A Living Magazine - Grounded in Maine - Day 39 - Your Drug is a Heartbreaker

I felt great when I woke up. I was finally going to be moving onto the next town. There was nothing I enjoyed more than a simple walk between two towns. It was always filled with new sights. Even though I'd traveled Route 1 by car so many times in the past, I knew I would see things I'd never seen before. That is the way wallking works. It was about 7:30 am when I packed up and walked over to McDonald's to buy a coffee... 

A look back at the outside of my sleep spot.

McDonald's was busiest at this time of day. As with most towns I'd visited, I found the retired regulars sipping their senior discount coffees and reminiscing about days gone by. I worked until about 3:00 pm there, publishing a post, and then headed out onto Route 1... 

The same laughing gull I'd seen a couple days before.

The road was like a river, and I was a canoe. I simply cast off from the shore of the McDonald's parking lot and foot paddled again the traffic current, up stream. This part of Route 1 had either small or nonexistent road shoulders--a little unusual for Maine. It made the figurative "riverside" more like a ditch. And for the first mile or so, the real ditch was what I tried not to slip into...  

Not very far up the road I approached a sign for the Whaleback Shell Midden...

I'd had no idea that this site was even here, though I vaguely remembered that an old girlfriend (who was an archaeologist) had mentioned it. I did know what a shell midden was. Shell middens (midden means "dump") are piles of shells discarded by prehistoric people. These particular mounds, covering 11 acres, were begun around 200 B.C.E. and accumulated until about 1000 C.E.; meaning that they were well over a thousand years old! I'd passed by this site in my car many years ago, but never noticed the sign before. This day was a great chance to visit and give you all a view of the place. I thought it quite appropriate that a Modern Nomad could walk around an area once used by ancient nomads...   

Outbuilding on the grounds of the information center.

The wide and well-kept path led across a pretty field and into an old apple orchard...

There was a turn off to the left leading to a few picnic tables, one of which was occupied by a young couple who were far more interested in deep kissing than viewing of the middens on the other side of the river...

That is a lot of shells!

I turned and left the lovers in peace, heading back to the main trail, where I found observation decks periodically located along it, giving information...

I had yet to see any of the actual shells. So, I kept walking deeper into the woods until I caught sight of a handwritten sign that said, "Shells" with an arrow. Well, you couldn't be more direct than that!

I followed the arrow down another path that led directly to a small cliff overlooking the estuary. It was built entirely of shells, with trees having subsequently grown up through them...

I reached down and picked up one of the oyster half shells. It was amazing to think that at least ten centuries had gone by since it had been discarded there...

A thousand-plus year old oyster shell.

I really wanted to find an ancient tool or some bones, but was pretty sure the place had been well picked over for such things. At the edge of the cliff, I noticed a small foot path that led right down to the beach along the shore of the river. I took it...

A complex system of roots secured this pine tree to the shell mound.

Brick from a later age.

Seaside goldenrod.

I liked this place and found it interesting, but I wanted to get to Waldoboro before sunset. I put the camera back in my pocket to leave my hands free for grasping branches as I climbed back up onto the cliff. That's when I felt a dull ache in my chest, slightly to the left of my sternum. Standing up at the top of the embankment and resting allowed this discomfort to pass. I took more pictures as I followed the same path back toward the orchard and field... 

I couldn't resist picking a few apples for my trip. There were several unclassified varieties, being just barely descended from so called "crab apples"...

These apples were juicy, tart, sweet and not too gritty. They would have made fine apple cider back in "the day." And that is exactly what they would have been used for. Apples were not as often used for eating until about one hundred years ago when certain larger and sweeter varieties were chosen as table fruit. Until that time, apples were primarily used to ferment into hard cider which could then be distilled into ethanol, or the mash was allowed to oxygenate and become vinegar. Both alcohol and vinegar were important for preserving food in the days before refrigeration. Only secondarily was apple-based alcohol imbibed. 

For a very interesting and surprisingly informative book about the history of apples (also tulips, cannabis and potatoes--as examples of four plants that "used" human beings perhaps even more effectively than did human beings use them), I would suggest The Botany of Desire: A Plant's Eye View of the World, by Michael Pollan.

