Broken Hearts and Bedside Vigils

I need to write about this, if for no other reason than to get it out of my system. Don's hospital stay has by far been the most excruciating experience of my existence. I have never prayed so much, cried so much, hurt so much, or experienced so many emotions in such a short span of time.

It started Monday, February 11th. I was texting Don about my commute home, and that I should be home by 6 pm. He calls me as they begin boarding and tells me that he's in the hospital as of midnight the previous night. He will have his triple bypass surgery on Tuesday morning. A wave of nausea washes over me as an invisible fist punches me in the gut. I ask if he's in any pain, he says "not now." I tell him to get some rest, ask if he needs me to bring him anything, and that I'll see him tonight. I fire off a desperate email to the LOA office at work, and by the time I get to St. Louis, I'm granted the time I need.

Meanwhile, I spent the whole flight to St. Louis wiping the tears from my eyes and trying not to fall apart. I managed to make it to my car and let loose with loud, uncontrollable sobbing. It was a wonderful, much-needed release! There. That should get me through tomorrow, I thought.

I spent the night before his surgery next to his bedside, as the staff interrupted every few hours to scrub him (three times), give him medication, take his vital signs, take his blood, etc. The morning of his surgery, his son Aaron and daughter-in-law Roberta came to the hospital. We met the nurse who would be taking care of him post-op, and a few other people. Everyone who came into Don's room (with the exception of family and myself) seemed really excited for him to have his surgery, like it was a trip to an amusement park or something. His spirits were nervous, but optimistic.

The time came for him to be taken downstairs. Aaron and I left our stuff with Roberta and accompanied him in the holding room, where he would sign the consent forms and be prepped for surgery. The nurse gave him something to relax him and out came the electric clippers. I looked at his beautiful, flawless chest as they shaved his chest hair and legs. I shivered, but it had nothing to do with the temperature of the room.

The nurse liaison kicked us out and handed Aaron and I each a pack of Kleenex and her personal phone number. She said she'd come out during each phase of the 5 hour surgery and give us updates. Aaron's Pastor and a couple of his friends were waiting for us outside in the waiting room. We all held hands and prayed.

True to her word, the nurse liaison came out. "Surgery has begun." My nervous pacing began. An hour later, "He's on bypass" (where the heart is stopped and he's connected to the heart/lung machine that keeps him alive while the surgeon attaches the veins to the heart).

I was going through Kleenexes at a steady rate, but still holding up better than I thought I would. I looked at the pastor, the friends, Aaron and Roberta -  very kind, Christian folks who don't drink, don't swear, and don't make tasteless jokes about farts and body parts. I was so glad to have the company and support, but it was a challenge to keep my company manners and not make an ass of myself while being under emotional stress for such an extended period of time. WHY THE HELL DOESN'T THIS PLACE HAVE A FREAKIN' BAR?!? A sweet friend's amazing mother came by and delivered home-made chocolate fudge to me in the nick of time!

"He's off bypass. He separated from the heart/lung machine very well!"  My baby's heart is beating again!!! I felt a wave of relief. I thought the worst was over! "Surgery is complete. Expect to see him in the Intensive Care Unit in about an hour. The doctor will see you in 30 minutes." Everything went well. It was "as cherry of a case as they come." Still angry at having to face this day sober but in better spirits, I busied myself between the time we're told the surgery is complete until we're allowed to see him by concentrating on the idea that if this flying thing doesn't work out for me, I'm going to open a bar at the hospital. I'd make a killing. What shall I call it? I came up with a few names:

The Waiting Room
Stitches
Sutres
SutreSelf (I'm so clever!)
Scrubs and Suds
The Morphine Drip
The Medicine Cabinet

The nurse liaison interrupted my brainstorm, and let Aaron and I walk into ICU to see him. It was tough to see all those tubes in and around him, but conversations with friends who also had loved ones go through this surgery had prepared me for that. I found his face in what otherwise looked like a science fair project. He was sleeping, but I put my finger in his hand and said, "hi sweet baby."

Eventually, the ventilator tube came out, he was in and out of consciousness, and he was able to talk to us a little. When I was confident that the worst was over, I told him I was leaving for the night and that the staff would take excellent care of him. I kissed him and said, "I love you." He croaked out, "I love you, too."

This was big. In the 7 and a half years we've been together, not once has he told me he loved me. Before you get upset, just know that even though he doesn't tell me, he shows me. He just has a hard time saying the words, and so that I don't make him uncomfortable, I don't say them either. I know that I am loved, and he knows that he is loved. We just don't say it. It works for us.

I go to the grocery store, pick up a frozen pizza and a bottle of wine, with the intention of pigging out and getting drunk, because that is how I handle stress. No sooner had I put the pizza in the oven when Aaron calls me..... Don's blood pressure dropped significantly, his heart rate slowed to a crawl...... there's a team of people helping him....... I pull the pizza out of the oven, slam a glass of wine, and head back to the hospital.

