On Sunday morning, I arrive at the hospital and am escorted to my room. The window overlooks a light industrial area. I wonder why there is a little desk in the corner. I don't think I'll be doing any work.
The nurse who greets me introduces herself as Min. She provides a bit of an overview of what to expect. They are going to cut through my sternum and it will be wired together; I'll need to treat it gently while it mends. In the weeks after the operation I must not lift anything heavy. A maximum of one kilo to begin with. My laptop weighs nearly two kilos. A kettle full of water will be too heavy. If I want to chop vegetables, I should sit down at the table, not bend over the kitchen counter. If I do too much lifting, I might feel my sternum move out of alignment, and I will have to come back to have it re-set.
Some people do end up back in hospital, apparently. I want to avoid this fate.
During the morning I am visited by a procession of doctors and nurses with varied duties. The surgeon bounces in, a vision of vibrant health and energy. He is wonderfully reassuring. It makes me wonder how one learns such a skill.
I'm first on his list for tomorrow. When I wake up, I'll know my future. Either my own valve will have been repaired, or I will have a metal replacement valve. If I have the new valve, I'll start taking Warfarin on Wednesday night.
While I'm waiting for a chest x-ray, I meet a man who is also having heart surgery tomorrow morning. He's having a valve replacement, as he has been told that his valve is beyond repair. This is very unfortunate for him, but it gives me added encouragement. We have the same surgeon. Now I know that he doesn't tell all his patients that he will attempt a repair. Hopefully, his assessment of my chances is realistic.
Lots of people are wishing me well, keeping fingers crossed for me, praying, sending healing thoughts, lighting candles and appealing to the angels. I'm grateful for every thought and wish.
They give me a booklet about heart health - what to eat and what not to eat. Dutifully I read it, and conclude that my diet is reasonably good. I don't have blocked arteries. I'm going to keep on doing what I've been doing. Anyway, they bring me a huge plate of roast beef with gravy for lunch, and a package of sweet biscuits with my afternoon cup of coffee. I don't think I need to be obsessed with my diet.
Abandoning the hospital snack, I go downstairs to Hudsons and get myself a proper coffee and a lemon curd muffin. I eat the whole thing. It's delicious. There is no point dieting today.
I sit around all afternoon listening to Bossa Nova, reading Harvard Business Review, fiddling about with Facebook, and blogging. I do things I know I won't feel like doing after the operation. From time to time, staff come in and perform various tests. They are caring and reassuring.
It begins to feel like a new adventure. They assure me I won't remember anything about the operation, but the aftermath and the road to recovery will be a once-in-a-lifetime experience. When I get up tomorrow morning I'll be embarking on a magical mystery tour.
The nurse who greets me introduces herself as Min. She provides a bit of an overview of what to expect. They are going to cut through my sternum and it will be wired together; I'll need to treat it gently while it mends. In the weeks after the operation I must not lift anything heavy. A maximum of one kilo to begin with. My laptop weighs nearly two kilos. A kettle full of water will be too heavy. If I want to chop vegetables, I should sit down at the table, not bend over the kitchen counter. If I do too much lifting, I might feel my sternum move out of alignment, and I will have to come back to have it re-set.
Some people do end up back in hospital, apparently. I want to avoid this fate.
During the morning I am visited by a procession of doctors and nurses with varied duties. The surgeon bounces in, a vision of vibrant health and energy. He is wonderfully reassuring. It makes me wonder how one learns such a skill.
I'm first on his list for tomorrow. When I wake up, I'll know my future. Either my own valve will have been repaired, or I will have a metal replacement valve. If I have the new valve, I'll start taking Warfarin on Wednesday night.
While I'm waiting for a chest x-ray, I meet a man who is also having heart surgery tomorrow morning. He's having a valve replacement, as he has been told that his valve is beyond repair. This is very unfortunate for him, but it gives me added encouragement. We have the same surgeon. Now I know that he doesn't tell all his patients that he will attempt a repair. Hopefully, his assessment of my chances is realistic.
Lots of people are wishing me well, keeping fingers crossed for me, praying, sending healing thoughts, lighting candles and appealing to the angels. I'm grateful for every thought and wish.
They give me a booklet about heart health - what to eat and what not to eat. Dutifully I read it, and conclude that my diet is reasonably good. I don't have blocked arteries. I'm going to keep on doing what I've been doing. Anyway, they bring me a huge plate of roast beef with gravy for lunch, and a package of sweet biscuits with my afternoon cup of coffee. I don't think I need to be obsessed with my diet.
Abandoning the hospital snack, I go downstairs to Hudsons and get myself a proper coffee and a lemon curd muffin. I eat the whole thing. It's delicious. There is no point dieting today.
I sit around all afternoon listening to Bossa Nova, reading Harvard Business Review, fiddling about with Facebook, and blogging. I do things I know I won't feel like doing after the operation. From time to time, staff come in and perform various tests. They are caring and reassuring.
It begins to feel like a new adventure. They assure me I won't remember anything about the operation, but the aftermath and the road to recovery will be a once-in-a-lifetime experience. When I get up tomorrow morning I'll be embarking on a magical mystery tour.
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