I noticed that the milkweed pods were maturing and would split open soon...

On the way out I found the Visitor Journal and left a business card...

I also wrote...

Passing by here, I noticed this place and decided to have a look. I am a photojournalist traveling by foot. Check out my blog: IWALLK.blogspot.com, "A Living Magazine - Grounded in Maine."

Then I hit the road again. Walking briskly, I noticed that there was a lot of land for sale, both residential and commercial...

I also noticed that whenever I was walking uphill the same pain that I'd felt back at the middens would fade in. It was as though I'd swallowed a sharp bone and it had lodged in my chest sideways. When I'd start down the other sides of these hills the pain would fade away again.

This was not completely unusual. From time to time in the last year or so, I'd experienced this same sort of discomfort. Sometimes it was very minor and sometimes it would be more significant, coming and going over several days. New Orleans, Louisiana, and then Elkton, Maryland (for example) stick out in my mind. There were other hints that my heart was not altogether happy about being strained during various periods of the Homecoming Journey. I also felt a similar sensation occasionally when I would get emotionally distressed.

These past episodes were what I considered to be angina pectoris. Sometimes it was mild and sometimes a bit more pronounced. Yet, it certainly was nothing to be concerned about. I had a stent in my heart as a result of a 2006 heart attack...

A video of the actual procedure.

From an oft-repeated and well-examined hindsight, I had regretted not demanding a simple angioplasty at that time. I came to bitterly resent the fact that I was forced to receive a permanent stent. I did not have heart disease until the stent was inserted. Since then, I'd had a ticking time bomb - a rumbling volcano - that was sure to erupt at some point. The statistical amount of time before clogging was about ten years... This was the tenth year.

But on this day, I paid little attention to any of that. Over the last ten years I conquered my PTSD and anxiety about this heart issue and had remained all the happier to just ignore it. It just hadn't been a big problem. Obsessing on it used to give me anxiety attacks and I suffered for months after that heart attack with nightmares that I was having other heart attacks, only to wake and realize they were only bad dreams. Every bit of heart burn, every cramp, every ache seemed like another heart attack until I wrested the horns of the psychological beast and simply accepted that I was doing okay. I comforted myself by acknowledging that most of the time these "symptoms" were nothing more than my overactive imagination.

All the while, I knew that "modern medicine" had given me a drug in the form of this stent technology. This drug was a temporary fix, usually given to older folks. I was only 38 years old when they forced this drug into my right coronary artery. At the time I was as naive as most Americans, and simply accepted this stent-drug and the wisdom of an industry that I have since learned is over-respected, overpaid, and under scrutinized. Now - with a vastly more informed view, and having recently learned that the third leading cause of death in America is by medical error (an intolerable statistic that should give everyone pause before blindly doing everything their doctor tells the to do) - I was dead set against the idea of having another stent.

I'd known for years that the first one was likely to clog and the only answer to that would be to have a second one inserted within the first. That would make the situation even more precarious.

I really didn't feel bad at all as I trekked up hills with the fleeting pain, then back down again with the returning relief. It was what it was...for now...

Almost there.

The smallest cemetery in Maine.

As I walked along, I saw something in the grass ahead. It was a rimmed hiking hat--a nice one. I snagged it, intending to wash it as soon as I could. Right across the street was more land for sale, protected by a wooden black bear... 

It was easy to tell we were on the cusp of September.

The tip of Pemaquid Pond.

mm

The Wayside Tea Room House.

In researching this I discovered that the front porch and windows shown above

were actually fully repaired from damage due to a car crashing into

the building on May 9 of this year before I walked by.

Finally, I reached good ole' Waldoboro...

I drew nearer the large hill that runs down to the Medomak River, where I planned to find a sleep spot, and Moody's Diner, where I had agreed to meet Melinda for her annual trip there the next day. There was an old fashioned gospel tent, sponsored by the Waldoboro Word of Life Church...

The silhouette of "Just Tim" Connelly.

The place was packed.

