I settle into my chair, prepared for a long wait to see my surgeon.
But he is right on time. He bounds into the Reception area and greets me enthusiastically. Instantly I warm to him.
He explains the problem with the mitral heart valve, using pictures to illustrate. He hands me a sample of an artificial valve replacement - it's a metal ring about the size of a ten-cent piece.
I say that I am resigned to having the valve replaced. I have been receiving very strong messages that the valve is a mess and probably beyond repair.
He jumps in: "But I believe it can be repaired. In fact, I'm 90% sure."
He goes on to say that if he gets in there and it can't be saved, he will have to replace it, but at my age it would be better not to have to take blood-thinning medication.
I had never thought much about this. I'd heard about this medication and had regarded it as part of the deal (oh, well, I'll have to take tablets). I knew that I'd have to test my blood regularly. Again, I thought this would be OK. Diabetics have to do it. I would cope, too.
But now my surgeon explains that this medication would compromise my health. If I get a paper-cut, it could be hard to stop the bleeding.
Really?
I will have to consent to a replacement in the event that the he can't repair the valve. He assures me he won't do bad surgery; he will ensure that this operation will have good, long-term results.
He praises my arteries - "pristine", he calls them. Apart from the valve problem, I'm healthy.
He tells me what to expect. It will be a two-hour operation. I'll spend at least a week in hospital, and for the next week at home I must not be left alone. I won't be allowed to drive for a month. However, by the time I leave hospital I will not be in a lot of pain.
He will cut through my sternum. Surgeons sometimes go in through the side of the chest and between the ribs ("minimally invasive"), but in his experience this can cause greater ongoing pain and also lung problems. I certainly don't want that.
So, I'm having open-heart surgery. Right.
I mention that I'm concerned about the scar, though I'm aware that this is a pointless thing to say.
He says "Wear it with pride".
He looks me straight in the eye as he informs me of the risks; a 1-2% risk of death, stroke or heart-attack. This scarcely seems relevant; I don't have any choice but to have this operation.
I sign the consent form, and my fate is sealed.
But he is right on time. He bounds into the Reception area and greets me enthusiastically. Instantly I warm to him.
He explains the problem with the mitral heart valve, using pictures to illustrate. He hands me a sample of an artificial valve replacement - it's a metal ring about the size of a ten-cent piece.
I say that I am resigned to having the valve replaced. I have been receiving very strong messages that the valve is a mess and probably beyond repair.
He jumps in: "But I believe it can be repaired. In fact, I'm 90% sure."
He goes on to say that if he gets in there and it can't be saved, he will have to replace it, but at my age it would be better not to have to take blood-thinning medication.
I had never thought much about this. I'd heard about this medication and had regarded it as part of the deal (oh, well, I'll have to take tablets). I knew that I'd have to test my blood regularly. Again, I thought this would be OK. Diabetics have to do it. I would cope, too.
But now my surgeon explains that this medication would compromise my health. If I get a paper-cut, it could be hard to stop the bleeding.
Really?
I will have to consent to a replacement in the event that the he can't repair the valve. He assures me he won't do bad surgery; he will ensure that this operation will have good, long-term results.
He praises my arteries - "pristine", he calls them. Apart from the valve problem, I'm healthy.
He tells me what to expect. It will be a two-hour operation. I'll spend at least a week in hospital, and for the next week at home I must not be left alone. I won't be allowed to drive for a month. However, by the time I leave hospital I will not be in a lot of pain.
He will cut through my sternum. Surgeons sometimes go in through the side of the chest and between the ribs ("minimally invasive"), but in his experience this can cause greater ongoing pain and also lung problems. I certainly don't want that.
So, I'm having open-heart surgery. Right.
I mention that I'm concerned about the scar, though I'm aware that this is a pointless thing to say.
He says "Wear it with pride".
He looks me straight in the eye as he informs me of the risks; a 1-2% risk of death, stroke or heart-attack. This scarcely seems relevant; I don't have any choice but to have this operation.
I sign the consent form, and my fate is sealed.
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