My heart stopped beating
I was taken there after several weeks of house arrest. The night before, I was given a last supper, with sherry, presented in cut glass. They weighed and measured me, took swabs from various orifices, and bled me. After being scrubbed, head to toe with pink disinfectant, and my mouth rinsed out with antiseptic, I was clad in a standard issue gown, lain on a gurney and wheeled into a white room, with various items of equipment laid out on white benches. Green covered faces with gentle voices looked down on me and took my hand.
An aging, overweight woman, I’d been finding increasing difficulty keeping up with my pals when rambling through the Scottish countryside, opting for shorter, flatter walks. A couple of years ago on a warm summer’s day, strolling along by the local river, I was overcome by breathlessness, having to stop on a bench to recover, and needed yet another rest before reaching home. What was happening? I dug out my stethoscope and listened to my chest: ‘Whoosh! Whoosh!’ Had I ever heard such a loud murmur before? This led to regular cardiac monitoring.
The sonographer’s eyes looked serious as she carried out my third ECHO. It is difficult to finely judge a person’s expression when their mouth is covered by the inevitable COVID-19 mask, but she threw a concerned glance to her colleague. She gave me the report to take back to the clinic. As soon as I was outside the room, I opened it (what else would you expect? The envelope wasn’t sealed anyway). The individual numbers didn’t mean much to me, but the words “Severe Aortic Stenosis” jumped out. I handed it to the doctor, who called in the consultant.
‘It will only get worse.’
‘The valve needs to be replaced.’
‘Open heart surgery.’
‘Heart-lung machine.’
‘Your heart will be stopped.’
I was overwhelmed. Somewhere at the back of my mind I’d known that it might come to this sometime in the future, but I was not prepared for it so soon.
All I could think of was that I must speak to my children.
I had to admit that my condition was deteriorating. I was still going for regular COVID-19 walks, but they were becoming shorter; my chest was tighter and my breathing more laboured. Ahead of me a steep flight of steps led back to the main path. A man was waiting at the top for me to ascend, so I didn’t want to delay him any more than necessary. I grabbed onto the handrail and hauled myself up, making slower and slower progress until I was almost crawling on hands and knees by the time I reached the top. A brief smile and nod to the man, then I clung to a post to regain my breath, experiencing a distinctly odd shakiness inside. Would I manage to make it back home? I sought out convenient walls and tree stumps as resting places en route, and eventually sunk into an armchair and was resuscitated with a mug of hot chocolate.
I knew that we had to proceed with the operation.
Over the past few years, I’ve been increasingly aware of my mortality, as friends and celebrities of my own age died. Now this was all brought into sharper focus. What would happen to all the thoughts, ideas and memories inside my head when I die? I suppose they just become nothing. The horizon ahead was brown and featureless; I could make no plans. Would I ever see my little grandsons again? I sought out a copy of my will and updated it.
What scared me most was the prospect of my heart stopping beating. When I was a young doctor, this sort of surgery was last-ditch attempt with a high mortality rate. The cardiothoracic surgeon, took my concerns on board, explaining details of the procedure, and adding, ‘This is what I do all the time.’ Which I did find quite reassuring.
So that is how I came to be trusting my life to the hands of the surgical team with a machine taking over from my own heart pump.
I awoke in a large white corner. Looking down, I could see concertinaed tubes on each side of my face, smaller tubes dripping fluid, and, to my right, a bank of monitors beeped quietly. Blue-clad figures moved silently around and behind me, exchanging nods and soft words above my head, kind eyes above their masks. Opposite, men in white dungarees were washing down the wall, pausing each time a group in scrubs strode through the swing doors, including the surgeon who stopped by my bed and told me all had gone well, and I’d be transferred to the ward.
The other three women in the room were a chatty lot; we exchanged details of our conditions and past lives. As COVID-19 regulations were easing, my son was allowed to visit at a set allocated time – it was lovely to see his familiar face each evening.
I learnt to shower myself (with the same pink disinfectant), being careful round the waterproof dressings, wires and bruises. Eventually I was able to make little forays into the ward corridor and even tackle stairs, under a physiotherapist’s supervision. On the ward round I was declared fit to go home, one of the doctors even remarked that he could not hear a murmur!
I’m home, sitting in my own front garden. The dark red leaves on the Japanese maple have opened out, Morning Glory peek through the weeds on the wall, and bluebells nod at the smiling pansies. Birds are twittering merrily above and the sun is warming my bruised skin. Neighbours come by, bringing flowers, chocolates, pastries and cups of tea. In socially distanced fashion, we celebrate the success of my surgery and the beginning of the rest of my life.
If you've been affected by this piece, please see our support page(this link will open in a new window) for help and advice.