My Donnie had "coded." I was in shock and denial. But, his surgery went well! He had surgery to prevent this from happening! How can it happen now?!? He has the best surgeon in the region!!  Later, we would find out that it's because one of the bypasses failed. Luckily, he didn't have to go back into the operating room. They reintubated him with the ventilator, and inserted what's called an Intra-aortic balloon pump through his leg all the way up to where it rests against his heart - basically it's a balloon that inflates during a certain part of every heart beat to 1) help the heart rest and 2) help it deal with the cocktail of medications coarsing through his system. There is a nurse assigned to watch him and only him the rest of the night.

His surgeon, who had also gone home because everything was a-ok, came out to the waiting room to talk to Aaron and me. He asked and answered the questions we were thinking, because neither of us was capable of intelligent conversation ourselves:
"Was it a heart attack? We're pretty sure it was.
Why did it happen? We don't know.
How much did it damage his heart? We won't know until this is all over. Perhaps months.
Is there the possibility that he won't make it? Yes, a very real one."

Later, when we were allowed to see Don again, I walked into his room by myself. I looked at all the machines, displaying all kinds of numbers and waves, and heard the rhythmic clicking of the balloon pump. It was night time. As long as he was sleeping, he wasn't hurting. I gently closed my hand around his foot and softly told him that Aaron and I are just around the corner. "You're not alone, sweet baby. Just rest and get better." Over the speakers in the room, I heard the sweetest, saddest, most beautiful music..... classical.... strings.... is that? Brahms' Lullaby!? Giant tears flooded my eyes and streamed down my cheeks as I held my breath. I looked at his face.... all those machines keeping him alive..... him sleeping peacefully... and that music... that fucking music! The music was what set me over the edge. It was so sweet and so beautiful and so cruel. I quickly walked out of there and into the waiting room. My legs were unsteady, so I rested against a pillar. I squeezed my eyes shut and my mouth gaped open in a silent scream. Why God, WHY?!??!?  I finally breathed again and managed to make it to the ladies' room before having a complete emotional breakdown.

 I screamed at the walls, I screamed at God, I screamed at Don. Don, my world, my everything! The one I want to share every beautiful thing that life has to offer..... and there's a chance he won't be coming home!?? I left the restroom feeling no better, just beaten, exhausted, and utterly heartbroken.

Aaron and I spent the night in the cold waiting room of the ICU. Neither of us got any sleep. The following day, not much changed. He remained on the balloon pump and the ventilator. He was awake enough to let us know how much he hated the breathing tube. Aaron and I left the hospital long enough to shower and get a meal, only to return to the hospital again. We spent another night in the ICU waiting room. In between cries, we'd get coffee or hot chocolate.

The next day was Valentine's Day. I bought a small sequined heart to hang in his room. I showed it to him, and through all the tubes, he smiled. They gradually weaned him off the balloon pump. When he handled that well, they weaned him off the ventilator. They fed him ice chips. He no longer needs a nurse with him 24/7. It was a good day.

Followed by a bad night, of course. His heart went into Atrial Fibrillation, or Afib - or irregular heart beat. He has a history of it, and I hear that it's "normal" after heart surgery. His pulse was racing - 150+ beats per minute. Especially terrible because we were trying to rest his heart! I'm allowed to "sleep" in the recliner next to his bed, which makes him feel better. After several nights of this, I determine that there's no way that anyone gets any rest in the hospital. The endless parade of professionals begins around 4:30 - 5:00am and doesn't end until midnight. Once people start coming in to his room, you can kiss any sleep goodbye. Thank God the coffee was complimentary.

By day 7, doctors determine that he's well enough to get out of ICU and into a private room. Days are good, nights are full of anxiety. Finally, a week and a half after he entered the hospital, he was discharged!

I asked a nurse why I heard Brahms' lullaby. Evidently, they play it every time a baby is born. Isn't that sweet? They said that it's broadcast throughout the whole hospital, and that they'll often have elderly ladies (on lots of drugs) walk down the hallway as it's being played, convinced they're dying and headed into the light. I guess I'm not the only one who was touched by that music.

It is so good to have my Sweet Cheeks back home. I am forcing him to eat my healthy cooking. He even likes some of it! I am acting wife, mother, nurse, chef, cheerleader, and personal trainer. I am exhausted! But, I am ever so humbly thankful that he's back home with me. There will be doctor appointments to find out what his heart attack means to him - how much of the muscle was damaged, see if he can get a stent for the failed bypass, etc. The nights are still full of anxiety for him, and at times I feel so useless because I can't help him. He's not convinced he's going to recover sometimes. But, we know the recovery process is a slow one, and I do my best to remind him of how far he's come already. Every day, I see an improvement in him. Baby steps add up to great strides.

One thing I will never forget - how many of my friends and family prayed for us, sent us "good vibes," and otherwise gave their emotional support and encouragement. I am truly touched at how many of you helped me when I had trouble keeping it together emotionally.

Thank you. Please take care of yourselves.