Moving Forward

With the money concerns out of the way, or at least appeased for a little while, I was ready to go — or so I thought.

Since the heart cath results had found that the veins in my legs were obstructed, there would be a series of surgeries — one to replace the aortic valve and perform a double-bypass to alleviate any existing blockages in my heart, and the installation of a pacemaker to be used as a defbrillator in case my heart stopped.  The pacemaker would be inserted in a separate, “twilight” procedure after I recovered a bit from the others.

Over the ensuing months, I would be watched to see if the vein situation in my legs would correct itself; if not, then two more surgeries would be required down the road to improve my mobility.

The blessing in the financing arena had left me feeling that this all was for a positive reason; I had no idea of the seriousness of the surgery (besides, 1,000’s had this procedure daily), nor that a host of complications could occur before, during or after.

The day of the surgery arrived, and through my denial I was actually expressing a good mood and a “no-worries” attitude.  The procedures would take approximately 4 hours, and John would have someone with him while I was in the O.R.

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The trip to surgery was uneventful.  A nurse had brought me a tiny, tiny pill to calm me, the gurney was rolled in and the orderlies dragged me onto it. 

I was wheeled into the operating room, felt a small “pinch” in my right wrist, and remember nothing until I woke up.  I had been told that my heart and lungs would be put on artificial means for the surgery, but of course, had forgotten anything I had been told, especially when they said “you’ll be fine” after a couple of months.

All went well until the end of the surgery.  They had just wired my rib cage back together, when they discovered that I was hemorrhaging!  If left unabated, I would die right there.  I’m told that I had to be opened back up once again and the bleeding stopped.

At the other end, in the waiting room, John was working on his 6th hour of waiting.  He had repeatedly asked the “patient assistant” about my condition, and had been repeatedly been told that everything was “fine.”  Little did he, or any of us know, that I was struggling between making my transition or sticking around to find out the outcome of the rest of my life.

After another hour, give or take, I was transferred to the Cardiac Critical Care Unit, and John and my friend Kathryn were allowed to see me.

There were tubes and wires coming out of me everywhere, and according to my visitors, blood was draining in a constant stream into receptacles on both sides of the bed.

“He’s very critical,” the nurse commented.  “The next few hours will be crucial for his recovery.”

“What happened?” John pleaded.

“He hemorrhaged in surgery, and it took them almost an hour to get it stopped,” she said.  He lost a lot of blood, and I’ll be here with him for at least 24 hours to make sure he pulls through o.k.  Believe it or not,” she continued, “he’s doing much better now than when they brought him in.”

“Can I stay?” John asked.

“Probably best to go home and get some rest,” LaTrena answered.  “It’s not going to get easier for you from here on out; take the time while you can get it.”

So there I was; new parts in a heart that only a few days prior I had no idea needed them, beginning my recovery amid odds that no one had counted on, and not conscious enough to know about any of it.  All because I thought I had a respiratory infection!