Right after I passed the gospel tent a glint of gold caught my eye just up ahead. It was a 1988 Honda Accord in spectacular condition. One hundred eleven thousand miles, mint interior and brand new sticker, for $1,800 O.B.R.O. I'll tell you right now, if I'd had $1,300 I would have offered it then and there. This car was beauty. Almost made me want to give up on wallking for a while. Even now, I would consider buying the car if I had the funds. I love 1980's Hondas...

After my daydreaming walk around the Honda, kicking the tires and checking it out, I turned back to the highway. I couldn't see what was at the bottom of the hill very clearly, but was pretty sure it was the Dunkin Donuts I'd planned to work at the next day before meeting Melinda. Just to make sure, I took a picture and zoomed it up...

There was also some green at the bottom of the hill. For some reason, even leisurely walking down this long hill, the chest pain came and went more frequently. I thought that was odd, but I wasn't worried. The aching went away by the time I reached the bottom of the hill. The sun had gone down and darkness was coming up quickly upon the horizon. I stopped into Hannaford and bought a sandwich and a beer for the sleep spot. While I shopped, the pain was absent. I felt tired, but satisfied with how much distance I'd traveled.

The Grounded in Maine Journey was proceeding quit nicely now. The calendar was set, as was the itinerary. I had enough money to live for the next two days and planned to ask for donations the next day after publishing my post. I was catching up. The next major visit was Camden to see my friend Wade. I was happy to have two or three towns to explore beforehand along the way. There should have been plenty of pictures and maybe some great Mid Coast Maine characters to meet. Life was pretty good!

My confidence at being able to find sleep spots was at an all time high. I knew I'd find something. Across the street from Hannaford was the edge of a bridge that appeared to have a slight embankment down into the woods running along the river. I didn't even hide my Hannaford grocery bag as I whistled all the road, easily finding a good place to side step down the hill and into the trees.

In the woods I found a rather ideal area. There were no tangled up trees or bushes. Unfortunately, the ground beneath what looked like a smooth layer of pine needles was in fact very bumpy with years of fallen branches. Even more problematic were the surface level roots.

I cased the place, trying three of four times to excavate a good spot. I only needed about a minimum of 28 square feet. But I couldn't seem to get even that much. It was frustrating me. With all of my experience, I assumed I could quickly find one little patch where I wouldn't have to curl up around the roots of trees under my tent. And, eventually, I did find something, albeit a very tight, but relatively smooth area where I set up the tent... 

Having now settled that little problem as best I could, I placed the backpack in the tent, simply relaxed and paced around the area, thinking. I'd downloaded a Terence McKenna podcast from the Psychedelic Salon and was really looking forward to listening to it before I fell asleep that night. I was in a great mood. Even the mosquitoes weren't getting to me, though they were certainly trying. I ate my sandwich and slowly drank my beer until both were gone.

When it was really dark I climbed into the tent and, pulled out the sleeping bag to lie on, with the computer tablet propped up against the tent wall. I used the air lantern that Melinda had returned to me the day before to see what I was doing as I stuffed a few extra items into my tarp bag, then inserted that into the hood of the sleeping bag as a pillow.

When I was sufficiently comfortable, I pressed play on the tablet and began listening to my podcast. I lay on my left side for the first half hour or so and then, feeling like perhaps I had a bit of heart burn, turned over onto my right side. Terence's talk was very good as usual, but I found myself distracted by the pain, which was now more resembling the uphill pain that had been hitting me earlier in the day. This time though, it wasn't going away.

I turned back over to my right side. This was not a stomach ache. It was too high in the chest. I felt a drop of sweat form on my forehead. I couldn't tell if it was because I was hot, having heart problems, or simply worried about having heart problems. Each explanation would have been just as valid.

I began to get worried, and sat up. This didn't help much. I could hear Terence talking in the background, but I sudden didn't care what he was saying. Something was wrong. As I sat there I pounded my fist against my chest trying to free up whatever was going on. This didn't work.

