3-4 Weeks After Surgery

After my emergency room visit on Easter day, I was able to concentrate on recovery the rest of post op week three. I had a visiting nurse come out on Monday morning and check up on me. The cannulated stitch in my upper thigh from the bypass incision site was removed, and all my vitals were checked. I ran through a list of medications with her to update her on any changes. Nothing had been changed yet, as I had not started reducing the Prednisone yet. I was anxious to start getting off of it, though, because I struggled with the side effects. One minute I was doing okay, and the next I was angry or bawling my eyes out. It also made me feel like I could eat the entire sink and still be hungry, a typical steroid side effect. I started becoming concerned with the fact that I was not losing any more weight from the fluid retention, and instead the weight was staying on. I tried not to concentrate on that. Being a young female who had worked so hard on my physique before surgery, I was disappointed in the aftermath. I needed to remember that none of these factors were permanent and I would soon be able to tone my muscles back to where they were. I struggled with the first stages of atrophy and my joint pain increased throughout the week. I practiced the exercises I was assigned by the Occupational Therapist to begin the process of strengthening my upper body through a series of controlled stretches. These were inspiring as I felt myself getting a little more controlled and having increased endurance each day. I also continued a long walk each day with lots of movement in between. Beginning the process of strengthening myself and getting moving again kept me going.

Toward the end of the week the glue was working its way apart from the sternal scar. It peeled back slowly, mainly on it's own accord. I had to consciously not help it along, and wait for it to fall off naturally so that the scar could heal correctly. Once all the glue had fallen off, the scar was just a light wrinkle about four and a half inches long, barely noticeable under a necklace. This was inspiring to me, and I watched for the bruising to reduce on the rest of my body. I still have the fading hematoma on my thigh, it has not reduced yet. Also there are bruises on each elbow from IVs, and a yellowing bruise on the right side of the sternal incision. There was some bruising where the port was removed but it went away pretty fast. My body continued to heal, getting better by the day and able to do more without becoming short of breath. People who saw me could no longer tell that I had open heart surgery just three weeks before. My efforts could begin to concentrate on aligning my future plans, and finding some help with the burdens I was encountering financially (see 'Partners In Health'). By week four, I was well enough to begin my final exam essays for American History (my last high school class needed to graduate). The essays took the entire week, but by the time they were done I was so relieved I could have cried. I also did a lot of paperwork for state programs and tried to concentrate on deciding which issues in my life were more pressing than others. When there is so much going on at one time, that is when I begin to list. I had this pointed out to me by my incredibly intellectual boyfriend. He noticed that with my anxiety, I list all the possible negatives, the what ifs, and the oh-nos of anything currently overwhelming my life. Worrying about things does not get you anywhere, so when he notices me doing this he cuts me off and makes me recenter on the current situation. I do the same thing to help me stay organized as well though. I write out long lists and make notes as I accomplish things, and when enough of the list has been accomplished I make another list. It's cool to feel accomplished when you check items off of the list.

On week four I was taken off of the Cardiocom system that checked my vitals daily because I was doing so well and feeling stabilized. My Occupational Therapist came to my house and went on a walk with me for the final time, discharging me for good. I ventured out and about more often, for some short shopping trips and visiting friends, and did not feel as worn out by the movement. I began to feel more comfortable lifting a gallon of milk and pulling my car door closed as my muscles healed. I even picked up a cheap oximeter at Wal-Mart to measure my pulse through exercise and my oxygen levels if I need to. I improved my upper body exercises, and felt inspired to improve my walks with some uphill slopes. All these things fell into place, and I knew by the time I saw the surgeon for a check-up in another week I would be improved enough to be released to do more activity.

