Rat Poison and the Rug Rat

Bet you didn't know that many heart patients take rat poison. Well, the pharmaceutical name is called Coumadin, or Wayfarin, but basically it is rat poison. When one is taking this drug, it has to be kept within certain parameters. The level of drug in the blood is measured by a simple blood test, a protime, for short. In essence, the test measures how quickly the blood clots. Too fast, and one could develop an embolism, leading to a stroke or heart attack. If the blood coagulates too slowly, there is the danger of internal hemorrhage, especially in the event of a fall. (so now you know, when you give rat poison to a rat, you're basically causing it to bleed to death. Which doesn't bother ME, having no affinity for rats, but, that is another story)

The docs at Mayo want Loren's protime to be kept between 2 and 2.5 seconds. Today's test was 2.2, which is perfect. When things are steady, the test only has to be done every month or so. When the count is above or below normal, it can be ordered as often as every 3 or 4 days. And if one is unlucky enough to land that particular lab tech who likes to wiggle the needle around AFTER it is in the vein, well, you can imagine why Loren groans at the thought. When he discovered a lab within 25 miles that did a finger prick test, the experience became much less formidable.

Loren has been on Coumadin ever since he was released from the hospital 9 and a half years ago, owing to his constant state of atrial fibrillation. (ineffective pumping in these chambers could cause pooling and possible clotting of blood) When he gets his heart transplant, this anti-coagulant will be discontinued, and all of his current heart medications will be replaced by a new regimen of anti-rejection drugs. But that, too, is another story.

Now, to something completely different. Not long ago, I was outdoors, mowing. Ordinarily, I enjoy mowing, especially if I am not pressed for time, and it is not September when I am just SICK TO DEATH of mowing. But this was a gorgeous day and the newly cut grass was giving off that delicious smell which only it can produce. I noticed two year old Trevor, twenty yards off and standing stock still, carefully watching all that transpired. "Ah, " I thought to myself, "he is watching his Mummy mow the lawn. What a sweet little babe! I love that boy!"

The combination of mother-love and tremendous role-model responsibility swept over me, until I saw that he was holding his nose. Yes, he definitely had his right thumb and forefinger clamped firmly over his nose. The only thing moving was his little neck turning as I went past. "How could this be?" I thought, "My own flesh and blood, casting aspersions upon my mowing technique?" (For you see, to some, mowing is just cutting the grass. But to me, it is a work of art.)

It was not long, however, before I discovered the breeze was from a different direction that day. Trevor didn't think my mowing stank, we were just downwind from the hog lot. And that is good, for now he is back in the will.

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