I'm Not Dead... Yet! (59 page)

While I was waiting for my operation date, I kept in touch with my students via email and tried to help as much as possible.

The night before my surgery
I shaved myself, because I didn’t want to be shaved by a stranger this time. I took every hair off my body that I knew had to be hairless and clean for the surgical work that would follow: my torso and my groin, too. I even got into the whole shaving thing and shaved under my arms and most of my legs. I wanted to look like an Olympic swimmer. If I could never be an Olympian, at least I could look like one—Maybe I’d look like Mike? No, not this time either.

Finally, I didn’t have any hair to make for ‘drag’ in the pool of my Olympic surgery. I then did what they wanted me to do; I showered with a special soap, instead of the old, very cold Betadine that used to be swabbed on me after the dry shave in the morning.

I didn’t eat. It was another long night just wondering if it were to be my last night. I just wanted to hold my wife, and both my children. By now, Zephyr had finished his senior year of high school early and come to Cleveland, and so had my mom and dad. Even my sister was there. I was nervous, not scared—the feeling I felt before I went on the
Ed Sullivan Show
—a feeling I hadn’t felt since I was 14 years-old.

On May 25, 2010, the early, dark morning of the surgery, I had to go through the same routine again. At 4 a.m. I had to shower and wash with a special soap.

At the Cleveland Clinic, they allow your loved ones to stay with you longer than at any other hospital I’ve ever been to.

Then, off we went.

They wheeled me into an elevator. A clean elevator.

They wheeled me into the operating room.

It was cold.

They asked me if I wanted a blanket.

I said, “Yes, please.”

And, unlike in the past, this request was immediately granted. I now had a warm blanket on me.

There were two people staring at me in operating room garb along with paper hats and masks. I could only see their eyes. ‘What caring eyes,’ I thought. Not a hint of falseness; just compassion.

Someone told me they were going to give me an I.V. They gently checked my hands and arms and found the best possible place to insert the I.V.

I waited for the I.V. to be inserted.

“I thought you were going to put in the I.V.,” I mumbled quietly.

“We do that when you are asleep. There’s no reason for you to go through any more pain than is necessary. Even for an I.V.” someone in a mask said with a very gentle quality in their male voice.

“Are you scared?” the lady looking down on me asked quietly.

“No.” Then I thought, I don’t have to fool these guys. “Yes. I guess I am.”

“We’re going to give you something to help with anxiety.”

“Okay.”

They did.

And it worked.

I looked around and there were more people coming into the operating room.

“Good morning,” someone said—not in a condescending way. It was… just a nice thing to say.

“Good morning,” I said back.

“Are you feeling more comfortable?” the nice female nurse who never left my side said. And then she did something I’ll remember for the rest of my life. She took my hand.

“I want you to squeeze my hand if you’re a bit nervous.”

I didn’t want anyone to see, but I really squeezed her hand.

“I understand,” she whispered back to me.

She put her other hand on top of mine and now was completely giving me the kind of honest support that I thought only family members give to one another.

“How do you feel now?” a voice said. I knew it was coming from someone to the left of my feet but I wasn’t sure who actually asked.

“I’ve had a few of these operations and I’m ashamed to tell you, but I might have a high tolerance to some of the drugs.”

It wasn’t but a beat of three when I heard a voice ask me, “How about now?”

Oh dear Lord—I was no longer anxious and there was no such thing as fear, until I looked around to answer and saw everything in the room, and everyone in the room.

The nurse who was holding my hand whispered, “You’re going to do really well. We’re going to take really good care of you.”

Then a man about to place a plastic mask over my nose and mouth said, “I’m going to put this mask on you and all you have to do is breathe normally.”

“If I could breathe normally, then I’d better get out of here now.”

They laughed. Oh, thank you! If it was the last thing I did on this planet, I made someone laugh.

And that is the last thing I remember from the operating room.

They went to work
and diligently, miraculously, performed a Reverse Ross Procedure.

In medical terms, here is what they did that made the operation elaborately complex:

(According to my chart:) First, they performed a median sternotomy (or in my case, a
re-
sternotomy or, ‘re-re-re’), which basically means the first important thing that happened was that they made a vertical incision that begins about 6 inches above the belly button and goes upward to the sternum and then they split or crack the sternum, to divide it. Then, they performed an ascending aorta replacement with a 26-mm Hemashield graft using deep hypothermia circulatory arrest and retrograde cerebral perfusion. The right atrium was opened and a retrograde cardioplegia cannula was placed in the coronary sinus and the heart arrested with cardioplegia. This is where they cooled me down and stopped the heart and made sure there was no damage to the brain while they worked on the ascending aorta which, as they had told me, had an aneurism. My understanding of an aneurism and the medical interpretation for the ascending aortic valve in the heart are two different things. When I hear the word ‘aneurism’ I think of something that has burst. In my case, and in its simplest terms, they want to get to the problem
before
it bursts. They continued and performed an aortic root
re-
replacement with a composite graft including a 25 mm On-X valve and a 30mm Hemashield graft. Then the surgeon performed an aortic autograft pulmonary root replacement—which is basically the ‘Reverse Ross.’ They then placed the mediastinal drains so that the fluids could drain from my body. (The mediastinal drains are the dreaded drainage tubes I have discussed.) In other words: it’s miraculous. Dr. Gustav Pettersson is a remarkable surgeon but I am so grateful to everyone else who was in that room.

