Apr. 10, 2007 - Turn the page
I've been meaning to journal more about my experience with open heart surgery. I was going to do a bit of play-by-play for posterity. It's never happened. I guess it's just my way. Forward motion.
I think I'll just stick with the bits and pieces. Those moments that jump out. Like any memories; a jumble of images.
I only met the surgeon once. During my pre-op appointment, I sat in a small chair in his office. Not an exam room, but his private office. I noticed that he was very neat. The papers and charts were organized on his desk. His wife looked happy in the photo on the bookshelf. He was attentive and open to hearing my questions. I had an incredibly difficult time maintaining eye contact, though. I could not stop looking at his hands. His fingers were very long and thin. His skin was remarkably white. All I could think was that he would hold my heart in those hands.
I tried to be tough on surgery day like I always am. I didn't want to scare the cubs. But I still cried like a baby when I smelled Sister Bear's hair as I hugged her goodbye. I bit my lip when I thanked Papa Bear for the life he's given me, as they came to wheel me to surgery. I knew God's will would be done and it would be perfect. He just hadn't let me in on what that will was.
Whenever you're an inpatient at Cleveland Clinic and have to go for a test, they always use the elevator that's outside the entrance to the operating rooms. On the wall is a sign that reads: "Through these portals pass the world's greatest cardiothoracic surgical TEAM." Obviously a pep talk for the doctors and nurses about teamwork. Whenever I see that sign it always reminds me that this is their job. They wake up everyday and drag to work just like everybody else. Just another normal day. This life changing experience for me was so second nature to them that someone in corporate management felt the need to order a cheesy motivational sign erected to pump them up. That comforts me.
I forget my nurse's name that first night in ICU, but I'll never forget his voice. It was calm and even. I'd wake up and wave my hand across the room to get his attention. He'd come over and say, "Pain?" I'd say, "10" (you always have to rate your pain on a scale from 1 to 10). Then he'd inject the medicine into my I.V., and I was back to sleep. I'd wake up, and we'd repeat the process all night long. It seemed like weeks had gone by. I woke up and waved my hand, but this time, he said, "I'm sorry, it's only been 45 minutes. You have to wait an hour." I had been waking up every hour? How long. How very, very long this whole thing was going to take.
The rest of my hospital stay was basic unpleasantness. Removing the chest tubes was excruciating. My roommate was even more so. Delighting in the small victories like finally being able to go to the bathroom by myself. Wanting little more out of life than a real, honest-to-goodness shower. Usually when I'm in the hospital, there's at least one other person close to my age. Not this time. Everyone at least doubled my age of 31. Could they make me feel any older as I shuffled down the hall on my laps around the floor?
I will never find the words to describe the way my body felt. It's more than the pain. The instability in my chest felt like one wrong move would literally break my body in half. Not like it might---like it would. I've never felt so fragile. But how quickly we adjust. It still hurts every time I move certain ways, and I move those ways countless times a day. I'm used to it, though. I don't know how it will be when the pain is finally gone. It will be strange not to have it.
I didn't have any profound changes in my outlook on life or God. This experience was more of a reinforcement, I guess, of what the Holy Spirit has already taught me in the last few years. It's a peace and a gratitude. Don't sweat the small stuff. Keep your eyes on the prize. All those good lines they put on T-shirts.
The biggest moment of them all was this one. I had been wondering about what it would be like if I died. Would there be the last moment and then BAM!, I'm in heaven? Would I remember Baby Bear's laugh, the smell of rain, and the feel of Papa Bear's kiss? What would eternity feel like? I remember the operating room. All fuzzy, thanks to the fact I didn't have my contacts in. I remember them telling me it was time to go to sleep. I usually dream under anesthesia, but I didn't this time. It was a dark and deep sleep. Then, I realized I was awake and in the recovery room. No bright light. No Jesus at the end of the tunnel. I was alive. So, I went back to sleep. It was that simple. It was over. Thank you Lord. Now, let's move on...
Comments
Apr. 12, 2007 - Untitled Comment
Posted by Aligirl
wow. You have had quite a journey! Your strength is amazing. I pray that God will continue to strengthen you. I am glad to see that everything has turned out with your surgery.
Ali
