I’m sorry not to have posted lately, but my life has been chaotic to say the least. This is the second part of my story of my husband’s recent open heart surgery. To catch up and read part one first (which I recommend) you can click here. The pic shows my sweetie dancing with me at our niece's wedding several years ago.
Shortly, I’ll be back with a new recipe as well as some writing tips.
At the pre-op interview Monday Dr. Yuh—who was disarmingly friendly and looked 25 but was probably 40—assured us that at Hopkins the chances of serious complications from this operation were under 3 percent. (At his mention that his incision would be “only large enough to get in and work safely,” I noted that his hands were less beefy and more graceful than most men’s.) The by-passes would take roughly three hours, he said, then the heart would be re-started and would pump an hour. Then, the team would “close.” Charlie would be in the hospital about a week.
At noon on Tuesday, my son, Dave, and I hugged the patient one last time, and he was rolled off to the OR. We retired to the waiting room to fidget, read, and … wait.
I suspect it’s common for strangers stuck for long, anxious hours in close quarters to chat, commiserate, and bond. The gregarious, surprisingly upbeat family seated near us said the patriarch of their clan had been in another hospital 22 times in two years, and had already been in surgery to repair extensive damage from an infected by-pass graft for 7 hours. We shared Charlie’s story, which by comparison, sounded pretty ho-hum. Time dragged on.
About 5 pm Dr. Yuh appeared and said, “He’s doing fine. Once he’s to Intensive Care, you can see him.” He seemed euphoric as he added, “It was textbook—went perfectly.” I was euphoric, too. Later, before we headed for the ICU, we and the other family earnestly wished one another well. Their loved-one’s surgery was still going on; we never heard how he fared.
Our first post-op visit was a letdown. My sweetie didn’t open his eyes and only responded weakly when I squeezed his hand. He was literally almost as white as the sheets, and tubes and wires ran everywhere, including down his throat. But we’d been warned about all the wiring, and his vital signs were good. The regular monitor beeps indicated normal breathing. After two more hours and two 5-minute visits, the staff persuaded us to go home to bed. Surprisingly, I slept fairly well.
The next morning I was astonished at how he’d bounced back! He was sitting up, alert, and, with the mouth tube gone, could chat and return my kiss. Soon, the nurses had him walking—standard practice to discourage clotting they said. Their trip down the ICU hall was slow and he wobbled; I tagged along, counting each of the 90 one-foot tiles.
That afternoon, after steadier walks, he was transferred to cardiac progressive care. At the advice of several friends who’d had similar surgery, I’d hired a nursing assistant to stay with him overnight and was feeling elated at his progress as I prepared to go home. Just in case, I left my number and told her to call if necessary.
A roller coaster seemed to dip and my stomach dropped as I walked in the next morning. Nobody had called, but Charlie’s heart had gone into atrial fibrillation and was rapidly, erratically fluttering instead of pumping. This condition ups risks of stroke to five times normal. His heart rate, pulse, and blood sugar were all sky high. He was on oxygen and looked ill. A cold, choking dread held at bay for days took over; it felt as if my ticker were malfunctioning.
The nurses said the meds usually restored normal “sinus” rhythm within eight hours. After mindlessly, endlessly watching monitor blips and IV drips, I was finally, mercifully rewarded with the regular tha-thump, tha-thump of his heart in mid-afternoon. Even so, I vowed not to leave him at night again—I’d try to sleep in the fold-out chair by his bed.
I did sleep, but fitfully. I dreamed that Charlie and I were at the NY Blogher conference being held that week (I’d canceled my plans to attend), and somehow got separated. After frantically searching for him for hours, I gave up and tearfully returned to Baltimore alone.
I was relieved to wake and realize it was only a nightmare, but by afternoon felt a new, inescapably real despair: The atrial fib was back. A black, icy, perhaps irrational, fear that my sweetie would have a stroke gripped me. I was so distracted and panicky I got lost on my way back and forth to the hospital cafeteria and worried about losing my memory or mind. At some point Dr. Yuh showed to up to explain that 40 percent of open heart surgery patients experience this problem. “If necessary, he can go home with it,” he said. “It usually doesn’t last more than a month.” This was meant to reassure, but just terrified me more.
Deep in the night the lights flicked on and a nurse burst in to announce, “He’s back in sinus rhythm!” I think it was the sweetest news I’ve ever heard. Certainly the best ever at 3 am! The second bout had lasted a nerve-wracking 16 hours.
We’ve had more ups and downs during Charlie’s recovery, but nothing else as frightening as the arrhythmia episodes. Throughout, he’s been cooperative, uncomplaining, even-keel, and openly thankful for everyone providing his care. The future’s looking much more certain and bright.
As for what lessons I’ve learned—mostly not to take the good in life for granted, which of course sounds clichéd and trite. I need to mull things over longer and may have some thoughts to share another time. For now, it’s just nice to be together back home. I’d love to hear if you have an experience of your own to share. ###