I’m Alive

Three weeks ago I woke up from open-heart surgery. The very first thing that I remember is the realization that I was alive.

I’ve had too little stamina to take on writing about this moment and the period afterward. Putting what I felt, and feel, into words has also escaped me. But I think I’m ready to give it a crack.

This last year has been a strange one. Coming to grips with my fragile heart and poor mortality prospects meant that I needed to get comfortable with the idea of dying. Not to expect it, but to reconcile with it. I think I’ve worked it out.

The morning of surgery, however, was a bit different. As most of the hair was being shaved from my body and various lines installed in my arms, I thought a lot about the trauma that was to come. I wasn’t worried about the aftermath. I wanted to really, really be prepared that I might not survive the surgery, and yet expect to make it out just fine.

That’s why, when consciousness returned, I was so pleasantly surprised to be alive! Despite everything done to my body, inside of me my spirit just soared. I thought, “I have another chance! ” My kids say the first words I said were not understandable…”wh..,” “w…,” “wh dd dy doo,” which they finally deciphered as “What did they do?” There were a lot of questions before the surgery. How much of my heart was viable? Are there any places on the left ventricle to run some new blood lines? How much of the heart is dead muscle, especially at the bottom tip–enough to warrant opening the heart and radically remodeling it? More blood lines and remodeling would be my best chance for surviving for a while with this heart, staving off a heart transplant for years.

“Everything. They did everything.”

For the first time in a year (I was diagnosed with Heart Failure on January 13, told I needed a heart transplant on January 14. Half of all heart failure patients die within one year of diagnosis.), I really had hope. I will never forget that moment, nor be more grateful for the gift of life.

My surgeons were ecstatic. It seems I may have a shot at more than just a couple years to heart transplant. One doctor even told me I could be running in 5 to 6 weeks! The lines running out of my body (neck, two tubes from chest, both arms, catheter, and tube down my throat) were insignificant compared to this new found hope. As each was drawn out of my body (okay, that was weird and yucky to feel something snake its way out of the inside and out through simple holes just below my ribcage…) I felt more free and complete.

I don’t remember much on the day of surgery. Whether I sat up or stood up…I don’t know. I do remember being asked if I could stand up and walk a bit shortly after the ventilator was removed. “Get up and walk?” I thought, “Damn straight! Get me outta here!” And walk I did as much, as often, and as long as I could for next 5 days.

On every walk I recall gripping the glass heart from the Whitty family. Nurses up and down the hallways would ask me what it was and I would explain. It never left my hand while I endured the various insults to my body. It was a connection to a spiritual community that really did give me strength and inspiration.

Twice I have stood at the sanctuary of St. Clare church receiving the sacrament of Healing. At first alone and just weeks before surgery with many hands upon my shoulders. Was my heart miraculously healed?

No.

But the dearest support of so many people, together with children, my Judy and my friends, people I don’t even know at Regence who read my blog and send their prayers and good wishes…all really and truly kept the miracle of being alive fresh in my newly remodeled heart.

Jan and Claire flew up from California to stay with me for 3 days. I had only just gotten out of the hospital. These two close and wonderful people loved me so much during those first few days that I will always be in their debt. We laughed (God that hurts) and talked and ate and shopped a bit. It is what healing looks like.

Judy, whose dad passed away just weeks before, encouraged and loved and fed and guided me through recovery. No longer able to do laundry or vacuum or much of anything, she picked up all the slack and still found the energy to laugh and to hug. Jenny and Pat hardly left my side. Even with the funeral of Nora, Pat’s mom, just a few days past, they plied me with dark jokes, videoed me walking the halls, Pat blogging entries for me to keep you all up to date, coming up wth important questions I wouldn’t have thought to ask doctors, reports from the outside world…each and every moment precious beyond words and energizing me to keep going.

A visit from Fr. Tom, a bouquet of yellow flowers from the St. Clare parish staff, Kelly’s dedication of one song to me that Sophe Lux performed, Jaye and Ashley and Caitlin singing in my room and bringing me Communion, Jim Whitty’s arm as he helped me back from Communion, and meals prepared and brought to our house by confirmation students and staff, organized by Anne Marie. Sr. Anna’s delight to find Judy at mass with me! My first long walk with Bob followed by lunch and listening to a talk by Joseph Grizzone, author of Joshua. Gifts and notes from Vernique and Phillipe and the Conti’s and so many friends. Janet’s calls. My dad’s daily calls. Cards overflowing our mantle…

Healing looks like that. Many hands. Many hearts. Many prayers.

Perhaps I wouldn’t have been able to accept this kind of healing at another time in my life. I’d like to think I could, but more likely I would be giving, not receiving. But today, 22 days since opening my eyes and finding myself alive, the thrill and promise of it hasn’t left me.

From the darkness of just a few years ago, when I was too hurt and anguished to hold onto life, to this moment filled with so much hope and affection and life…well, that my friends, that is a miracle. That is a miracle. I do believe.

Thank you. You have given me life and inspiration. Judy and I have hope.

I am alive!