That's a Wrap

I have to tell you, I really didn’t think it was going to happen. 

I thought it was a good sign when I checked into the hospital and they seemed to be expecting me. 

I thought it was an even better sign when I got as far as wearing only a hospital gown, grippy socks and a hairnet with an IV in my arm, ready to go. 

I thought it was a pretty sure bet when my surgeon walked into the room and introduced himself to my husband. 

Then he closed the sliding glass door, sat down, paused, and said “I don’t think we should do this surgery.”

Cue record screeching to a halt. 

Cue the sound of a pin dropping. 

Cue the sound of my stomach literally dropping out of my body and hitting the floor. 

You have got to be kidding me. 

To review, this was my third attempt at heart surgery in an 8-month span. 

Surgery number 1 was denied by my insurance company, claiming I was in fact in heart failure, but not enough heart failure. 

Surgery number 2 was cancelled when my doctor got fired 48 hours before my surgery and no one bothered to call and tell me. 

This was supposed to be surgery number 3. Third hospital. Third surgeon. Third type of procedure. 

And the man who had previously felt I was a great candidate, was backing out. 

If there is an emotion where you want to simultaneously cry, scream, laugh, break things, and bury yourself under a minimum of 5 blankets, I was rocking it. 

I honestly don’t remember what I said. I feel confident it was likely incoherent. 

After a lengthy discussion we came to the conclusion that the doctor just wanted to be sure I knew that this surgery wasn’t going to get me back to 100%. It wasn’t even going to give me 80. The very best scenario was 60% improvement and I’m fairly certain there was mention of the extreme risk of the procedure both in efficacy and mortality at least 20 times. 

He told us he was going to step out and give us some time to talk about it. 

In a nutshell - this is the procedure, it’s super risky and invasive, we don’t even know if it will work and you might die. 

Cute. 

Oh and side note, you are in fact in heart failure, so without surgery, you’ll be in total heart failure in a few years. 

Adorable. 

I signed 7 million papers. I met with the entire cardiac anesthesia team. And then I waited. 

And waited. 

People, I have to tell you. I’ve had so many medical procedures that I really don’t get very nervous until the two seconds between when I see the mask coming at my face and when I’m out. But this time? This was different. And due to an emergency that took my OR space, I had to wait for over SIX HOURS.

There is nothing quite like signing your life away, and then sitting there with literally nothing to do but think about what you’ve just done. 

Or more specifically, scroll through your phone looking at photos of your daughter and hem and haw over whether you made the right decision. 

Over and over and over again. 

In short, I’d give it a 0/10 Yelp review. 

Do not recommend. 

Suffice to say, I have never been so happy to wake up shivering like crazy in the ICU. 

I was truly delighted to feel like an elephant had stepped on my chest, and even happier to hear that despite the drama and despite it being even more difficult than expected, the surgery went well. I had survived a lead extraction and new lead placement and was now the proud recipient of a Medtronic Left Bundle Branch pacemaker. 

The next morning, the device rep and his intern stopped by on their rounds. The rep had been there for my surgery, and told me how he thought it was the best left bundle branch pacemaker surgery he had ever seen. He said he couldn’t wait to come in and see me today to see how my readings looked. 

They hooked up all of the wires. 

Pressed a few buttons. 

Paused.

“Wow.”

After printing off my EKG, the rep asked if he could bring it into the hall and show some people. 

I told him if he wanted to make it into a T-shirt and wear it daily, I’d support it. 

Written across the top, in tiny letters next to my name and identification number was one simple word: normal. 

And I think in that moment, I felt for the first time in awhile, a teeny tiny glimmer. 

Yes, I fully understand that it won’t look like that in every moment of time. As I said, 60% improvement is the best case scenario. But I tend to think that starting my very first day powered by Ruth Pacer Ginsburg in the “normal” category is a pretty great place to begin.  

Recovery with a toddler has been...let’s just go with challenging, despite our families literally dropping everything for the third time this year to help in every way imaginable. I thought I had prepared for every last thing, but what I couldn’t prepare for was a 2-year-old who just didn’t understand why Mommy couldn’t pick her up. For 8-10 weeks. Due to the more-extensive-than-expected nature of the surgery, my restrictions were twice as long as we had initially expected. Needless to say, tears were shed by all parties. 

True to form, right when I had finally reached the 2-month finish line, I landed myself back in the OR for an additional surgery. I did, however, have a glorious 48 hours where I could pick up my daughter with glee before I got benched again, and you better believe there was some twirling. 

Also true to form, what my doctor thought was an infection turned out to be an allergy to the stitches used in my initial incision. 

I think at this point I should switch from a medical alert bracelet to a list tattooed across my chest. 

Although, let’s be honest, I’d probably be allergic to the ink. 

Perhaps truest to form, the incision revision took place in a new hospital, which brought the grand total of this experience to 10 months, 6 hospitals, 7 doctors, 4 different types of procedures, 4 COVID tests, 2 rounds of general anesthesia, more antibiotics than my gut would like to admit, two brands of pacemakers and a partridge in a pear tree. 

And lest we think I’m leaving it all in 2020, I’m in need of an appointment with a plastic surgeon* in the next few weeks, seeing as how I have what looks like fishing line sticking straight out of incision 2.0. 

*Of note, I’m pretty sure this is the one doctor I don’t already have. 

Despite the stress and fear, drama and frustration, plaguing doubt and incredible burden to my family and friends, I have to say it was worth it. There’s something I’ve been carrying around since early 2019 that’s been a heavier weight than I realized, and I am absolutely thrilled to throw it into the flames of the 2020 dumpster fire. 

Diastolic heart failure. 

You know that feeling when you get a new car and only then do you realize how bad the old one was? Or the first run in brand new sneakers where you realize you’re not supposed to feel every crack in the pavement?

That’s a little bit what it feels like to go through life when your heart is no longer working twice as hard as it should. 

I think it is generally our inclination to just keep on moving through life when there are gradual changes. It’s not like you know the exact moment where your heart starts working too hard, it just...happens. So you go through the day with a little more difficulty getting up the stairs, pushing the stroller up the hill or standing at the counter cooking dinner. You blame work, a toddler, the pandemic, and a whole host of other things on being too tired to put on socks. You start drinking coffee for the first time in 37 years because you’re falling asleep at work. 

Over time you forget that you ever felt differently, and time just passes until you suddenly realize you had a day where you nearly passed out 15-20 times. 

It’s not until it’s over that you realize what it really felt like. 

So long, heart failure. You gave me the gift of time with my family during a pandemic. You constantly reminded me just how much I won the lottery with my family and friends. You challenged my faith in myself as a wife, mother, daughter, and friend. You made me a better practitioner. For all of those things, and more, I’m grateful. 

Also, peace out. 

Don’t let the door hit you on your way out.