When I was a junior in high school I was diagnosed with a heart problem that required open-heart surgery to correct. For a couple of years leading up to that point I would occasionally have episodes where my heart rate would accelerate to the point where I would have 'brown-outs' - I never completely lost consciousness during any of these episodes but I would have to lay down to keep from blacking out until my heart would slow down on it's own. I found out later, when my arrhythmia was recreated in the hospital, that my heart was beating at 280 beats per minute - so fast that it was essentially not pumping any blood. One episode, after basketball practice when I was a sophomore, lasted for about an hour. My mom came home to me laying on the kitchen floor. When she asked me what I was doing I just said I was relaxing after a long b-ball practice. I didn't think anything serious was wrong. I was 16 years old and in very good physical condition - I though it was heat stroke. Well, I had one nasty episode during soccer practice and luckily Hans was there, as he had been helping coach the team, and he was worried. I tried to dismiss it but he, and the other coaches insisted that I get it checked out so I did. I went to Alta View hospital and had an EKG which showed an irregular heartbeat. The diagnosis was Wolf-Parkinson-White Syndrome. WPW is an irregularity in the Atrio-Ventricular node which creates extra electrical pathways between the upper and lower chambers of the heart and can cause irregular heartbeats. The prognosis? I was going to most likely need surgery and I was forbidden to do anything strenuous until then because apparently WPW can, in some instances, cause cardiac arrest. I was not happy about the diagnosis or the fact that, for the first time in 10 years, I would not be able to play soccer. The first time I met with the medical team at the U they told me I had basically 4 optionss: 1) take medication religiously for the rest of my life with only a small chance of regualting the problem, 2) attempt catheter ablation which may or may not work , 3) get a pacemaker which was no guarantee and 4) full on open heart surgery which was pretty much guaranteed to work -but unforutnately would be the most painful and risky. It was decided that we would try the ablation and then, if that didn't work, the surgery. I wanted no part of the other two options. I will admit that I felt a little sorry for myself and was mad at the whole situation. I was a pretty good kid and had always treated my body well. I had tasted beer once and was completely repulsed by it. The only thing I ever smoked was the home made toilet paper cigarettes that the older kids sold to us at scout camp - I know that must sound like the stupidest thing in the world but we did it - once. Once was enough - my smoking career was over pretty much before it started. So for a while I was a little bit of a martyr. I was mad at the world and slacked off in school, failed math (which was taught by Mr. Cottle, my soccer coach!) and my attitude about life became pretty sour. I was required to wear a medical alert bracelet in the event that I collapsed somewhere, the EMT's would know why. I would go and watch our soccer games in the stands and I hated not being out there. Soccer had been so much a part of everything I did for ten years that it really left a big hole. It was decided that we would wait until school was out before having the surgery. I watched our team make it to the State Tournament only to lose early on.
As the day of the surgery approached I became increasingly anxious about it. I think I played the part of nonchalant, care free teenager pretty well but deep down inside I was terrified. I had gone with my parents to meet with the surgeons to get the rundown. Dr. Karwandi (I will never forget his name) was (and I believe still is) a world renowned heart surgeon and just a very nice person. I instantly liked him. I think even Max Hall would like him! It was Dr. K that really explained the nature of WPW and why it was causing me problems. He had a great sense of humor and explained that it was just bad luck to be born with this condition. He drew my attention to this Far Side cartoon:
My mom and dad bought me a T-shirt with this on it and it became a favorite.
The night before I was admitted to the hospital my dad surprised me by inviting several of my friends from school and the ward to our house so he could give me a blessing. I was overwhelmed by their presence and I think it was the first time any of them ever saw me shed tears. I can only remember a few things he said to me (I see now why journals are a good thing) but I can vividly recall how I felt. It was the first time in my life I had felt the power of the Priesthood of God wash over me. I do remember that he blessed me that, if the catheterization failed and the surgery was necessary, that it would go well and that I would recover quickly and fully and that I would not have this problem again. When the blessing concluded I was no longer afraid. The fear was replaced by a quiet assurance that all would be well - that even though it would be a difficult thing - I would be alright.
The first day in the hospital was full of tests - checking to make sure I was OK to proceed with the procedures. The nurses were wonderful. I'll always have a soft spot for nurses - they were, without exception, kind and reassuring. I don't know how they do what they do day after day and still act so pleasant. It is remarkable to me. That is why when I met an old friend at my reunion this summer and we discussed nursing (she is a nurse), I may have gushed a little on the subject.
Part of the preparation for the catheter ablation was to put in a Foley Catheter. If you don't know what a Foley Catheter is then consider yourself lucky. When the nurse showed up with it I wanted to know what her intentions were. I don't remember how the conversation went but it was something like this:
Me: What is THAT? (It looked like a ball point pen with a long tube attached to it).