Both of my arms began to ache, as if I'd tried to lift too much weight earlier in the day and strained them. It was obviously related to the chest pain. I was at the beginning of a heart attack...and I knew it. But, this didn't feel like the first heart attack. The attack in 2006 felt like pressure more than pain, and almost had a kind of itch to it. I'd told people after coming home from the hospital that year that I wasn't all that worried about dying from a heart attack, now that I supposedly knew it wasn't really that painful. 

This 2016 situation made me feel foolish about the above underestimation. I began to realize just what other victims of the situation were talking about. The pain was unrelenting. It surged from my right arm, up through my chest and down into my other arm. Then, both arms would hurt badly but the chest wouldn't. Then, all three areas would ache intensely, with the pain reaching up under my jaws. Shit! Shit! Shit!! This can't be happening right now, I thought. It was way too inconvenient!

The road above was quiet except for the occasional red neck peeling out in the distance. I looked down Route 1 and saw the red digital gas price numbers at the Dunkin Donuts, which was also a gas station. Then, I turned and looked north up at the Citgo/Big Apple, just beyond Deb's Diner. It looked closer than Dunkin Donuts and probably would become busy. My mind was racing.

It's really strange what happens to me when I know I'm in mortal danger. During the first heart attack, I drove myself from Gorham to Brighton Medical Center's FirstCare Clinic in Portland; for sure a stupid decision. Well, maybe it wasn't that stupid, since the ambulance ride to Maine Medical Center from Brighton - some three miles - cost $800! And, as we know, one must be continuously conscious of the financial cost of almost dying. Truly, trying not to spend too much as your consciousness fades away from lack of oxygen should be a priority higher up the list than one's own peace of mind.

The mind reverts to childhood reassurance as best it can anyhow. In 2006 it was nursery rhymes that filled my head. It was my mind trying to calm my self. Even Buddy, my late cat, had purred loudly on the night he lost his leg. There is something in the mammalian experience that demands very serious situations be tempered with light thoughts or humor. It isn't much of a pain killer, but sometime it's really all we have.

On this night though, it was hard rock that came to mind. I'd heard the Weezer song "Say it Aint So" earlier in the day, and though it had been in the back of my mind, it quickly moved to the front, especially the lines of the chorus...

Say it aint so!
Your drug is a heartbreaker
Say it aint so!
My love is a life taker

Now it looped loudly booming in from my now-highly irritable mind. Yeah, that was more like how I felt this time around. Fucking angry! The stent was their drug--a fucking heartbreaker. I was given no other options even though there were other options. They held me down, sedated me and had their way with me. 

Stents are more expensive (and bring a bigger payoff to the medical industry) than angioplasty. Angioplasty being a more tame procedure which clears the artery but leaves no foreign and permanent object there - like a stent - something embedded in the center of a person's very being...yes, the center...the heart! 

I was marred, scarred, cheapened and used to make someone some money. My life was casually and blithely shortened by the judgement of someone who didn't know me, assumed I was as ignorant as all the other sheep waiting in line at the "cath lab" to be "processed." No one tried to inform me of my other options. They were willing to throw my right to self determination away in order to keep the system chugging along. 

These negative and angry thoughts, combined with the absolute and chilling realization that now I had no choice at all about my treatment. I knew the stent had finally failed. And the only way to treat that was to insert another goddamn stent...another heartbreaker. "FUCK!" I yelled out loud to the empty woods and vacant road above. My ten years was up at the most inopportune time. I clicked off the tablet and opened the tent door for better airflow. What the fuck am I going to do? I kept repeating in my mind. 

Then the extreme alternatives began to cross my mind. I might succumb to full heart failure if enough of the muscle surrounding the right coronary artery were injured by a lack of oxygen caused by this blockage. If I waited there too long...or...maybe...long enough, I would definitely die. But what was too long? And, what would be so bad about dying at this time? 

Honestly, my dear readers, if I had known that other people were aware of exactly where I was camping, I might have considered doing nothing at all and simply letting nature take its course. 

My life had been a stormy sea of disappointment and personal failure up to the time I left Maine in October of 2014. I'd finally done something with all of this wallking to raise awareness about the issues of which I cared the most. I'd gotten to have my say and was actually be listened to. I was doing what I loved to do--finally found a job I didn't hate. 

