One week past my open-heart surgery, and I am sitting here at home. I actually came home on Tuesday, making my hospital stay less than six days. Six days. Out of everything I’ve gone through, that amazes me the most. I was told it might be 3-5 days in the Coronary Care Intensive Care Unit or CCICU, and I could be on the regular floor for up to nine days. Call me an overachiever.
My surgery was on Thursday. The surgeons cut from the bottom of the breastbone to the suprasternal notch, the bottom of my throat. Then, they cut through the breast bone. They put me on a machine that would breathe for me and pump my blood, and then they stopped my heart. Once that was done, they got to work on my ascending aorta. The surgeons removed that, along with an inch or two of the aortic arch. Fortunately, I was able to keep my own aortic heart valve. The plan was to replace it with one made with tissue if needed.
The replacement ascending aorta is made of thick medical fabric. The surgeons attached one side to my heart and the other to the aortic arch. They restarted my heart, checked for leaks, and reassembled my chest. I woke up in the CCICU.
One of my main concerns afterward was pain management. I’ve had broken ribs before, so I knew what that pain was like. I’ve had numerous surgeries, so I knew what that pain was like. But I’ve never had a surgery like this. The pain management consisted of IV fentanyl and Oxycodone pills. A nurse would ask me if I needed any pain medication, and if I said yes, I got it. I knew they would only ask if I was ready for the next dose.
I also woke up to a heart-shaped pillow in my bed. This was for me to hug to my chest when I coughed or sneezed and would mitigate the pain. The front of the pillow had a heart on it, while the back of the pillow was blank. There was a small loop on the side that held a marker. As I convalesced, I would have various staff sign my pillow. It seems silly, but it was, one, a great way to show your appreciation for the care they gave, and, two, gave you a memento of your hospital stay.
An occupational therapist got me out of bed and encouraged me to walk. She said we didn’t have to go far, but this old Infantryman was like, “Aw, Hell naw!” We ended up making a complete lap around the floor. I was able to do another lap later. Mind you, this was the day after the surgery! I would have done more, but a staff member was required to be with me, and I didn’t want to take them from helping others just because I wanted to go on a walkabout. The therapist also gave me exercises I could do to keep scar tissue from forming that would limit my chest movement. I can’t push or pull with my arms, and I can’t lift more than five pounds in either hand or ten pounds using both hands.
A respiratory therapist worked with me on the incentive spirometer to start getting the anesthesia out of my lungs. That led to a lot of pillow-hugging. It also gave me something to do while I was in bed. I was moved out of the CCICU on Friday night to a regular room.
I was at Indiana University (IU) Health Methodist Hospital, located near the north side of downtown Indianapolis. It is an excellent hospital but an older building, so I had a roommate in the bed by the window. I didn’t see much of him. I know he was an elderly gentleman who seemed of foreign origin. He watched some videos in Spanish and another language I couldn’t recognize. He was discharged on Saturday, and another elderly gentleman took his place, a friendly fellow named Rick.
Rick was in for observation. I asked if he liked Frank Sinatra. He said he did, so I found a Frank Sinatra station on Amazon Music, and we listened to Frankie all evening. Rick is a US Army veteran. He served as a gunner in a tank, what Infantrymen call Tread Heads. I told him I identified as a dirty, nasty Leg, the usual definition of an Infantryman. We became buds. His wife was there as well. She and Rick have been married for 51 years. I could tell they were devoted to each other.
Every day I was on that floor, I would get an X-ray of my heart to check for bleeding. I walked the floor when I could and worked on my incentive spirometer. On Saturday, Robin was gone all day to get things done at home like laundry and groceries. I missed her terribly. Rick and I chatted quite a bit. His son made a surprise visit.
His son was a strapping young lad, by which I mean he was way younger than me and looked like the kind of man you would NOT want to cross—bald, bearded, and muscled. I listened to their conversation for a bit and even chimed in on occasion. They didn’t seem to mind.
I learned from Rick that his son had five tours with Force Recon Marines in Afghanistan. His imposing presence was well-earned, and I learned from the family conversation that he was a devoted husband and father. Talking with Rick later, I learned he definitely had Post Traumatic Stress (PTS). I talked to him about my brother Tom Satterly and his All Secure Foundation, a non-profit that provides couples and family therapies for special operations warriors and their families.
Robin came back on Sunday. She went to work on Monday and spent half the day on Tuesday. When she got to the hospital, I was ready to be discharged and go home. Man, was I ready to go home!
IU Health Cardiology is one of the best departments in the country. Dr. Abdulkareem was my lead surgeon, and he clearly knows his business. Sam, my occupational therapist; Kathy, my RRT; Duwan, my physical therapist (I was his first patient!); and Angie, Robyn, Paige, Jonah, Business, and Ahmad, my RNs, took very good care of me, both in the CCICU and on the regular floor. thank you to everyone who helped me recover.
So here I sit, a week after my surgery. I watch TV, listen to podcasts, hug my pillow, and try to get up and around as much as possible. One thing that hit home for me during this time is how much I genuinely love my wife, Robin. There was a vast difference in how I felt when she was with me and when she wasn’t. She has been supportive, and I could not ask for a more wonderful life partner. Thank you, baby!
I’m not dead yet!
Meditations of a Bald, Fat Guy 