lot, I was overwhelmed by an understanding that somehow over the last 26 years, I’d grown up and so had my siblings. Funny thing is, even though I am the eldest, I can’t remember a time in my life that my brother and sisters weren’t there.

A silent understanding passed between us that afternoon. Time is moving along and we will be getting together under circumstances like this more often. We began making plans to take a winter holiday together because that is something we should do while we still can.

The image of Dad standing by his younger brother’s casket, voice breaking as he paid tribute to “the best kid brother a guy could ever have” in front of family and friends, is something that will stay with me forever. As the weekend progressed, I said individual good byes to them all, then got on the plane for home.

At 6:30 the next morning, my 53 year-old husband Mark, had a heart attack.
I knew something was wrong when he didn’t come out of the bathroom right away. When I asked if he was okay and the reply was “No” we both knew he had to go to the hospital. The chest pain was severe.

A real heart attack isn’t anything like what you see on T.V. Images of Fred Sanford from the 1970s television show, Sanford and Son clutching his chest, claiming he was having “the big one” are funny. This was not. I calmly prepared for the possibility that I might have to administer CPR enroute to the hospital.

Our son, Laurie, ignored my protestations from the back seat of the pickup that 130 km per hour was a tad fast. As soon as we were within cell range, a quick call to the hospital let them know we were coming in.

There was an undeniable comfort in seeing two farm women waiting at the entrance when we brought Mark through the emergency room doors. One nurse is a relative; the other is the daughter of our close friends.

They hooked him up, drew blood and gave him a precautionary shot of blood thinners. The tests came back an hour later showing the cardiac enzymes Troponin and Creatine Phosphokinase (CPK) were present in his blood.

While the memories of that morning are mostly a blur, I do remember that things started to move really quickly after that. His pain had not decreased so he was given morphine, a spray of nitroglycerine under the tongue and a nitro patch after that. I stepped outside to call his father, brother and sisters to tell them the not-so-good news.

Another blood test taken an hour later confirmed increasing levels of the cardiac enzymes and within a half hour, we were on our way by ambulance to the St. Boniface Cardiac Care Unit in Winnipeg.

By 5:00 p.m., he was wheeled in for an angiogram. I suspect he was given priority because while his chest pain subsided as the day wore on, it did not completely go away. The surgeons were able to perform an angioplasty on one completely blocked artery and by 7:00 p.m. he was back on the ward recovering.

The warning signs you need to watch for are: chest pain, shortness of breath, nausea, intense sweating and protestations that it’s probably just the flu. Mark had them all. The first four were listed as classic symptoms in the “Heart Attack and Back” booklet they gave us afterwards. The flu part should really be added under a heading: Attention Farm Wives.

I wonder how many farmers have died from heart attacks because they won’t admit they are in pain? Or put off going to see the doctor because there were chores to do?
I made it clear to Mark from the outset that no matter how good he felt later that afternoon, there was no bloody way I was taking him home. A lot of people will have chest pain one day that subsides, then the major heart attack comes the following morning. Fifty percent of people die before they make it to the hospital.

Women: Make your husband stop reading now to improve your chances of getting him to the hospital if needed.

Men: Always listen to your wife.

The next afternoon, beyond Mark’s curtained-off area, I overheard the dietician’s recommendations to the 60+, overweight man in the bed next to us, that adopting a vegetarian lifestyle would prolong his life. They left out that part of the lecture when they gave it to us, probably because the fact Mark is a cattle rancher was written down in his file.

Reflecting back on it, she probably believed too much beef is the root of his problem. And in some ways it is.

I’d been to the hospital cafeteria the night before and could only find two things I considered healthy enough to eat. A made-while-you-watch chicken salad and an apple. As I stood in line to pay, I thought of all the money coming out of cattle producers pockets to ensure “food safety,” in particular with respect to BSE. It is comically absurd that the hospital cafeteria sells Rice Krispies, Froot Loops, chocolate chip muffins, cinnamon buns, pop, potato chips, french fries - highly processed foods laden with preservatives, sugar or fat and chemicals. And the dietician was telling the cardiac cases upstairs to limit real food like beef?

I cut the dietician’s presentation short. No man I know eats more fruits, vegetables, low fat dairy products and whole grains than Mark. Except maybe his 80 year-old Dad. Although I do admit he ate too much dessert. Not anymore.

The bottom line? Take away the last five years of stress and he was one of the strongest, fittest, healthier people in the room. What I really wanted to know is how to help him reduce stress.

A quick glance in his direction and the physiotherapist ruled out any chance he’d do Yoga or Meditate. There were no other suggestions except to take time off from work and to rest. More vacation time. Learn how to stop worrying.

The physiotherapist recommended he limit his activity to a slow, 15 minute walk each day and that he was not allowed to push or lift anything more than five pounds for the first week. Gradually over the next month, he can work up to a weight of 15 pounds. She recommended we hire someone to do his chores for the next six weeks. Oh yes, and his driver’s license is suspended for a month so he can’t run errands.

By then he was sitting up, with his head in his hands, staring at the floor. I knew exactly what he was thinking (and so do you) but she didn’t have a clue.

I reminded her that his problem is stress related and that those recommendations meant he would probably have another blocked artery by the time we got to the elevator.

They loaded him down with $250 a month in pills (that they recommend he take for the rest of his life), a bottle of nitro spray and sent him back to the Ashern hospital for another night.

We arrived at the farm the next afternoon to find that between our son and the neighbours, that the chores were done and everything was in quiet order.
I was thankful, but not surprised. And that’s because cattle people are family. We lead separate lives, do our own thing, don’t always agree but there is a common understanding that bonds us together through good times and bad.

Unfortunately, the lifestyle we are all fighting so hard to protect might be slowly killing the people we love. And just like my uncle Wayne, there are hardworking men and women who are shouldering the cattle industry right now, that won’t live long enough to enjoy their retirements.

Stress is quietly killing us. And that is something all the broccoli in the world just isn’t going to fix.