OPEN HEART SURGERY

One Man's Journey

by Voyle A. Glover

Have you ever been in total darkness? I used to guide tours in a popular, western underground cavern. At one point, we'd stop and turn out all the lights. The results were always spectacular for the tourists. Most of them had never experienced total darkness. There was absolutely no light. You could hold your hand in front of your eyes and there was nothing to be seen.

Often, I have been in darkness–not total–and had to feel my way through the darkness. As a boy who grew up barefooted in the woods of Louisiana, there were many times when I'd be out in the night, walking slow, unsure of where the road went, or the path, and straining to see dim shapes that were familiar in order to find my way home.

Sometimes life can be that way. For me, there was a long period of time, years actually, where I felt very much like someone in the dark, feeling his way, unsure of where the path was at, unsure at times, of where the path even led. The days were long, the future dark and uncertain, and every day became a struggle. My energy level was nil. I consulted a doctor who gave me a physical, sent me for some heart tests, and pronounced my heart to be in good shape. He suggested I lose a little weight and get more exercise. But nothing worked.

Years piled onto years. For me, it became a matter of simply putting one foot in front of the other and trusting I'd end up in the right place. At one point, I began hanging the "Closed" sign up on my office door. I didn't want to see anyone. I also began giving some of my caseload to other attorneys because I was unable to do the work. I not only did not have the energy, I found myself struggling to focus and having difficulty retaining important facts. It became apparent to me that I was having a short term memory problem. Frankly, I thought perhaps I was in the early stages of Alzheimer's disease.

It was a depressing time. I tried to conceal it from others, always putting my "best face" forward, trying to hide or disguise the depth of my fatigue. I attributed my fatigue to allergies, which I do have. As time passed, my allergies went from only in the Fall, to the Spring, then Summer. But, I was determined to figure out my problem. I changed my diet. Nothing. I began exercising. Nothing. No matter what I did, nothing worked. My exhaustion grew in the last year to the point to where I was lucky to be able to get one thing done in the office. Once, after an exhausting day, I told my wife on the phone that if I had a cot in the office, I wouldn't come home because merely driving home seemed such an enormous task.

Then, in the Spring of 2007, I woke up at 2 o'clock in the morning. I felt very strange. I wasn't sure what was happening. I dressed, turned on the computer, debated about going to the Emergency Room, hoping the feeling would go away, then got on the internet and emailed an attorney telling her I'd not be available for a settlement conference the next day. My wife was staying with our daughter, so rather than bother her (I have since been chastened by my wife and kids), I drove myself to the Emergency Room at Community Hospital in Munster, Indiana.

Once there, I called my wife. At the hospital, the ER doctor, a cardiologist, determined that I had arterial fibrillation. My heart was racing at 176 beats per minute. The lower half could not keep up and according to them, my heart was acting like a big blob of Jello, just quivering. Soon, they had it under control. I stayed in the hospital all day while they ran tests in order to determine whether or not to keep me. At the end of the day, the cardiologist gave me a final test, a chemical stress test. After the test, he patted me on the shoulder, told me my heart was fine, that he was releasing me, handed me a prescription for blood pressure medicine, and told me to come see him in 11 months.

I left a pretty happy man, glad to know my heart was in good shape, but still puzzled over why I was so fatigued. I had no idea that my heart was in serious trouble and that I was just a few gasps away from death. The following months are days that I vaguely recall. I was a man walking in a haze most of the time, just going through the motions. There were some memorable times, though. I drove my daughter and her two friends to Seattle, Washington. Actually, I drove the truck containing their worldly possessions. It was a long, arduous trip, made possible only because of some Vicodin I had from an old tooth extraction. Even then, it took everything I had to make the journey. I never let on to anyone how utterly exhausted I was, probably because I didn't want to worry anyone, plus I felt I could make it. I had no idea what a danger I was to myself and others.

Then, on November 2, 2007, I awoke at 6:30 a.m. feeling very uneasy. There was no pain, but there was a discomfort that I cannot describe. I knew I was in trouble, but wasn't sure why. I thought perhaps it was a return of the arterial fibrillation. I woke my wife and told her we needed to go to the Emergency Room. Once in the car, the discomfort grew. Indeed, with each minute it grew, to the point that I was groaning and whimpering by the time we reached the hospital. Once in the Emergency Room at St. Margaret's Hospital in Dyer, Indiana, the staff swept into action. They were good. Very good. Everyone knew exactly what to do. In probably less than a half hour, we were told that I had some major blockage in my heart. They then transported me to the main hospital in Hammond, Indiana, because the Dyer campus had recently been flooded and they were not yet operational.

