The Seventeen-Foot Endless Trek

Most of my mornings are dominated by the trek to the bathroom necessitated by the diuretics I am required to take every damn morning. I take them at 6:30 and, quite dependably, at 7:00 I slog out the first trek. Thirteen feet straight from my desk where I am writing, a sharp turn to the left for four more, to the finale where I am the “Wiz Kid,” streaming more than television.

They are prescribed by my cardiologist, who urges me to comply carefully. As a cooperative patient, I adhere to this schedule religiously. Doing this is my way to care for my heart after a quadruple bypass in 2015 and the insertion of a pacemaker in 2016. A repeat of either is not my idea of fun. There was a reduction in my “ejection fraction,” which measures how well my heart pumps blood. This left me with puffy ankles and lower legs, and what is known as pitting edema, or as I like to call it, “Pitiful looking lower stumps where legs and feet are supposed to be.” So, with one magic ritual, I take care of my heart, legs and feet.

Living with diuretics, one bathroom trip at a time

The damn part of this is that the trek is both short and long. By 7:10, treks are every ten minutes or so. By 8:00, once again quite reliably, they shift to every fifteen minutes, then every half hour by 10:00, and dry up by 11:00 or so. At least eighteen two-way sojourns every day. That is as many as 13,000 one-way treks a year, or about 6,500 round trips. It works out to almost forty miles a year. That’s a lot of love for one’s body.

From river hikes to bathroom treks

Before this heart trouble, two hip replacements, a bout of anemia capped off with Covid and a serious problem with balance, I was an avid hiker. Obsessed with walking along and wading down the middle of a river near my home, every Sunday morning I was out at dawn for several hours. The closest I get to that now is this trek. Mini-hiking to the bathroom. Doesn’t satisfy my craving to be on my river. But definitely satisfies my desire not to blow my heart to pieces.

When my body alerts me that it is time for another trek, I quickly respond. A brief period of incontinence taught me that not doing so is spelled D-I-S-A-S-T-E-R. A part of this is a new form of multitasking: I can now walk and write my next sentence in my head. An added dimension is that when I am out, even after 11:00, I can walk and track where every bathroom is on my way to my destination. And the newest innovation: I was gifted ankle weights, which I now wear on each trek.

I shuffle along in my slippers, weights scraping along the floor. I’m actually surprised I haven’t worn a rut in the floors.

Being retired, I can’t imagine how people still working can take these things.

When the routine starts ruling the day

I complained to my cardiologist about how long this ritual takes and the way it rules my mornings. She checked my ankles and legs, which had improved, and the results of the last measure of my ejection fraction, which had improved significantly. So she agreed to cut the meds back as long as I agreed to wear compression socks. Ah, the joy of pulling them on from my toes up to my calves. I definitely now put more energy into a trek than a hike on my river. If Big Pharma can make diuretics, why can’t they invent compression socks that work with Velcro? My ankle brace does.

But it’s much better than the ritual of lying in a coffin. That would truly be never-ending.

Planning life around the medication

And of course, it is important to keep hydrated. With so much flowing out, I drink more water and Gatorade than I thought possible. Gulp, gulp, gulp from the fifteen-ounce cup every third or fourth trip. And alcohol or Scotch are definitely banned. They went the way of long Sunday hikes. It is just a good thing I don’t live in some state out west. All that flushing and drinking would cost a fortune. I bet the state would investigate if we had some illicit golf course in the backyard sucking up the water.

If I have a morning activity, I delay the meds until afternoon and the ritual occurs then.

Now, this is a secret. Please don’t tell any of my doctors. But sometimes, if I go out, I skip them that day. Those are times I just need a no-trek mental health day.

But other than those days, I am quite loyal to the routine and am even grateful toward it, in spite of my snarky attitude.

Editor’s note: This essay describes the author’s personal experience with prescribed medication. It is not medical advice. Changes to prescribed medication should be discussed with a qualified healthcare professional.

About the author

C. Graham Campbell, Ph.D., was born in Canada and immigrated with his parents at age three. He is a 75-year-old retired psychologist and a late-blooming author. He has a master’s degree in theology, a doctorate in pastoral psychology and training in Spiritual Psychology. He now spends most of his time with family, writing, meditating and exploring what being an elder means. His work has appeared in Ravens Perch, Bicopa, Braided Way and Steel Jack Daw, among others.