Easter Sunday in the ER

Easter Sunday is always a huge event for my family. We are a Baptist family that convenes every Easter for a large meal and time to reconnect with each other. It's a loving event where miracles are celebrated and people come together to recognize the power of faith. I enjoyed the day, though I had to leave after a few hours from fatigue and pain. I was recovering well from the heart surgery and pericardial effusion, but still this was the biggest outing I had so far. It was exhausting to talk, I would get short of breath walking across the room, and I knew I needed rest. My boyfriend escorted me to his car after I changed into comfier clothes and helped me into the passenger side. We had agreed he would take me home early from the reunion, so I could get a nap in. After I got home I noticed my raised heart rate and felt pressure when I lay down flat. I was struggling for a deep breath and felt familiar pain in my upper stomach and mid back. All these symptoms were eerily familiar to the week previous when I struggled from the pericardial effusion and had to return to Dartmouth. I did not want to go back to Lakes Region General Hospital's ER, especially not on Easter Sunday, but Robbie pushed me to get checked out 'just to be sure' and I begrudgingly climbed back into the car after much deliberation. The emergency room staff recognized my face and came quickly to my aid. They checked my vitals and saw the Tachycardia and high blood pressure. I was wheeled to a bedside where they immediately began the battery of heart tests including an EKG, Echo cardiogram, chest X-Ray, and blood tests. An IV was placed in my left arm, and I saw the doctor within minutes. It appeared that everything was normal, nothing out of place and the heart had only a minor amount of fluid on it, so it was not the severe effusion like my previous visit. They decided pretty quickly that I must have overdone myself with the events of the day and needed rest. My heart rate dropped to a steady 100 bpm and they monitored me for an hour before deciding to discharge me. My mother who had shown up as soon as she heard I was returning to the hospital and found her way from the empty ER waiting room to my bedside, decided to head home. She took off to catch some Zs while me and my man held hands, waiting for discharge paperwork. After an extended period of time the polite female doctor returned around the corner. She saw my IV already out and had a serious look on her face. "If there is any possibility of you having a clotting disorder and you are not on blood thinners other than Aspirin, I am concerned about sending you home without first doing a CT Scan for Pulmonary Embolism" she described. I agreed to stay, better safe than sorry, and another IV had to be placed in my right arm. This time the testing took longer as we waited for someone to come in to perform the procedure, and then waited for the results. In a CT Scan, the radiologist directs the bed into a tube which takes pictures of the fluids in the body and can see things like the lung tissues better than an X-Ray would. It doesn't take long, but Iodine based dye is injected through IV to help the scan pick up on any possible problems. The feeling you get as the dye runs through you is that as if you wet yourself, a warm overwhelming wave from your shoulders that radiates to your legs before disappearing. When the test was all over they wheeled me back to the ER exam room and I waited. I could hear the other patients being pushed to and from, the two across the hall coughing up a lung, and the one next to me recounting his story of the car crash. Eventually I was discharged with no explanation to the symptoms and told to keep an eye on them closely and call my surgeon with any new, worsening, or persistent symptoms. I ventured into the cool dark of the parking lot and felt relieved that this time I was not being rolled into the back of the helicopter for my departure from this building. Crawling into my bed that night was what I needed most, and remembering to pace myself in the days ahead as well.

