Illustration by Drew Shannon
I have a scar. A great big one down the centre of my chest from open-heart surgery. It’s the kind of scar that if I don’t wear a T-shirt in a pool, little kids will run away in horror. It’s ugly. Our granddaughter said “They cut Grandpa in half” and she wasn’t far wrong. I’m putting some stuff on the scar to make it look not quite as nasty. We’ll see if that works.
But that’s a physical scar and it can be dealt with, or not. At this age, I don’t really care.
The scar that needs the most repair is the mental scar left from the 20 years of worrying about my heart. A doctor discovered a partial arterial blockage two decades ago after I felt some chest pain while out for a jog. The cardiologist did tests, said not to sweat it and gave me a cornucopia of pills to manage it.
The problem was that I did sweat it. With every twinge, pang, spasm (especially on the left side), I would feel like it was the beginning of the end. There were a few times that it was strong enough to make me go to emergency but every time they said that it was nothing major.
This didn’t stop my doom thinking. I made sure my affairs were in order. I made sure my wife knew my Facebook password so she would be able to update my status, if worst came to worst. I even made up a funeral playlist.
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Chest pains that didn’t subside quickly back in March, saw me in an ambulance being whisked to the hospital, where I was admitted. No heart attack fortunately, but enough to do a round of testing. The results had the medical team hemming and hawing as to whether to do surgery or just keep on with the drug therapy. I was a vocal proponent for surgery because I wanted to get this cleaned up once and for all. The doctors agreed: bypass surgery for two arteries.
I waited for 11 days in the hospital before the surgery as there were more urgent cases than mine.
Before the operation a doctor explained the risks, which were a two per cent chance of heart attack, stroke or death. I signed the form. My wife and I had already gone over my wishes. If the worst happened, I said they could use any part of my body for organ donation. And the rest? Just burn, urn and yearn for me in our typical family tradition. It’s easy to be flip about it now, but these were difficult discussions at the time.
I woke up the morning after the operation with pain that I felt must be worse than childbirth, although I’ve been told by a number of my female friends to maybe keep that comment to myself.
I also came out of the surgery with what should be a new lease on life. And yet I have to somehow undo 20 years of negative doom thinking and believe that this is going to help me.
The statistics say that bypass surgery can extend lifespan by 10 to 20 years. For someone who felt that I often had 10 to 20 minutes, this was earth shattering. It’s not to say that I won’t get run over by a bus on the way to a check up, but this is big. I desperately want to believe the stat.
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The nurses said that I could have emotional swings post surgery. As the pain lessened, the reality of my situation began to hit home. It was strange to hear that the doctors had stopped my heart for the surgery and restarted it once they were done. A stopped heart is like being dead for awhile.
As I lay in bed, not being able to move much but able to think, I gradually came to the realization that the medical team actually may have added years to my life. The hospital has a corps of volunteers that have been through major heart surgery and I asked if I could talk to one of them. A kindly man older than myself came in, introduced himself and asked how I was doing. We discussed our respective surgeries and what to expect next. While talking to him, I completely fell apart. I sobbed inconsolably. Apparently this is not unusual. I think it was during these talks, that my possibilities in life began to hit home.
I have to get myself to believe in the new me. But doom thinking still lurks in the background. It shouldn’t but this thinking has been allowed to attach itself to my psyche like the plaque did to my arteries. It is tough to turn around, in spite of evidence to the contrary. I think I now need a psyche bypass.
It’s going to take awhile. Every time I get on the treadmill and don’t have an angina attack, or worse, a heart attack or even worse, die, is a confidence booster. I’m scheduled for a cardio rehab program, which I’m sure will help, but for now, I’m going to chip away at those negative thoughts and slowly heal. Time will tell.
Brad Furlott lives in Toronto.
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