Part 2 -- tThe Wake-Up Call

 

Part 2 — The Wake‑Up Call

If the surgery itself was the shock, what came next was the wake‑up call.

My three daughters from South Dakota drove down the moment Barbara texted them that I was headed into emergency surgery. They didn’t hesitate. They just got in the car and came. Seeing them walk into that hospital room — tired, worried, but there — told me more about the seriousness of the situation than any medical chart could have.

I stayed overnight for close monitoring. Early Saturday morning, before they would even consider releasing me, the team performed an ultrasound to make sure no other clots were lurking. Only after that did they send me home with a prescription for Xarelto, the anticoagulant that would become part of my daily routine.

We drove the twenty miles back to Aurora, thinking the worst was behind us. But by Saturday night, I still couldn’t sleep. The dry, hacking cough that had been my constant companion for months was still there, relentless. After midnight, exhausted and frustrated, Barbara and I drove back to the Grand Island emergency room.

The ER doctor listened to my lungs, reviewed my chart, and then said something that changed everything: a persistent, dry cough is a well‑known side effect of lisinopril — the blood‑pressure medication I’d been taking for years. The only major change? My dosage had been increased the previous May. Nothing else had explained the cough. But this did.

And he was right. Once I stopped taking lisinopril, the cough began to ease. Within two to three weeks, it was gone completely.

Meanwhile, I was learning the new rules of life on Xarelto. The protocol was straightforward: 15 mg twice a day for 15 days, then 20 mg once daily. The warnings were less comforting. Slower clotting. Longer bleeding. More bruising. The suggestion to switch to an electric shaver. It all sounded like a simple fender‑bender could turn into a catastrophe.

I bought the electric shaver. I read the warnings. And then, after a few days of letting the fear settle, I reminded myself of something important: I don’t use power tools. I don’t make a habit of cutting myself shaving. I’m not exactly a thrill‑seeker. Life on Xarelto required caution, yes — but not panic.

It was the beginning of a new routine, one built not on miles run but on awareness, patience, and the slow rebuilding of trust in my own body.