Returning to Dartmouth

The space in the helicopter was limited, but I didn't notice as they slid the stretcher into the enclosed area and crawled in around me. The Ativan had kicked in and I felt safe in the hands of the emergency team that was transporting me. Why I had previously begged not to return to Dartmouth, I'm unsure of. I'm guessing I just did not have enough oxygen in my brain to make a sound decision. Obviously I was needing to return to the better hospital, with my own surgeon who knows my case and can save my life, and better care facilities. I wouldn't willing suggest staying at the local run down hospital's emergency department with staff that was untrained in severe cardiac complications, like the effusion and cardiac tamponade I was experiencing. Cardiac tamponade is a complication from open heart surgery that occurs from an excessive build up of fluid on the heart to a point where a chamber collapses from the pressure and is no longer pushing oxygenated blood through the body. It is a serious and deadly condition, not commonly reached in post op patients. I was young for an open heart surgery to happen in the first place, but the complication of the fluid build up in the pericardial sac around the heart is something that can happen to anyone. The concern is if it is internal bleeding and blood is building up, instead of fluid from inflammation, than there may be more serious problems. Either way the fluid must be drained off of the heart to relieve pressure so it can beat normally. A small amount of fluid, under 50 ml, is naturally lubricating the pericardial sac at all times with the body reabsorbing excess constantly. Any more than that affects the hearts natural function, and this is when a special procedure needs to be performed. Pericardiocentesis is a procedure where the fluid is drained off of the heart. It can be performed in trauma cases with a large needle inserted near the bottom of the breastbone, or in a Cathlab procedure where a drainage tube is placed. This is what I woke up to in the emergency room, and thankfully was postponed until my arrival at Dartmouth. The DHART (Dartmouth Hitchcock Advance Response Team) guys were prepared to perform this emergency drainage procedure if my condition worsened during the flight.

Once I was on board and the helicopter took off I was stable enough to twist and look out the window. I saw the lights from the city drifting farther away as we rose in the sky and noticed the sun had set sometime between me rolling out of the hospital and boarding my first helicopter ride. I also saw the frozen lake beneath, and stars twinkling through a clear windy space. The ride was rough but lasted less than twenty minutes, and I managed to fall asleep for the last fifteen minutes. I was happy that they moved me quickly instead of a bumpy two hour ride by ambulance in an unstable position. The air felt like a cool promise upon arrival back to Dartmouth, as they pushed me across pavement to the hospital I had departed days earlier. I knew I was in safe hands, and that my mother was on her way. The first new face I saw was that of my confident surgeon who grabbed my hand and reassured me that I was in his care now and I would be alright. I remember thinking 'I feel terrible, he will fix me though.' He stayed by my side the entire time, as they ran new tests due to LRGH not sending along proper records. I was poked and prodded a million times that evening, becoming used to the abuse on my body. I knew they were just doing their job and I did not complain. At one point I made sure that my blue spa socks, gifted to me the day before by a close friend, were removed from my feet and put in a personal belongings bag. I did not want to lose something so significant to me after one had already fallen off and I begged for it to be found while settling into the trauma room in Dartmouth's ER. Soon after, the DHART team disappeared as swiftly as they had swooped in to rescue me, and I never saw them again. New nurses took over my vitals and making me comfortable as Dr. Discipio decided what the next step would be. I told him to make the decision for me, because I could not think clearly enough to decide what I wanted. He gave me an option, we could try for a Pericardiocentesis in the Cathlab with a doctor that had to be called in to place the tube and Discipio would watch, or we could go to the operating room where my doctor would do his own procedure, of what I'm unsure, and they would sedate me properly. The doctor was called in and an emergency Pericardiocentesis procedure was performed before my mother even reached the hospital, while I lay awake through the entire thing.

The first step was using topical anesthetic around the ribs in the left 5th and 6th intercostal space. The area was painful to numb and I whimpered as the needles dug through my bones. Then a large needle was inserted at an angle into my torso, and I could feel the puncture like a balloon popping as it pierced through the pericardial sac. All was watched with ultrasound and X-Ray equipment to avoid puncturing the lungs or further complications. The needle was retracted leaving a white narrow tube in place that was maneuvered with a metal wire for better positioning. I felt pain in my shoulder blade, typical of having a tube between your heart and it's protecting layer. Once in place they used large 100 cc (or ml) syringes to start pulling fluid off of the heart. They got through 700 ml of fluid and began to slow down, wanting to leave a little fluid to naturally drain with the tube left in place, avoiding another painful complication called Pericarditis where there isn't enough fluid creating further pain. The fluid was tested on a table to my left to make sure it was not bloody or infection filled. It was neat to think the twenty people bustling around me were doing their little jobs so efficiently and quickly and yet so late at night. They were all busy with their tasks at hand and to my left and right were the two most experienced in the room, making sure the job was done right. After the fluid was pulled off, they asked how I was doing. "I can breathe!" I exclaimed in relief. It's amazing how immediate the change was that I felt and I was instantly happy for the procedure no matter how painful it was. Still more work was performed as the drainage tube was covered with gauze and dressing, and I was prepared to be moved to the ICU. On the way out the door yet another angel in disguise took care of me, covering my feet in a warm blanket and making sure my personal belonging's bag followed me to ICU. He held my hand and kept the operating team from sliding me onto the bed hastily, keeping them from jarring me around in my discomfort. I knew I was in a position where I had the best possible care, and all the many angels that followed me along the way made the traumatic experience a little easier. I was cherished as a child, respected as an adult, honored as a lady, and protected as a patient in the care of the medical professionals at DHMC.

