My Achy Breaky Heart: Part II

From the point of being told I had to have surgery on is a bit blurry. In the rush, chaos, and madness of being prepped for surgery I don't really remember too much. In part I think it is due to medications kicking in and the non-stop barrage of questions and explanations coming from the medical staff. I half think that they do that so that you don't really have time to think about what is happening to you. Most of my energy was focused on trying to remain calm and not freak out. I don't know how many times a nurse asked, "How are you doing?" or  "How are you feeling?" The answer was always the same, "Scared shitless!"

 

To a large degree the whole process of getting ready for surgery is not as bad as I anticipated. Your don't really have time to think, there is so much activity happening, and medications make the whole thing a blur. Thankfully, I only remember bits and pieces of the process. I wonder if our concious mind has a way of editing those things that are too traumatic out so that we don't have to remember them, much in the way someone in a disaster or car wreck doesn't remember anything. Much like sleep, you aren't even aware of that moments you slip into unconcious. If the process of death is anything like going to surgery, then it isn't as scary as I thought, not that I am in any hurry to try it.

 

So, while I was in surgery with a machine doing my breathing and circulating my blood for me, my family spent several intense hours in the waiting room. I can't imagine what it was like for them and to be totally truthful, I don't really want to know. I have enough of my own stuff with which to deal. I can't handle any more.

 

At some point, after the surgery They let me regain conciousness for a little bit. I couldn't speak because I was intubated, but I had to communicate to everyone that I was fine. I was surprised that I was coherent enough to think that I needed to do more than some generic thumbs up hand gesture. I had to do something more specific to me, to truly let them know that I was fine. Quickly, I formed the palm out, split finger gesture made famous by Mr. Spock. Live long and prosper.

 

The rest of my recovery went pretty smoothly. I made steady progress without any setbacks. The best day was the day that I was finally allowed to take a shower. Getting sponged off or using one of those shampoo caps is fine as a stopgap measure, but there is nothing compared to the feeling of hot water and soap cascading down your body. The only thing that I was concerned about with the shower was that the force of water hitting the foot long incision down the center of my chest would cause some pain. It did not. On Saturday, I was released from the hospital and spent the next month recuperating at home before returning to work.

 

For the most part, life is back to normal. There are still days where I experience some pain or fatigue. There are days where I have fears and worries that the surgery failed or that another section of my aorta will tear. I hate those days.

 

I haven't quite decided how to view one aspect of the surgery of which I am reminded ever single day. Everyday when I get into the shower or get dressed, I have a visual reminder of that surgery, the scar. Fortunately, the surgeon did a great job and I don't have a jagged keloided zig zag running down my chest. It is just a smooth gently curving line. I just wish that it would fade already and not be so visible to me. I am not sure whether it is a reminder of the ordeal I went through and that in this case I was "someone else" (you know, the bad things always happen to "someone else") or if it is a reminder that despite something really bad happening, I am still around. I wonder how I will feel next summer. I have never been very comfortable baring my chest and now that I have a scar on top of it, I don't know how self-concious I am going to feel the next time I go swimming.
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