Once at the hospital, I underwent some other tests. Dr. George Hodakowski, a heart surgeon of enormous skill and experience, loomed over me and informed me that they needed to do open heart surgery right away, that I had 98% blockage in two arteries, and over 80% in two others. He wanted to know if I consented. I nodded and said with a smile, "Let's do it."

Little did I know.

I awoke without pain, unsure of where I was, but instantly aware that I was out of surgery. I don't recall much in those early moments because I was so full of some powerful pain medications, but I've been told by my son that when he saw me, prior to my awakening, that "You looked like Gran after she died. You were greyish and your mouth was slack."

The days following were tough ones. I didn't know the severity of my problems at the time, but I was in serious trouble early into my recovery. I had nightmarish days and nights of extreme heat, coupled with gasping for every breath. My bowels refused to move. I had renal failure. They considered an operation which, because of my recent surgery, could have been fatal. Those were brutal days, hazy, filled with nightmares and struggles of various kinds. Even going to the bathroom to have a bowel movement became a critical event.

I recall November 8th as one of the worst days because all day, I gasped for air. Every breath was a physical effort, and I had no energy–nothing. I struggled through ICU for many days, then finally was moved into a different ward as I began gaining ground. On November 13th, I went home. I was bone-tired, having only slept an hour the night before because a new patient came in around midnight and all night, there were "events" in the room. Once home, I relished regaining my strength and getting back to work. In the hospital, I'd become excited because I discovered that I had my brain back. I could think! It was such an exciting event. I even outlined a book while there. In my mind, I calculated that within a couple of weeks, I'd be back on the computer writing and working withing a month.

Ah, but in just two days, I was back in the hospital. By the second day at home, every time I'd go to the bathroom, which was a 10 foot walk from my recliner, I'd return exhausted, gasping for breath. It would take me nearly half an hour to regain my breath. I called the doctor. He said to check myself back into the hospital. So, at four in the morning, my wife called 911. I couldn't even walk up the short steps to the main level of my home. They arrived promptly, did their preliminary stuff–questions, forms, and tests–then announced they would be taking me to Community Hospital. I informed them they'd not be taking me there. One man insisted, telling me the law required him to transport to the nearest hospital, and that Dyer was on "bypass," so it had to be Community. Fortunately for me, I looked pretty ugly, having not shaved for several weeks, and the lawyer in me came out, which made me look uglier, I'm sure. He finally grasped that he'd not be taking me there. They called another ambulance service which transported me to St. Margaret Hospital in Hammond.

Once there, I was again admitted. They got the breathing under control. But, they caught something else in all their testings, something that had not been present in the first period of time in the hospital. They did another doppler image scan (they'd done one during my first stay in the hospital) of my left leg, the one that had been used to harvest the arteries for my heart, and discovered a blood clot. Suddenly, what I thought was going to be a short stay in the hospital changed. During this stay in the hospital (11 days), I suffered in the bed. It was an instrument that brought insidious pain. (I confess, I hate hospital beds!) Finally, on the third day prior to discharge, I had an inflatable mattress placed in the bed which greatly relieved me.

But, even with that, I still did not sleep very well. Within two hours of my 10 p.m. meds, I would get extremely hot, so hot that I had the nurse turn the heat completely off (even though the temperature outside was in the low 30's and the room got very cold). One night, my wife was staying in the room and was sleeping on a chair. I told the nurse to turn the heat down, then got concerned with her getting cold. I mentioned it and within a few minutes, he crept back into the room and covered her with a blanket. This nurse was typical of my experience with the staff there at St. Margaret Hospital. They were kind. They were attentive. And some were even prayerful. Many went out of their way to help me through a difficult time. My hat's off to all the staff there at St. Margaret Hospital.

I went home tired, but happy. Indeed, I'd reached a point where I told the nurse that if the doctor's didn't discharge me, I was leaving anyway. I just could not take another night in that bed, even with the air mattress. As I told the doctor a few days before: "Doc, you might call this bed rest, but I haven't gotten more than two hours sleep a night since I've been here." Hospitals aren't made for rest, though the bed is the principal instrument used for patients there. I did have a little fun going home, though. I've a friend, Dave, who drives for a limo company. I asked him if he could pick me up. My wife was home and she'd been doing so much, spending nights at the hospital, and I knew she was exhausted. My friend said he'd be glad to do it, and then said he'd come get me in the stretch limo.

