Last February was National Heart Month, so I decided to go for a PET scan. Shortly thereafter, my physician referred me to a cardiologist, who said I needed a stent immediately.
A few days later, I woke up in the hospital. The cardiologist went in through my arm, but didn’t install the stent. I was annoyed and asked why not.
“Because you’d need over a dozen of them. All four arteries coming from the heart are clogged between 65 percent and 85 percent.”
“That’s strange, I run the treadmill for a half-hour two days out of every three, and on the third day, I lift weights and do floor exercises. In fact, I’ve been active all my life. Up until my knee replacement three years ago, I rode my bicycle up Mount Soledad every other day.”
“Consider yourself lucky," he responded. "The heart will build ancillary bypass arteries. But if a chunk of plaque had broken off one of the main arteries, you’d have had a stroke or a heart attack. I’m going to refer you to a surgeon for a quadruple bypass.”
Although it was hard to believe I needed this radical procedure, two of my younger siblings and my mother all had cardiac surgeries before me, so I conceded.
My friends were concerned and asked if I was aware of how invasive this surgery was. Sure, I told them, same as my knee replacement. They put you under, you wake up feeling like sh*t, and it takes weeks to recover.
Some of them warned that this was a lot more serious than a knee replacement. “Right, but once I’m under, I have no control whatsoever, and I’m not about to worry over things which are beyond the power of my will,” I responded, paraphrasing Epictetus.
What wasn’t beyond the power of my will was my choice of surgeon and anesthesiologist. I researched them all carefully and selected the best ones in SoCal. I had to wait a few weeks till they were available, but managed to book them both for my surgery. After that, I left matters to Providence.
Following the procedure, I woke up in the ICU with more hoses coming out of me than the boiler on a locomotive. I was also hooked up to a bunch of wires going to a box on my chest. I suspected it communicated directly with the nurse's station because as soon as it detected I was about to doze off, one of them rushed in to stab me with a sharp object – day or night.
Through sleep deprivation and powerful medications, they were able to keep me subdued like Joe Biden or Mitch McConnell. My voice sounded like RFK Jr. and I walked with baby steps like Tim Conway playing the old man role on The Carol Burnett Show. I’d never felt so decrepit in my life.
After the ICU, they took me to a sixth floor room with windows along two walls and a great view of the sunset over the ocean.
A (hospital) room with a view.
I was looking forward to watching the Super Bowl but couldn’t find it anywhere on the TV dial. I blamed it on the medications but called tech support anyway. It took them over an hour and some special equipment to get the channels sorted out. If the last half of the game was any indication, I didn’t miss much.
No matter what they called it, every meal in the hospital consisted of some kind of gray mystery meat devoid of all flavor and texture. Fortunately, an angel from heaven visited me twice per day bringing colorful, flavorful, nutritious foods that sustained me during this ordeal. She stayed for four or five hours each visit and held my hand during the difficult times. I’m very fortunate to have Lady Di as my wife.
Although the scar on my chest is quite tidy, my upper leg turned blue, indicating blood loss. I needed two transfusions, which set me back a couple of days.
On the seventh day I’d had enough. I got up on the side of the bed and told Lady Di that we are leaving. She told the nurse, who told the physician's assistant, who checked me out, talked to Lady Di, and an hour later, a close friend showed up in his roomy SUV to get us the hell out of there. I couldn’t believe the escape was successful till we pulled away from hospital property. I had visions of orderlies running after the car to haul me back to the asylum.
If you feel the need to get away from it all for a week or two, do nothing but lounge around and relax, and have every need catered to by concerned attendants, visit Hawaii or the Caribbean. Don’t go for a quadruple bypass.
For the first few days after I got home, I thought I was making terrific progress. On the fifth day, I felt like I’d run into a stone wall on my motorcycle. Fortunately, that was the day we were scheduled for an appointment at the surgeon's office. They found a massive infection in my leg where the arteries had been pulled for the bypass.
Complications after the surgery.
They loaded me up with antibiotics and after that, I didn’t have enough energy to sustain a phone call. Fortunately, Lady Di filled the gap with texts and phone responses to concerned family and friends.
It was another week before I started to feel alive again, which is when I commenced this article.
I see my surgeon again next week. Before the procedure, he said that the bypass would likely buy me a couple of decades. If in 20 years, he suggests buying me another 20, I’m going to politely decline – no offense intended.
B. Jan leaves the hospital with gratitude to those who helped him.
All images courtesy of Lady Di.
