I'm Not Dead... Yet! (22 page)

Karla was honestly confused; when she realized I was ready to leave without saying a word about my ongoing symptoms, she simply said,“Robby’s having trouble breathing.”

I laughed it off and shot her our first ‘dirty look.’

I thought in my convoluted way, ‘This is me. It’s the way my body works. Let’s stop ‘paying the man’ too much insurance money.’

The doctor said, “While you’re here, let’s get an echocardiogram,” gave us the paperwork, sent us downstairs, then said “Don’t worry, this test will give us a clear picture of what’s going on with your heart. I’ll look at it and my office will call you next week to set a follow-up appointment.”

It was October 1984. My first real heart test was an
echocardiogram.

I was naked from the waist up in an examination gown opened in the front. Before the technician came into the room I did what I had always done—anything humanly possible to make Karla laugh. I picked up every piece of medical equipment, even pretending to do the procedure on myself in areas that have nothing to do with the heart, to the point we were both laughing hysterically. It was some kind of comic pressure release for both of us, as my long kept secret was out—we now had experts in charge of my heart.

The cardiac ultrasound technologist walked in and lowered the lights. I was told to lie on my left side with my right arm over my head. She squirted cold gooey gel on the flat surface of a two-inch wide, six inch long ‘wand,’ and proceeded to glide it along my torso, around my heart, looking for ultrasound images on a black and white monitor and recording specific views of my heart, its chambers and valves (on VHS tape; old equipment in today’s world, but cutting edge at the time). Every once in a while she’d turn up the volume and we’d be treated to the loud sound of my heart beating.

What we didn’t understand (and the technician was forbidden to discuss with us), was the ‘whooshing’ sound after each heart beat. That was my aortic valve ‘regurgitating’—unable to close properly, forcing blood to leak back into my heart.

The experience was cold and a bit creepy, but I decided to relax and just let it all happen. Karla held my feet the whole time and I fell asleep…

What is an echocardiogram?

Echocardiogram

Basically, an echocardiogram is harmless and painless.

The next morning the phone rang at 6:30 a.m. Karla picked it up quickly trying not to wake the baby. It was the nurse from UCLA saying Dr. Guzy wanted to see me today—as soon as possible. Could we arrive by 7:30 a.m.?

Karla said, “Yes. We’ll be there.” We stared at one another for about 15 seconds, both of us realizing this was not a movie and no one was going to yell ‘Cut!’

We arrived at UCLA and I stared into Karla’s beautiful, brown eyes. She looked so vulnerable, so young. This is when it hit me:
whatever was happening to me was also happening to the people I love.

“Take any heart, take mine! Take heart, take heart: taaaaake heart!”

I could handle the pain; I could handle the fear; I could handle the unknown—because eventually I would become familiar with the unknown. This was going to happen to me whether I liked it or not. The unknown for me would become tangible. Karla, my parents, my sister—they would always be in a void of some kind. They would never feel the pain, only imagine the depth of it. I’ve learned the unknown is a much more frightening than being the vessel experiencing the corporeal. Feeling things physically was concise and substantial—whether it was pain, discomfort or mental anguish. I, at least, would have an understanding and familiarity with this dark unknown. On the other hand, my loved ones would always be in the dark, unknowing
…

Whatever was about to happen to me became secondary. Whatever ordeal was ahead, my goal would be to keep my loved ones feeling safe. Never was there to be a single doubt; I would show no hint of fear. That was my duty. Now I truly was ‘The Slave of Duty!’ (Soft? No edge? Ha! The ironies in life are comical. I prefer my sarcasm served with a restrained tang of mockery.)

At 7:30 a.m, I watched the cardiologist carefully, studying him as he took a sip of water, smacked his lips, then looked ‘beyond’ us—avoiding any emotional connection—and with stolid temperament said, “Robby, you’re going to need open-heart surgery.”

My eyes went straight to Karla; she was trying to hide a flush of fright. I now had a real-life, highly dynamic task to use all my skills to protect Karla from her imagination. I began writing the script in my head (why couldn’t Eric Roberts get
this
part?):

Close-up: Robby. We hear his (corny) voice-over.

ROBBY V.O.

From this second forward, no one worries. I’ll be the best patient to walk the Earth and we’ll get out of here as fast as possible. I’ll heal and be back to work in no time. It will almost be as if I never had open heart surgery. And no one I love will ever feel vulnerable or frightened.

That was my script. I was simultaneously writing it as the cardiologist was talking. Happy ending—we needed a happy ending. Sure, conflict was good, but this would be a Disney film. The surgery will be shot with no blood. I’ll heal in a montage. We need old-fashioned, propaganda corn. We also need a love song, a pop love song:

original demo

No—that’s too ‘soft.’

original demo

Better! With that song, we just grabbed a bigger demographic. Our first weekend will be boffo box-office and Karla is already smiling. That is a smile, right? Crap—she’s wincing. What
is
the Doctor saying?

I watched his lips moving. “
First you’ll have to go through a series of procedures. Some will be slightly uncomfortable. Others will be invasive. We need to know everything we possibly can about your heart before we open up your chest.
”

“So, um…” Karla was trying to absorb that image and still ask good questions, “Robby doesn’t have heart disease, he has something wrong with a valve?”

“Robby’s arteries are perfect. But,
he has a congenital defect called a bicuspid aortic valve. Instead of three leaflets, Robby’s aortic valve has two.”

It’s actually basic mechanics: Simply put, a perfect aortic valve has three leaflets that open and close. This action allows blood to be pumped from the heart and sent to the the body as they open, and stops blood from leaking back into the heart chamber as the leaflets close. Because I was born with only
two
leaflets, my heart was not performing properly and the pumping action progressively became highly inefficient.

Theoretically, this also explains why I felt better when I exercised. Exertion made my heart work harder and in doing so, it forced more oxygenated blood to the places that made me feel… alive. My valve was now so damaged and the leakage so severe, that my heart had become enlarged to the point of looking like a “saggy water balloon.” (But I was not thinking about that, I was thinking: Maybe we should walk over and see what’s playing at the movie theater down the street in Westwood. What I wouldn’t do for some pop and a box of Hot Tamales... Thank God Karla is taking notes!) Somewhere in there I did hear the doctor say I’d need surgery in the next two weeks, as I was in danger of heart failure.

And all along I thought I ate too much candy, not enough fiber, was over-stressed and was a hypochondriac.

Dr. Guzy’s nurse handed us a few ever-so-slim pamphlets about heart catheterizations, valve replacement, and open heart surgery—but my eyes couldn’t stop staring at the diagram where the foley
catheter
goes into the penis and stays in the bladder, thanks to the inflation of a small balloon. It may be juvenile, but that… bothered me somewhat. Okay, a lot.

I kept thinking, ‘It’s amazing how little information we need for a surgery where they’re going to saw my chest open and try to repair my heart. I’d get a bigger manual if I were buying a toaster.’ And then Dr. Guzy gave us the most important information of all: if he had to have my operation, his choice for a surgeon would be Dr. Hillel Laks.