The thing you have to understand is that I’ve never been a big fan of literalizing metaphors.
A few months ago, a 15 year relationship I had had with a woman ended. It’s not so much that she was an alcoholic, which by definition means that she lied about everything, up to and including her own existence. Ultimately, I had to accept the fact that she had no love for me; the fact that she was empty inside and had no love for anybody was cold comfort.
Around the same time, I began to get a tightness in my chest whenever I exerted myself. I went to see my family doctor, who suggested I get a stress test because there clearly was something wrong with my heart. The stress test revealed that, yes, indeed, my heart was literally broken.
I prefer the metaphoric version.
It took two months for me to see a heart specialist. This was taken by my family as a sign that I wasn’t seriously ill; after all, if my condition was life-threatening, I would have been sent to see the specialist right away. Right? Well. The specialist scheduled me for an angiogram two days later, and told me I could have heart surgery done a week after that. Optimism is such a fragile thing.
My heart troubles have become an odd little bonding experience for my father, who had bypass surgery when he was 55, and I. For instance, I was told I would have to stay in the hospital for four to six hours after the angiogram. “Do you know why they keep you that long?” my father asked.
“To heal?” I naively responded.
“In case your artery collapses,” my dad knowingly explained.
“Collapses?” I squeaked.
“They’re putting a tube in you. When they take it out, well, if anything happens, it’s best if you’re in the hospital surrounded by medical people.” There was a long silence, then my father helpfully added: “They didn’t tell me that until after they performed the operation.”
I WONDER WHY!
When I arrived at the hospital I was given a gown and booties to put on. The nurse pulled a curtain to give me some privacy, but on the other side of the enclosure was a window that looked down onto the lobby of the hospital two floors below. The blinds were almost entirely drawn, but only almost. Some day, I expect to see my sorry ass on some uphospital gown Web site. I hope customers cancel their subscriptions in embarrassment.
I couldn’t find the opening to one of the booties. I thought it was broken. However, the next time the nurse came in, she opened it for me. Apparently, I was what was broken.
An angiogram involves puncturing a hole in your body, either in your femur or your underarm. The doctors involved used the term “puncture” several times. I felt like a tire that had run over a piece of glass on the road. To prep me for this operation, a nurse shaved me. I couldn’t help but notice that she shaved a wide area down my leg, a much larger area than the location of the operation. When I asked her about this, she had a one word answer: bandage.
It’s true. Taking the bandage off the back of my hand to remove the IV drip hurt more than the actual operation itself. (NOTE: you know in movies when a character pulls out his own IV drip and runs out of a hospital room? Wouldn’t ever happen. The hole from the IV would bleed like a son of a bitch. More proof, as if more proof was needed, that movies lie.)
While I was lying in my bed waiting for the operation, somebody who eerily resembled Luis de Funes walked into the hospital area and looked around. I found this more than a little unnerving. Madcap slapstick antics are funny as long as you’re not one of the people hooked up to an IV.
After several hours of waiting, I was wheeled into the operating room. The team consisted of my heart specialist, another doctor, a pair of nurses and somebody working the computers. At least, I assume the woman behind the console was working the computers. For all I knew, she was playing Shadow of the Colossus.
You have to be awake for the angiogram in case something unpleasant happens inside of you, so I was given a local anesthetic to freeze the area in which I was to be punctured. A good one, too. There was a little discomfort, a little pinching, then, over the surface of much of my leg, a warm tingling. When I asked the assistant doctor what that was, he told me, “That’s just blood.”
Damn good anesthetic.
Once the hole was made, a spaghetti-like tube was inserted into my groin. As you may know, men are sensitive about using the words “spaghetti” and “groin” in the same sentence. It’s just this fearless type of reporting that, if there is any justice in the world, will win me my first Pulitzer Prize.
Hovering over the bed was an x-ray machine that sent black and white images of the interior of my chest to a computer monitor. (And, thank goodness for that: I probably would have fainted if the images were in colour, which would have defeated the whole purpose of the local anesthetic.) There was a throbbing in the grey field – my heart? Periodically, the doctor would inject a radioactive dye into my chest through the tube which would momentarily illuminate different arteries so that he could see – wow, did I mention I could actually see my heart? Beating? In my chest?
The angiogram took about 45 minutes, then I was wheeled back to holding area, which contains 24 beds separated by curtains around a nurses’ station. A nurse clamped my leg to the bed to stanch the bleeding. Literally, clamped it – I felt like some kid’s grade 12 shop assignment.
While the nurse was clamping my leg to the bed, my hospital gown rode up on me, exposing my genitals. Unfortunately, she hadn’t thought to close the curtain on my roomlet; after a couple of minutes, another nurse came and did so. In the meantime, I imagined seeing Japanese tourists gather outside my little space. At least, I hope I imagined it.
After an hour, the clamp was removed, replaced by a sandbag that read: “DO NOT REMOVE.” Do not remove? What? The sandbag? My leg? Keith Moon? Great! It did a lot of good for the Who drummer, didn’t it?
The angiogram revealed that I have four blockages in the arteries around my heart, which will require bypass surgery. At first, I felt like I had won some kind of competition: my father had had only three bypasses – I beat him! And, he was ten years older than I am now! Woo hoo! I will never understand male competitiveness.
Fortunately, this soon passed, and we were back to bonding. When I told him what the prognosis was, he explained how weak you get after bypass surgery (which I expected), and that the most pain you will feel from it was from your leg where they take the material to create the bypass (which I hadn’t expected). We went shopping for a new bed, one with adjustable head and legs, to make me more comfortable when…you know. Yeah, I’m not that clear on male bonding, either.
So. A week after the angiogram, I met with a heart surgeon who made it clear that they’re going to have to crack my chest open to fix my heart. Crack my chest open – like lobster tails. I have an image in my head of gourmet doctors in sterile bibs saying things like, “You know, I never can remember which wine is supposed to go with open heart surgery…”
And, all of a sudden, getting punctured doesn’t seem so bad…