Two weeks out from open heart surgery

It has been two weeks since the surgeon opened my chest by cutting through my sternum, deflated my lungs, stopped my heart, and then cut into it.  Two new pieces were substituted for the two pieces that were going to kill me.  And then a series of wires were used to reconnect my breast bone.  In my body now are pieces of plastic, pieces made from a cow (for real) and a whole lot of metal. 

These kinds of open-heart surgeries occur frequently, so I am not the only one.  However, that knowledge doesn't really do much for me.   The survival rate is high, but so is the complications rate.  And although the survival rate is high, it really only is if a certain perspective is omitted.

That perspective is that 1.5% die from the operation.  This means that most people survive.  But emotionally it means that if you considered that every day you had a 1.5% chance of dying, then it isn't so hot.  Without the operation, I had a virtual 100% chance of making it to the next day.  With the surgery 1 in 65 people have the last thing on earth they see is an operating room.

One of my favorite actors, Bill Paxton, died from this type of surgery.  He was 61, and I am 70, a whopping difference.   How ironic it is that his most famous movie line was "Game over, man, Game over."  (Aliens).   I paid close attention to his heart surgery, although I also realized that his heart was, overall, not as strong as mine.  He had rheumatic fever as a child.  All of my tests showed my heart and arteries were in terrific shape--a testament to good genes, good food (thanks Vicky), a fairly stable history of exercising, and a consistent and substantial amount of exercise especially over the past 7 years (thanks Vicky).

In other words, my heart is strong because of good luck and because of Vicky.

The operation also carries with it, in addition to a risk of dying, a fair risk of complications.  The most important is a stroke.  I am taking Coumadin for that, which I hate because it means I bleed easily and have to get my blood tested every week.  I am also experiencing something called Atrial Fibrillation, which is an abnormal heart rhythm.   I am taking medication for this, but am still experiencing it.  Most likely it is a result of the surgery, although it is possible I had episodes prior to surgery and just didn't realize it.  I'll never know.  But it is a problem that must be solved for the long-run.

But, we will deal with it.  I wish I didn't have any of this, but I am, after all, 70.  I am no longer a young man. Heck, I am getting Social Security, Medicare, just bought a home in a retirement community with a bunch of old people, still put two spaces after a period, love 1950s western movies, and complain about the "younger generation."  What more do I need in order to know that I am old?

It has been, at times, a brutal 2 weeks.  I have said that it is like being dragged under a truck.

But I wanted to live another 20 years, and this operation was my only shot at that.

I have read that there can be depression after this operation.  I understand that now, but wonder if it is something other than depression.  I tire easily, am not motivated to do much, am bored, and am in constant discomfort/pain.  That could be seen as depression.  But the mind set I have isn't a depressive one--instead it is a hopeful one, a chomping at the bit for Vicky and me to get back into our life together.

These past two weeks have also given me a powerful, mind-boggling sense of how important having someone like Vicky is at a time like this.  She makes it so that I can make best use of my limited strength and energy.  The number one thing I need to do each day is walk.  It is the prescription I left the hospital with, so we do that.  We have a park close-by that we visited a few times before the operation so we could scope out the best trails (graveled, not slick, no roots).  Now we go there every day and do just under a mile and a half walk.  We take smaller ones also.

And other than that my job is to rest and heal.  She does all of the rest.  Unbelievable.  And she manages my medications.

When I met her, I saw this in her.  She was the same way with her family and with her work.  It comes naturally, but that doesn't mean it doesn't require great courage and energy on her part.  She does it all cheerfully.

I can't imagine how much more difficult this would be without her.

I am a long way from "well."  And I have this pesky side-effect of an irregular and rapid heart beat that needs to be brought under control.

But my heart is all healed, according to the surgeon.  It heals quickly (probably because there is a good oxygen supply to it).  The sternum takes forever to heal.  And monitoring the side effects to see what kinds of interventions are going to be needed on an on-going basis will require months.

But I am alive and I no longer have a time-bomb in my chest.  I am so fortunate and so grateful.  I will get past this, and then we can return to our lives with an increased likelihood of being able to have more of a future together.  We want to see a bunch of grandchildren graduate from high school.