As I have mentioned many times now in this Living Magazine, to die in the service of my friends (even if that service was only some weird form of entertainment at this point), would have probably catapulted me into the fame I longed for but had never been able to reach while alive. It was - I thought - an acceptable alternative. Even now, I am not completely convinced that I made the right decision.

That dramatic exit didn't sound so bad, especially as I had come home from the last Journey to no new prospects and into about a month of starvation. Trying to live like a "normal" human being didn't work for me any more. I made no money when I wasn't traveling. Ironically, I write this very post from the same exact standpoint. But, I digress...

As far as I knew, my future was just as uncertain and useless as my past had been--maybe more so. No one depended on me. I had no wife to grieve over me, no kids who would grow up without a father. My parents were mostly dis-attached from my life, basically and blissfully doing their own things. Only my sister, niece, nephew and a few close friends would be upset. But that would pass. 

Other than that, the huge body of writing I'd left from these last two years could become a martyr's final declaration, utter proof that separation from the broken societal games of conventionality was something worth giving one's life for.  

At the same time, it nagged me that no one had a clue where I was, nor did most people really give a shit. My blog was just a strange novelty; a bizarre but passing interest. Yes, perhaps a righteous death would have created a legend, but a lot of time would go by first. I didn't like that.

Besides Melinda, no one would even think to check in on me. Hell, I'd once gone through 100 miles of wilderness in Virginia during the last Journey, out of contact for five long days, and only one person was concerned. 

It was after that Virginia-neglect that I realized the cold truth: Ultimately, with all this crazy shit I was doing, I was still, as ever...alone. That was the risk I'd taken over 8,000 miles of travel. 

Even if Melinda would have been concerned the next day not hearing from me in the morning, she probably would have still gone to Moody's to meet me. I wouldn't have shown up. But then what? What would she do? 

Perhaps she would go back to Boothbay Harbor and start contacting people I know to see if anyone had heard from me. A few days, maybe a whole week, would pass before the police or rescuers would be contacted. Then once people finally got serious about trying to find me they'd have ten miles of highway to search between Damariscotta and Waldoboro. I could have decided to camp anywhere along that stretch. I could have left at any time of day. I could have decided to take a different route. No one knows a goddamn thing about what I do. At some point they would probably assume I made it to Waldoboro. If they had access to my PayPal account they could have saved time by looking at my debit card transactions, which would have shown the purchase of a sandwich and beer at the Waldoboro Hannaford. Blah, blah, blah... I thought about it all.

Only people who truly know the pattern I use to find a sleep spot would be helpful in such a circumstance. And, very frankly, I don't think folks really pay attention to such things. Yes, it would have taken a long time. I didn't want that. I could imagine some hunter in the middle of November down by the river, catching a glimpse of my tent, mildewed and slightly torn--the smell of death wafting over the forest floor. 

The pain in my body, the anger about why it was happening again, the frustration about not even being able to die conveniently, the knowledge of exactly what I would go through if I found a way to call an ambulance... It all exacerbated and catalyzed itself into a kind of hell I'd never experienced before. Yes, I have been to hell many times, mind you. This was a deeper, darker, more stifling level.

I found myself standing up and walking around blindly in the dark, looking for the path up the embankment to the road. Do I leave my stuff? Do I pack up now? What is the best course of action? I know this all sounds rather stupid to most people. It should be a no-brainer that in this situation you put your health ahead of all other concerns. Perhaps, that I was so tentative, so hesitant, so cautious, shows just how different I am? More likely, maybe it shows what I am willing to endure to stay consistent and not feel like a hypocrite for myself. Most likely, though, I was losing oxygenated blood to my brain and wasn't thinking clearly.

Somehow, I tripped and stumbled up onto the roadside. There were no cars in either direction. I checked my watch. It was just after midnight. It should have been a simple thing. I would walk to Big Apple and have the guy working there call an ambulance. But nothing is simple when I am lost in overthinking everything. Compromise: I would try to kick this thing by buying aspirin first.