Pathology Report

Wednesday was the day everything changed. I had been home for a few days, struggling with symptoms like stomach/shoulder pain, nausea, and a cough, and decided to attempt my second walk outside of the house. I asked the five year old child my mother was babysitting if she wanted to go with me. it was a great spring day, slightly windy but refreshing as we made our way along the paved street I live on. I estimate from my house to the stop sign is a small hill that runs a little more than an eighth of a mile. From my door step to the stop sign and back is at least a quarter of a mile, I did not plan to walk that far. With the energetic girl bouncing beside me I suggested we 'search for bunnies' and in all her excitement we trudged to the end of the road. I took a break for a few moments here and there and felt tired, but did not feel dizzy or faint so I continued. When we returned to the house I was so proud of myself for embracing the distance and good weather and pushing myself to a higher standard. Immediately upon sitting down I felt sickly, with heart palpitations, pain, and fatigue. I knew I had walked too far for my second walk. My heart rate was checked and landed at 120, which is not preferred but also not terrible. I ate something, got my medicine in me for pain, and relaxed on the couch for the next few hours.

When the phone rang and read Dartmouth I knew it must have been my surgeon with the pathology results. He had told us, while I was still hospitalized after surgery, that the mass removed looked clot-like, nothing he had seen before. He said it was bigger than they thought, golf ball sized and hardened to the point where surgical removal would have been the only choice. He also said that he was glad we did not take the watchful approach and wait to see what happened with the believed Myxoma. I opted for the surgery right away due to medical insurance reasons, but it ended up being a blessing in disguise because the mass 'did not need to be much bigger to completely block blood flow' he said. If it broke off I would have been a sudden death case where autopsy would be the only answer to my cause of death. Over the phone he confirmed his previous suspicions. A large and hardened clot, also known as a thrombosis, was removed from my right atrium with no explanation for how it organized itself on the wall inside of the heart, or how long it had been collecting and growing in size. The report calls it a mural thrombus meaning clot attached to the heart, and describes it with muscle fibers and tissue encapsulating the hardened structure. The best idea for a cause was the tip of the port catheter that sat right beside the mass in my right atrium. Never had my surgeon seen this before, and still we are not sure of the cause. The surgeon recommended that once I am fully recovered we test for blood disorders and clotting disorders that could be a more genetic explanation. The bacterial and fungal cultures were all negative, and I became quite the mystery to many in the hospital who do not see young girls in the cardiac ward for open heart surgery often. Later on, a nurse informed me that in her 17 years of working in the cardiac wing of Dartmouth she has only ever seen two patients for cardiac tumor removal, and never one for my mysterious diagnosis. I was lucky to be alive, that in the month up to surgery the blockage did not release and reek havoc on my body. The possibility of the port causing all the pain with the surgery, put me in an anxious spiral, and immediately after hanging up the phone I got quiet. I was frustrated for this possibility, and I wanted nothing more than for the port to be removed immediately. "This is coming out tomorrow, if it can" I cried to my mother. Yet again everything I had been through wrapped right back around to Tick Borne Infections. My mind swelled with these realizations and my heart felt as if it could pop. Little did I know, that terrible feeling that developed was something much worse in the making, and within a few minutes my world would turn upside down.