Nurse: It's a Foley catheter.
Me: And what, pray tell, is it's purpose?
Nurse: It will drain your bladder during the procedure so that, while you are sedated, you don't have to pee.
Me: Oh. And where does it go? (as she was lifting up my hospital gown)
Nurse: It goes in your bladder (dummy)
Me: And how does it get in there?
Nurse: Just take a deep breath....
When it was over I and I looked at the blood on her gloves I thought I was ruined forever. When they were prepping me, 4 days later, for the open-heart procedure I made sure to request that they put the catheter in after I was under...
If my recollection is correct, the next day, I walked into the catheterization room under my own power. That goes against normal hospital procedures but for some reason I remember walking in there. I can recall a large stainless steel table that was actually an x-ray machine. Above it were several TV monitors. I would lay on the table, receive a heavy sedative, and watch the monitors. Incisions were made in my groin and neck where small catheters were inserted. The natural blood flow would carry them back to my heart. Apparently I was lucid for most of the procedure and distinctly recall the doctors reproducing my irregular rhythm (which was when they clocked it at 280 beats per minute) several times. I can also remember looking up at the image of my heart on the monitor above me. I could see all 4 chambers with what looked like little tadpoles swimming in them. I was also apparently talking most of the time. I think I told them my entire life story. Because of this, they were able to continue for such a long time. I was on that table for close to 11 hours (I was told at the time that was a record for this procedure). They would periodically update me on what they were doing and ask if I felt OK to continue. When it was over, I was exhausted - they told me that my heart had just done the equivalent of running a marathon. That, coupled with the fact that I had been literally strapped to the table for so long, made it so that I could not move my arms or legs - they were too stiff. That was why when they told me it didn't work that I was so disappointed. I broke down and sobbed. Apparently the problem was not in the location they had originally anticipated and, despite their best efforts, they could not reach it with the catheters. I had pinned a lot of hope on that the procedure would work and that I wouldn't need to go 'under the knife' but it just didn't work out that way. Sometimes life sucks - what do you do? The poor petite nurses needed to move me from the gurney to my hospital bed but I couldn't help them - and I was just too big for them. That's when this huge male nurse (and by that I mean body-builder huge) came in, picked me up like a rag doll and moved me to my bed. He looked like Lou Ferrigno (the guy who played the original incredible hulk). My opinion of male nurses was changed forever.
The catheterization was so taxing on my body that they gave me 2 full days to recover from it before proceeding with the surgery.
The dreaded day of the surgery came and I remember very little but here is what I can recall. They got me doped up on Valium in the pre-op room and proceeded to shave me COMPLETELY from the neck down. It didn't take very long because I am not a hairy person. I remember feeling that I should be embarrassed that a woman (other than my mother) was looking at me completely naked for the first time in my life but I wasn't. I think I even laughed out loud - I understand why some people get hooked on drugs - Valium is good stuff.
I sobered up a little when I was wheeled into the OR and saw the operating table and the 'instruments' they were going to use on me. Once I was on the table the anaesthesiologist put a mask over my face, lied to me by telling me he was giving me pure oxygen, and told me to take a deep breath. It was the last thing I remembered until I woke up after the surgery.
I was warned before hand that coming out of the anaesthesia can be unpleasant and that the worst part is the breathing tube. I was given instructions not to panic and try to take the tube out myself. It is very uncomfortable and some patients actually tear their own tubes out before they are awake enough to breathe on their own. I got the message. When I came out of it I felt hot and bloated, was in a lot of pain and I HATED the breathing tube because it makes it so you can't speak. Once I was sufficiently lucid they came and told me the doc was on his way to take it out. It seemed like forever. They had given me a pencil and paper to write on so I wouldn't have to try and speak. The only thing I wrote was "tell the doc to hurry". I think my mom still has that paper with my scribbled words on it. I can remember seeing the worried look on my mom's face and my first thought was: "Shit, something went wrong" but then I realized I was still alive and when she saw me looking at her she came over and told me that everything went perfectly - just like my dad said it would.
The night in the ICU was a long and very painful one. They came in in the middle of the night and actually made me stand up which was difficult because I couldn't move my arms and I had what seemed like 20 different tubes and wires sticking out of me. But I was able to stand and when I laid back down immediately hit the button for the morphine drip. Morphine is also good stuff. I've never felt that sensation before or since - where you are in a lot of pain, you hit a button, and you are instantly warm and the pain is gone. Powerful stuff - another reason I have never messed with drugs but why I understand how some people can get addicted.