A diminutive Nurse's Aide wheeled me to the lobby. As she took me outside, she saw the waiting limo and gasped: "You hired a limo to come and get you?" I laughed and said, "I believe in going home in style." Then, I told her that it was a friend who'd volunteered to pick me up.

It was a ride to savor. I was so weary of the hospital. Since coming home, progress was not as rapid as I'd hoped. There's a lot of frustration due to a mind that wants to run and a body that refuses to cooperate. In the beginning days after the second hospital visit, I suffered tremendous pain in my leg, the one they'd used to harvest the arteries for my heart. Gradually, that disappeared. I suspect it was the bed-torture.

Speaking of torture: Physical Therapy is a system whereby some ladies are given permission to torture you, even while they're smiling. But, they're a great bunch and really do have a heart for their work and the patients to which they help in their exercises. I've seen much improvement in my stamina since taking the therapy. My brother-in-law, Don, who also had by-pass surgery, told me that it wasn't until he was nearly done with his therapy that he began to feel energy returning.

I'm excited about life again. I'm grateful for the miracles God performed, and they were many. I told my wife that, but for the grace of God, when we were going on that trip across the Dakotas and Montana with me in the lead and the women following in three cars, that my daughter Lydia, who was in a car with her mother behind me might have said: "Mom, where's Dad going? He can't go that way. Owwww! That's a long way down." I could have easily driven off the road and down a mountainside, or worse, but for the grace of God. But, even before that, guess who helped load the truck? Yep. There I was, grunting, sitting down and resting, then loading boxes, trying as hard as I could to have a heart attack.

Fortunately, God denied my efforts. I also tried to kill myself by joining a health club. I even went on something called a "Power Plate." It vibrates every fibre of your body, including blocked arteries. I really tried to shake loose those blockages, but God once more denied my efforts to kill myself.

I say this with all sincerity: my ordeal has been good. All good. Oh, from a human perspective, it's been "bad." I wouldn't wish the physical suffering on my worst enemy and would not go through it again for 10 million bucks. But, too often we see through our own eyes and not the eyes of God. All that God does is good. He gave me an experience I somehow needed. It wasn't one I'd have chosen, no more than Joseph would have chosen to be a slave and to be imprisoned. I am grateful to God for His timing. It was perfect. The doctor told my wife that if we'd been five minutes later in reaching the Emergency Room, I'd have been in a full-fledged heart attack, and the odds of surviving it were not good. As it was, there was no heart attack and no heart damage. And, the second trip to the hospital caught a blood clot that had been missed, and could have been fatal.

But, I have to admit that even the suffering had some good to it. I had never suffered in my life. Oh, I'd been sick a few times, and twice, I've been very sick. But, I had never truly suffered. I have now learned just a little about suffering. I wish everyone could suffer a little. It will change you. It will make you sensitive to others who suffer. As I lay in the hospital, I considered those who suffer and have no hope. At least I had the hope of doctors and medicine providing an answer. And, even if they did not have the answers, I had the hope of a God who heals, and who works miracles, and who hears the prayers of those I knew were praying for me. But, even if God did not choose to heal me, I still had the hope of my salvation. My heart goes out to those who suffer, truly suffer, without hope, without medicine, without a doctor or nurse, without prayer, and without God.

It is also good to have a true sense of one's mortality. It tends to put things in perspective. One comes to realize that truly, only the things done for Christ will last. The rest is "wood, hay and stubble." It also makes you grasp the importance of the "here and now" as to being what you are supposed to be for your family. Today becomes more important than tomorrow. I do not know why God lets some live and permits some to die. That is His province, not ours. But, I do know that when God lets someone live, it is for a reason. That reason usually has to do with finishing works He has for that person to do. It means glorifying God with that person's life. It means walking the rest of one's days with God, and not according to the flesh. So, it is good that I have suffered. It is good that I have undergone a rather severe ordeal. My ordeal is nothing compared to many. Some suffer with cancer. Some suffer other diseases that are fatal. Some suffer circumstances that are unspeakable.

I cannot complain. Indeed, I dare not complain. After all, as it is written: "What? know ye not that your body is the temple of the Holy Ghost which is in you, which ye have of God, and ye are not your own?" (1 Corinthians 6:19, from The Bible, a collection of ancient texts). As His property, God can do with it as He pleases. Who am I to question God? Who am I to protest?

And now you know, the rest of the story....

For a unique perspective on LOSING WEIGHT see the this short blog narrative.

Copyright 1999 Voyle A. Glover