Coming out of anesthesia after open heart surgery

I have had other surgeries, but they didn't prepare me for this experience of coming out of anesthesia.

One thing that was different for me was the experience of going under with anesthesia,  Usually I could remember a tingling and light-headedness.  Then I was zonked.

But this time what I remember, corroborated by the people in the operating room, was that one moment I was "there" and the next I wasn't.  I had been given a medicine to relax me, but it did its job so well that I lost consciousness.

I believe that everyone thought that a few hours after surgery I would be alert.  At our appointment the day before our surgeon said he would see me in the morning, Vicky around noon, and me late afternoon.

But I didn't start regaining consciousness until 8:00 p.m. or so, far later than anticipated.

What it meant was that Vicky had to sit with me for hours while I laid there looking awful beyond words, willing me to "please wake up Dan."

Finally, I did.

And when I did the first thing I saw was her and the first voice I heard was hers.  As a gift before surgery I had given her a 45 rpm record pressed in the 1980s by Boris Gardner.  The song is "I wanna wake up with you."  We love dancing to it:

Here is what she had to look at for several hours.  Talk about a tough, strong woman.  If anyone reading this wants to stop reading this at this point, I'll understand.  The photos are hard for me to look at, but they serve a purpose in our lives. 

(by the way, having these photos made was a joint decision, and a decision predicated on our belief in a good outcome.  I wanted to know what had happened, and we wanted to know, as a couple, what we had been through.  That was the right decision for us, but might not be the right one for everyone).

A far cry from how I looked the previous time she saw me:  A dork in a space blanket.    Wearing a shower cap.  We both laughed.




The surgeon had left orders that I was to dangle my feet off the side of the bed.  This was getting close to 10:00 p.m.  I hadn't slept well the night before the operation, and we got to the hospital very early.  (being under sedation is not "sleeping," although the phrase "go to sleep for the operation" is used to describe it; so I hadn't slept for 17 hours at this point).

Here is the night staff sitting me up.  Took three of them.  They obviously knew what they were doing.  Gentle, strong hands, and comforting words.  They, and almost staff who we got to know at Virginia Mason Hospital, have really fit that song Simple Gifts ('Tis a gift to come down just where you ought to be.")

I have no memory of sitting up or standing, even though I look (fairly) alert in the photos.  

 I asked if I could stand up, and was allowed to:

I had all kinds of tubes sticking out of me, and monitors.  Not surprising, but I didn't get a good night's sleep that night either.  "Good night's sleep" is simply not possible when you are in intensive care, even though the staff did all they could.  Sleep mattered to my medical staff, but keeping me alive took priority.   Good decision as far as I am concerned.  

I am writing this 8 days later.  The most salient memory of that day was waking up and seeing Vicky and hearing her voice.  Almost all of the rest is a blur, lost.  She stayed that night, in the room, and that was the best night we have ever had together.   She was with me for every minute of the five days I was in the hospital.