The next couple of days were a blur. I was pretty hopped up on pain killers and very groggy. I do remember lots of people with clip boards coming in and out (University Hospital is a teaching hospital). I also remember being used as a guinea pig to train new nurses on how to put IV's in. One poor girl was so bad at it she used every vein in both arms before she got it right. She felt badly but what did I care - I really couldn't feel it - and she was pretty cute.
The other annoying thing was the chest drainage tube. The gross thing about it was that occasionally I could actually hear the suction in my own chest - it was weird. The worst part about the tube was getting it out. One of the ladies from the surgical team came in and took it out. She cut the suture holding it in place, put her big hand on my chest and told me to take a big breath and then yanked it out. I swear there was 3 feet of tube in there. She just kept pulling and pulling until it popped out. It was really painful but after that I felt like I was really making progress. The nurses would come in and get me up several times per day and make me walk around the 4th floor. They were, without fail, kind and patient. Because of my physical condition before surgery I was able to recover pretty quickly to the point where I could go home. On the 4th day after the open-heart procedure, I was released from the hospital. It was a happy day. I spent a total of 8 days there and while I appreciate everything that was done for me by the staff - I don't ever want to be a patient in a hospital again. I don't like going to hospitals even now. I don't have a phobia - I just don't like them.
When I got home I had to do a lot of things differently. The most annoying thing for me was I had to have help bathing and dressing myself because I couldn't raise my arms above my head and I wasn't supposed to get my incision wet. I would lay in the half-full bath tub with a towel covering my goodies and my mom would come in and help me. To get dressed I would lean forward and put my arms out like superman so she could slip my shirt on. Fortunately it was early summer so most of the time I just went shirtless. Two things happened at this point that stand out in my mind. The first day or two that I was home I got nauseous - probably form the Percocet - and I threw up. That is the single worst physical pain I have ever felt in my life. Throwing up with your sternum in two pieces hurts and I don't recommend it. I think I slept for 16 hours after that happened. The other thing is that I started to develop pain in my lower abdomen - near where your appendix is but it only happened when I laid flat on my back (which was the only way I cold lay down). So for a couple of nights I slept upstairs sitting up in my sister's bed (my room was downstairs at the time and it was hard to get up and down the stairs). When the pain didn't subside I began to worry that my appendix was going to need to come out and I dreaded the possibility of more surgery. We went back up to the hospital where it was determined that I did not have appendicitis and that their best guess was that sometimes interconnected nerve groups can be affected far from where things hurt and that it would probably just go away on its own - which it did.
Once I could sleep normally at night I began to get better pretty rapidly. I was given exercises to do and a thing I called the 'breathalyzer' which had a ball in a tube that I was required to alternately blow and suck on so many times per day to keep my lungs clear - both of which I did faithfully.
My friends had had a Lake Powell trip planned for that summer and I desperately wanted to go. My parents weren't excited about letting me do it but they did. Those trips to Lake Powell with Brady, Kirk, Jon, the Brandons (Walsh and Lingwall) were so much fun. Walsh's mom and step-dad Johnny had a house boat and we had the best time down there. I wasn't supposed to but I went water skiing - just 5 or 6 weeks after having heart surgery. I also wasn't supposed to get my scar sunburned but I did.
Though I recovered quickly and completely I changed. I lost my sense of invincibility - especially on the soccer field. I found my self protecting my chest a lot more than I normally would have - which is silly considering that my sternum was now permanently steel-reinforced. My temperament become more subdued and, if anything, I became a little more shy. I can't explain it. I have over the years contemplated the whole ordeal and searched for the reasoning behind it.
This is what I have come up with so far: we live in a fallen world where crappy things are the norm. Part of it I think is just that - bad things can happen to us when we don't deserve them. It's life. On the other hand, because this life is so important in an eternal perspective, and we only get one shot at it, I can't help but think that some of these things are specifically designed for us. What did I get from my surgical experience? Greater appreciation for life, health, family and friends. Greater compassion for human suffering and a vivid understanding of human frailty. These lessons didn't come all at once - I'm still learning them but occasionally something will happen in my life that causes me to reflect back on that period of my life - and on the surgery itself and realize that our time here is limited and there is nothing we can do about it when it's 'our time' to go. I also learned, though I did feel sorry for myself at first, that someone always has it worse and that remembering that can save a lot of useless worry and fuss and that we can be happy, if we choose to be, no matter what happens to us. The most important thing I learned is that God in Heaven is real, that he hears and answers prayers, and that His Priesthood is on the earth in all its power and authority.
I hope that these last two posts haven't been too indulgent or self-glorifying but I think they are a big part of my story and wanted to put them out there for anyone interested in them.
Thanks for reading it!
No comments:
Post a Comment