Recovery Day 2, 3, 4

The moment I remember first was telling my mother that it was okay for her to leave. I wanted her to be able to go to the place her and my father were staying down the road, and grab some sleep. The place is David's House, a pediatric housing unit for parents in tough situations who need a bed and a hot shower close to the hospital, while their children are in-patient at Dartmouth Hitchcock Medical Center. She left the arm chair she had been sleeping in and went to catch a nap in the twin sized bed at David's House while I was stable. The vomiting had stopped, my pain was more controlled, and I wanted nothing more than for her to be comfortable. After a few hours, I was awakened to the information that they wanted to pull the large chest tubes that morning. The chest tubes were about half an inch in diameter, running in two incisions above my belly button from the center of my torso through to my lungs on each side. I knew it was going to be a painful experience for those to be removed, and I told my mother I wanted her to see me smile once more before the procedure. She rushed over just in time for the clear snakes to be pulled from my body and the remaining holes tied closed. It was like something from a horror story, the pain of my insides being ripped and my skin being pinched closed with thread, still haunts me. That was my first clear memory post surgery. I woke right up from the adrenaline of that pain and can truly say it was a traumatic experience.

Before Surgery

The rest of that day is washed from my memory. At some point I was transported from Cardiac ICU to the Intermediate Cardiac Care Unit for the rest of my stay.  To understand the entirety of the procedure I want to review the stress my body was put through. First, there was a heart and lung bypass machine that ran my body while in surgery, it entered in my neck as an IV, and in my major vein running from my groin and cycled all my blood and oxygen in a closed system. Second, there was the chest tubes described above, one for each side of my chest to drain inflammation from the chest cavity through the procedure and recovery. Third, there were two additional incisions near the chest tubes that contained pacing wires (an external pace maker basically, to control the rhythm of my heart if need be after surgery). Fourth, there were arterial IV's that measured blood pressure in each of my wrists, causing extreme bruising and pain in the joints during recovery. Fifth, there was a sternal incision down the center of my body where everything was separated including my sternum, muscles, organs, and of course the skin to allow for access to the right side of the heart. The surgeon did a great job keeping scarring in mind, and the skin incision is only 4.5 inches long (he worked in a larger area underneath the skin, and the skin is glued together to reduce the scar). When it heals you wont even notice the scar that much. The bone was divided down the center and instead of wiring it back together like traditional open heart surgery, I was stuck back together with permanent stitches that will not dissolve but also not be obvious under my thin torso. Now that you are fully aware of the immediate and obvious trauma, add on the thirty pounds of fluid absorbed through the procedure, the seven scars I will always have, the emotional trauma, the general pain, the sore throat from the breathing tube, and the 2-3 months recovery to heal the sternum. This is the most invasive surgery possible, every system of the body is affected (from respiratory, circulatory, skeletal, musculatory, and lymphatic systems to the digestive/urinary tract, and even the nervous system), and there is constant moving from breathing and your heart beating through your entire recovery.