My shirt was soaked with sweat and I felt like my chest had a wooden stake sticking out of it as I walked into to Irving. I did my best to appear "normal," and the guy cleaning the coffee area tried to play along. I looked through the travel sizes of the dozens of medications in front of the counter, pawing at them like a clumsy dog, locating the Bayer Buffered Aspirin. It had two packages with two 325 mg tablets in each. I hate regular aspirin. It makes my stomach ache. I would have preferred enteric aspirin. But the point was to relieve the heart--fuck the stomach. This dosage was certainly enough to do something, if it was going to do something.

The young man was very friendly and tried to joke around, but all I could give him back was an uncomfortable smile, while wiping my sweaty brow on my t-shirt sleeve. I asked if he had a restroom. He said he did but someone was in there... Fine. 

I waited, and waited, and waited... Then there was a click and some leather clad biker dude walked out of the restroom and past me, trying not to stare. I was really hurting now. The pressure in my chest made it seem as though my heart were not being allowed to pump normally, but rather, was forcing blood into the already tightening arteries at my sides not quite making it into my arms. My neck was bulging. My face was red. I looked into my own eyes in the mirror and wondered, just for a moment, if anyone at all was really home in that head of mine.

Just then I had the strangest image or vision fill my mind's eye. It was a memory from when I was just a little boy. In this memory I had just gone out into the front yard on a beautiful summer day. I suddenly recalled my exact thoughts back in that youthful moment. They were, "Wow! I have a whole future ahead of me!" 

Then I blinked in the florescent lighting of this gas station restroom and looked down at my shaking fingers. I popped two pills into my mouth and threw the empty foil packet from the aspirin into the trash. Turning on the cold water, I stuck my face under the faucet and drank as much as I could, then shut off the water and walked out and into the store. I knew if the aspirin was going to help it would take a few excruciating minutes of waiting to notice.

Once outside I dumped myself into the little bench by the door. "God, please...please..." I remember saying out loud, then over again, and over again. I ran my fingers heavily over my face and forehead. It seemed that things were getting a bit better. Or, maybe they just weren't getting worse? A placebo effect? Who cared, as long as I felt better. Fearing that a cop might drive by and become interested about the weirdo with no car sitting outside the gas station, I got up again and shuffled slowly into the shadows next door. There, I slipped through the darkened side yard of Deb's Diner, where I found several picnic tables in the shadows.

I tried lying down on the seat of one of them. Then I got up and tried to lie down on the table itself. Nothing helped. There was no difference. The buzzing sodium halide light in front poured out a seemingly thick, sticky and nauseatingly orange illumination across the parking lot. "Please..." I uttered. Remembering Jesus' pain in the garden of Gethsemane when his human side realized that he was about to be killed, I too said, "Father, if it is possible, will you let this cup pass?"

But, the Spark said it wasn't possible. Some things are meant to happen no matter how terrible. It is the only way the Universe might keep the correct order of our destinies in play. Again, I considered going back to the guy at the Big Apple and asking him to call an ambulance. I had never felt this level of pain and discomfort. I kept thinking that maybe just for a few moments it might let up...give me a breather.

And, then it loosened just slightly. It was just enough to lull me into thinking it would be okay to go back to my tent. Maybe I could fall asleep and then wake up in the morning and discover this heart issue had worked itself out. And, if I didn't wake up in the morning? So be it.

On the way back to the edge of the woods, the pulsing ache returned, moving from arm to arm through the conduit of my chest and through my jaw like a bristling razor wire being pulled under my skin from side to side. It burned and cut. Blood swelled like the magma bubbling up from the hidden volcano below. 

Unbelievably - as I see it now - I still thought it might be driven off with sleep or finding a good position to lie down. The time was about 2:30 am when I crawled back into the tent and lay down. Sleep was but a fantasy from another lifetime. That sleep even existed in the world at that point was now only accepted by my mind as an unconfirmed rumor.

Things were going to get much worse before they got better...  

Waldoboro Non-Sleep Spot

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To see a narrated video version of this post click here...

For an mp3 audio file of this post, open this link and then right click and save...

Grounded in Maine - Day 39