When I began to regain consciousness
after my chemical sleep in the ICU, I tried to get the attention of anyone because the breathing tubes were still down my throat. I only had this discomfort for about 60 seconds—someone was there almost immediately, and before I knew it, the tubes were out of my mouth.

With my contacts out, I squinted to see my surroundings. As blurry as it was, I could still see that this was an open area, not the carceral environment I was used to from past operations. I thought, ‘How smart. I can get a sense of everything and I don’t feel claustrophobic. I don’t feel like a prisoner.’

A man looked down at me. “How do you feel?”

I did a quick diagnostic check and was absolutely blown away by my answer, “I actually… don’t feel too badly. I mean, I hurt a little but… this doesn’t feel like any other operation I’ve ever had.”

“Good. I’m going to give you this button,” and he placed the small tubular device in my right hand “and if you feel like the pain is getting a bit too much, all you have to do is squeeze the top. You can’t get too much pain medicine because you’re only allowed to have so much every few minutes, so never worry that you’re giving yourself too much. We want you comfortable.”

The next thing I knew, Karla was there. She looked great.

“You look great,” I said.

“So do you,” she smiled. She had a worried look on her face but when we locked eyes, she seemed to be comforted. Maybe she saw that when I looked into her eyes, I felt comforted too.

“Everything went perfectly. I spoke to Dr. Pettersson and he was able to do the Reverse Ross procedure on you. Your pulmonary valve is ‘back home’ and looks fantastic—and your new mechanical valve is working perfectly.”

Mechanical. Valve. Frankenstein. Coumadin. Rat poison. ‘Rat Boy’ was going to be my new nickname. A newfangled lifestyle. I guess I can be a Pollyanna and say, ‘A new adventure,’ but my genetic, physical instincts were always to take action in a crisis; to throw my body in front of someone who was falling and take the hit, be their buffer. Now, on Coumadin, how was I going to reprogram myself? And let people fall? It’s not in my DNA.

The next thing I remember in the ICU was seeing my beautiful children. They were on either side of me. I thought, ‘Wow. What amazingly brave kids, to come into the ICU and pretend that it’s not creepy; to act as if they were coming into the bedroom just to sit and have a chat. I was so proud of them. They made me want to talk to them, sit up and show them I wasn’t a sickly old man ready to die—I was a vibrant 54 year-old dad who was going to get out of this hospital and be a part of their lives for a long, long time to come.

I remember telling them jokes and making them laugh. I remember telling one truth after another. Not truths hidden within language and body language—truths that cut to the core.

Suddenly I was opening up to my daughter and telling her how proud I was that she had completely fought her physical demons on her own and she had won. I saw the pain; I saw her agony. She had bulging disks in her back; herniated disks from horseback riding;

she had injuries from being a competitive skier as well as a competitive horsewoman (both English and Western); she was a phenomenal figure skater and many times as a young little girl on skates, performing to “Send in the Clowns,” I would see her practice and fall hard on the unforgiving ice.

And Lyric, who on her own, without medication, by exercising every day and by practicing T.M. (something I always had doubts about, but could now see what it can do for people who truly practice it properly and
try)
: Lyric had completely healed herself.

By herself. By trying.
There wasn’t an ounce of ‘give up’ in her being.

I remember that because of whatever drug I was on in the ICU, I was able to turn to my daughter and tell her things that my own screwed up defense mechanisms couldn’t seem to say: “I’m so proud of you, Lyric. You did this all by yourself. Do you know how miraculous that is? Do you know how courageous you are? I’m so proud of you. I love you so very much. I think T.M. is wonderful.”

I could see that she was taking this all in; I could also tell that both of us knew I was on a lot of medication, and it was truly pathetic that it took a lot of medication for me to be so honest and loving. What is wrong with me? Why can’t these same words come out when I’m
not
on medication yet still believing every word. Why, without medication, was there some sort of
qualification,
some stipulation that worked its way into my sentences acknowledging her courage?

Then I remembered Zephyr was on my other side. I had to tell him how much I love him, too. I kept understanding the premise: I’m on drugs—drugs that are helping you tell the truth. So don’t blow it—tell the damn truth, and later work on your pitiable, wretched and weak brain—and all of the hurdles and stop-gaps that don’t always allow the purest truths to come out. But for now, do what is right.
Tell the truth
.

“Oh, Zephyr… you’re the best son any father could hope for. I know that soon you will pass me by—all of my accomplishments that really mean nothing in the scheme of things. You’ll do better than me—and you will be a better man than I am. You may already be… but if you’re not, if you’re still an apprentice to what is right in life, you will be a far greater man than I am.”

I remember I really had Zephyr and Lyric laughing. I can’t remember what I said that was funny—or if they were laughing at my over-the-top sincerity. To just be able to come out with a sentence that was absolutely truthful was liberating. The ‘truth serum’ opened my reinforced gateway to my love for both of them—and it was all confirmed with devoted and stanch squeezes of their hands. I’m so lucky that no matter how it came from my mouth—my truths transpired honestly, and I can remember them and write them now so that when my children go their own ways, maybe one day they’ll pick up this manuscript and re-read how much I loved, honored and respected them.