After Surgery

On day three I still fought with nausea from the painkillers, and constant pain while breathing. I remembered what I was told before the surgery, that patients "Don't usually complain of pain while breathing after surgery", and I wished it was true.  I switched from PCA (as needed, you push a button for a dose) Fentanyl to oral Oxycodone. Nothing was working and all of it made me sick. The nausea medicine did not cut it, and I was barely able to eat a few bites of jello or drink a protein shake with medicine doses. One evening while lowering myself into the arm chair I chose to sleep in, I felt a rib in my upper left chest slip out of place with a pop. This slipped rib caused me pain all throughout recovery, popping in and out of place and affecting my comfort level while trying to rest.  Those few days were some of the most painful, uncomfortable, nauseas days I've ever had. I was given a pillow in the shape of a heart with a real heart pictured on the front to hug while I adjusted (keeping me from pushing with my upper body and ruining my internal sutures). Pillow in hand, I was pushed by physical therapy to start walking immediately. Uncomfortably attached to a urinary catheter I pushed myself up and down the hall. One evening (I believe day 3), the catheter was pulled, which also stopped the diuretic medication I was on to reduce fluid retention in my body. They started me back on my confusing IV treatment regimen, and even used my port for blood draws (much to my surprise, usually they won't touch a medi-port if they did not install it). I was started on Metoprolol, a beta blocker medication to reduce heart rate and blood pressure through recovery. The dose is started small and increased over time while your body takes three or four days to adjust to the new levels. At first it can make you feel really tired and abnormal, but once you adjust it reduces your anxiety levels, helps you sleep, and is better for your recovering tissue. The changes my body experienced kept me busy for those few days while the pathology department looked over my clotted mass to decipher the 'myxoma' and its origins. Up until this point, we were told it was a right atrial myxoma, a non-cancerous collection of slow growing tissue inside the heart. Usually these masses are attached by a stock, need removal at some point (or are found in autopsy), and there is no explanation to their cause. We wouldn't know otherwise until seven days after surgery. See 'Pathology Results' post for more info.

Artery IV spots, painful bruising

After the chest tubes and catheter were removed, the pacing wires were pulled out. That was not nearly as painful as the chest tubes, but it was the same sort of pulling, sliding, grinding, uncomfortable feeling. It ached afterwards for a short time, but there was no stitches to tighten or worry with on the skin, which helped. I had a new IV put in my other arm which only lasted for a day, but did not leak around the entry site or sting. One of the best things I experienced was before being dismissed from the hospital I got to use special adhesive remover pads, and get all the gunk off of me from the tapes and stickers. That shower was great, and that night I had a visit from my best friend Rose and my boyfriend Robbie. It was great to have different faces in the room and be in a clean state of mind while they sat with me. My father had returned home after the two night stay at David's house, and my mom stayed in the bed in my room. The bed (which I swear was broken) adjusted every 20 seconds on the dot, even if you were not in it, and the constant movement was too painful for me to relax with. I chose instead to rest in the armchair surrounded by pillows and reclining my swollen legs and feet on the unstable footrest (usually we supported the footrest with another plastic chair to keep it from suddenly falling closed). It's sad when a surgery patient chooses the chair instead of the bed because the bed is just that annoying. We were told most heart surgery patients choose the reclined position instead of laying flat for the first two weeks. I think the reason is because the bed's are worse than the chairs. Plus when you are fighting nausea, the last thing you want is to lay down flat.

New IV with a smiley!

Day three is when I began to stretch how good I was feeling (after the medicine adjustments, tubes being removed, an uneasy shower, restless nights, and still struggling). I just wanted to go home and be in my own bed, instead of feeling couped up at a hospital. I received my wish, and with hopes to a night of sleep without being poked or prodded awake every hour, I left on day 4 for the bumpy trip home, and some KFC.

Open Heart Surgery, ICU Recovery

It's called open heart surgery. Specifically it was an intra cardiac tumor removal by route of sternal incision.  Since that is too technical, and people look at you funny when you respond with that as an answer to their simple question, they stick with a traditional approach, "I had open heart surgery."

Those words would not ring the same in my ears after this April fool's day in 2014. I knew this the night before the surgery, as I scrubbed down with antibacterial soap and lined my stuff up at the door. This was a telling moment for me, I would never again look in the mirror and see a scar free surface. The small white marks from previous laparoscopic procedures were about to be erased with the distraction of a morbid crease down the center of my body. I stared in the mirror for a long time, just processing the sight. I was mentally preparing myself for the hours, days, weeks, even months ahead. I knew that night was the end of something, maybe a sort of innocence or an unknown territory. Something was reaching a conclusion, and the fear was creeping over me.

