My room in the Cardiac Surgical Unit soon resembles a florist shop. There are vases of flowers on every ledge and bench.
The first night, there is no point trying to sleep. They check on me every hour, and between visits, a blood pressure cuff auto-inflates eerily, like something in a surrealist movie.
My achievements for the first day are to get out of bed and into an armchair, and to take myself to the bathroom.
There's a chair in the shower, and I'm happy to use it.
They remove the dressing from my wound and invite me to dab it with a damp face-washer. Red lines appear on the white cloth.
My lips are dry and peeling. I have a streaky spray-tan; I've been painted head-to-toe in Bettadine. I feel a bit like the girl in the Bond movie "Goldfinger", though unlike her, I'm alive.
Gradually they take out the various tubes and needles.
The days go by, to a rhythm of pills and injections.
One morning, I wake at dawn and wonder where I am. I don't like my hotel. I want to get away, then realize that I can't. Panic threatens to overwhelm me.
The first night, there is no point trying to sleep. They check on me every hour, and between visits, a blood pressure cuff auto-inflates eerily, like something in a surrealist movie.
My achievements for the first day are to get out of bed and into an armchair, and to take myself to the bathroom.
There's a chair in the shower, and I'm happy to use it.
They remove the dressing from my wound and invite me to dab it with a damp face-washer. Red lines appear on the white cloth.
My lips are dry and peeling. I have a streaky spray-tan; I've been painted head-to-toe in Bettadine. I feel a bit like the girl in the Bond movie "Goldfinger", though unlike her, I'm alive.
Gradually they take out the various tubes and needles.
The days go by, to a rhythm of pills and injections.
One morning, I wake at dawn and wonder where I am. I don't like my hotel. I want to get away, then realize that I can't. Panic threatens to overwhelm me.
At night, I'm lying in bed and feel the sensation of being in a sleeper compartment of a moving train. It feels as if the train is swaying side to side. But I am motionless, and the bed is not moving, either. This is a mystery I cannot solve. The next morning the surgeon comes in and I tell him about it. He says "Oh, that. That is just your heart moving around. That misery will settle down in time."
The surgeon is proud of his work. He describes it as "a perfect repair".
I am happy to applaud.
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