I had to leave the house at around three in the morning so I spent the night in a weird mood, opting not to give myself the opportunity to lie in bed worrying and instead to curl up on the couch with someone who saw me for more than my future of pain and struggle. We talked for hours and kept my mind busy with our small conversations. He took pictures of me laughing beside him and reminded me that all was going to be okay. As much as I wanted to believe it, I wasn't so sure that it would be okay. What if it was not okay, and I was not prepared enough, or did not tell someone I loved them enough? What then? I couldn't help but let the thoughts creep around my brain. I crawled into the back of my mother's red SUV and the hour and a half trip began. Within minutes I was overwhelmed with a solemn feeling, and the tears streamed down my face. "I feel like you're driving me to my death" I cried as my parent's heart broke in the front seat. Shortly after the words left my mouth I was lulled to sleep and did not wake up until we reached the hospital parking garage close to five A.M.

When I stirred awake I felt terrible. The lack of sleep, stress, and anxiety left me wanting to just curl up in a corner and vomit. The last thing I could think about was worrying further about the inevitable situation I was walking towards. The rest of the morning moved pretty quickly, as we checked in and immediately I was given a room to change and wait for surgery. The nurses bustled to and fro, asking a million questions to check me in and placing an IV in my left arm. Thinking back on it now, I actually don't remember being fearful at that point of the preparation. I met the people responsible for my life, took a final picture with my mother, and was quickly swept to saying goodbye. I meant it when I told my parent's goodbye and that I loved them. I was at peace with the situation, but I saw no light at the end of the tunnel. I thought that was it. A long seven years of Lyme suffering and medical mystery to be put to death by the irony of my case. I had always said 'Out of all my problems, I am thankful that at least my heart is okay!' and here I was facing the largest road bump in my trip through life thus far, being cut down the middle and spread like a sub roll for this operation. As grueling as it sounds, you must understand that the war going on emotionally inside me was much deeper. I was comforted by my faith, and I knew God had purpose and would see me through. I was worried for not my own well being, but the friends and family around me that needed me to make it through okay. I was encouraged by the possibility of an opportunity to experience something that might help me better support someone in my future. All these mixed emotions that I could hardly process, and the fear of the unknown left me numb.

They rolled the bed down a hallway and into a room full of people, shiny silver tools, equipment, and nothing I'd ever seen before. Technicians picked through buckets of stainless steel scissors and clamps on a platform straight ahead without turning around, and I became aware of the sedative not working enough to leave me uncaring. The blue sterile field I slid my own body onto was quickly surrounded by foggy faces who covered me in stickers, and placed cool patches across my center back and front as I lowered myself flat onto the table. I began to feel less scared, it was in full swing and there was no going back now. Before long I drifted to a point where I vaguely remember being asked where I went to school, and then the world faded from my senses.

The next 48 hours are a mixture of foggy memories and traumatizing moments. I did not care much for my surroundings, and I suffered through ICU with severe nausea and pain. I remember fits of throwing up, maybe four different times and the IV Zofran not being enough to stop the reaction. I remember bleeding from my canulated leg incision where the heart and lung bypass machine was run into my major vein. I didn't notice much as nurses tackled me to apply pressure and a brick of sand to the leg to stop the hemorrhage. Even two weeks later I still have a large bruise called a hematoma covering my entire thigh from that one wound.

Right thigh, hematoma, before it got worse!

I begin to remember my experiences on day two of post surgery life. I truly do believe this is for the best, because I have a feeling that the ICU stay after the four hour surgery and day one of recovery were the worst time in my life. The body tends to block out trauma from our memories, in an amazing phenomena not yet fully understood by psychology. All I know is it was certainly on my side through that part of the surgery. Also on my side, the hands of the surgeon and team that got me through that surgery. I may not have realized it immediately, but I was alive and I would appreciate that quality so much more from then on out.