Don't You Dare Ask THAT Question

Choosing the best surgeon for your operation is always at the top of the list when you have time to choose. That is, except in an emergency, you have time to research your options. You have tons of questions, especially if it's a life-or-death procedure like this.

Living in northern Maryland,  we are only an hour away from the best hospital in the world--Johns Hopkins. We count ourselves extremely blessed. Given the names of the top three recommended by Dr. K, one stood out: Dr. Cameron.  After all, he had performed the surgeries of Paul's two older brothers and a nephew.

Since those happened 26, 20 and 7 years ago, and the men are still alive and kickin', we had no reservations about him.

Three weeks later, in early November,  we were sitting in his office. And by sitting, I mean playing with our phones for a solid hour and a half waiting for him because Dr. Cameron is a very busy man, who clearly takes all the time his patients need for a consultation. I never have trouble waiting for a doctor if I know him or her to give me the same length of attention.

While still alone and waiting, Paul and I went over our questions together to make sure we'd thought of everything.  How exactly is the surgery done? How long does it take? Recovery time? Medications? Can he save the valve? What about time off work? Exercise?

I told him I was going to ask about sex, and he gave me that look. The look of boyish embarrassment, trying not to smile,  chin down, eyebrows up, eyes riveted on mine as if to say "don't you dare."

"What?! Don't give me that look! He said bring all your questions! That's one of mine!"

Paul shook his head in that "what in the world am I going to do with you?" way of his that I find super charming. (My sister-in-law calls him a recovering Catholic.)

Dr. Cameron came in at last.  Mid-60s, I guessed, balding, confident handshake,  gentle voice,  twinkling eyes, a humble demeanor, an ever-present smile, and a well-starched shirt. I liked him. Yes, I do like a man in a well-starched shirt!

He began explaining the procedure with a drawing. Remove about 3 cm of the enlarged, stretched out, weak, aortic root (which is on the south side of the heart) and replace it with a synthetic one. Could he save the valve? That was Paul's burning question. "Possibly. We won't know till we're in there, but we'll sure try. If there's any doubt, we'll go ahead and replace it. These days we use ..."

I thought he said "Kell valve".

 "It's natural tissue they've found that's closest to the human heart valve, " he continued. "Lasts about 10 years and you don't have to go on blood thinners."

"Natural?" I asked. "Where does it come from?"

"From cows,"  he stated, smiling, but not condescending at all. (But he must've thought I was  dim.)

"Oh,  COW valves, "  I repeated, in my lightbulb moment. "I thought you were saying Kell valves--like something synthetic named for their inventor. "Need more cow valves!" I blurted out.

They chuckled in spite of themselves.


Dr. C said that the label of  "ticking time bomb" was not quite accurate.  (It was a description used by a pediatric cardiologist who'd been the first doctor to read the echo. To her credit, she is used to doing surgeries at obviously much smaller aortic diameters.) He did agree that the medical team unanimously agreed that surgery was necessary, though.  Between now and next summer, he counseled. The timing was up to us--and the availability of this doctor who travels internationally to medical conferences when he's not in the OR.

What a relief. We had time to gather more information, more counsel, get some necessary things in order, think through our options.

Our appointment wrapped up with my hubby saying, "As I recall, Doctor, you play guitar?"

"Yes, that's right. Good memory!"  That started a "whole 'nother' conversation, as they say. Put my strumming man completely at ease talking about guitars, music, old rock bands, collections.

Dr. Cameron sat forward on his chair, about to get up. "Do either of you have any other questions about the surgery or anything else?"

"I have one more."

Paul shot me the look again.

"What about sex?" I asked.

With a wink Dr. Cameron replied, "I'd prefer you wait till you get home."

Casting out Fear

When my husband was told by the doctor (I'll call her Dr. K)  who read the echo report that he was "a ticking time bomb" with an enlarged aorta, and advised surgery very soon,  we sought additional counsel immediately.

As Christians, we started with prayer, asking God to make it clear to us when, where, and how to proceed with everything that accompanies such a weighty diagnosis.

In the past couple years, I have been so keenly aware of how much God loves me that it has changed me. If you'd known me four years ago, you would've characterized me as an anxious, fearful person. Uptight. Nervous. Unable to really relax. Sometimes had bouts with insomnia for inexplicable reasons.

While I've been a child of God for 39 years, and known that He loved me, I didn't feel loved for most of  my adult life.  My perception was faulty--and I had done an awful lot of navel-gazing and rehearsing my sins and trying to measure up.  I was convinced that somehow my performance affected His love toward me. It was a lie I gave into.

What does that have to do with my husband's heart surgery? Everything.

Because if I didn't truly believe that I could trust that God loved me no matter what, I couldn't believe that I could trust Him.  You can't really believe that someone has your best interest at heart if you aren't sure if they love you. And if you're not sure of that, it causes tremendous fear. You start thinking that you have to have all the answers, and you've got to plan for every possible outcome, and you just never rest inside. You have no peace when you believe everything depends on you.

Outwardly I wouldn't have admitted that was my mindset, and I actually didn't realize I was functioning on that belief until three years ago. But it affected my whole life. It certainly colored my prayer life.

I only say that to say I didn't understand another verse:"Perfect love casts out fear."  My take on that is that believing His love for me is perfect because He's perfect and he delights in me the way happy parents delight in their children. We love our children because we love them because we love them.
Same with my Heavenly Father. He loves me because He loves me because He loves me.

Utterly convinced that His perfect love is deep inside me and above and beneath and all around me, I could not be afraid. His perfect love is like that for my husband and children as well. I was not afraid. Concerned, yes. Afraid, no.

Perfect love casts out fear.

Bad News

I've decided to use the April  A to Z Blogging Challenge to finally write about the experience that changed our lives for the better. It happened in January, but I'll offer backstory for the sake of my non-regular readers. 

Whenever I had time or energy in the midst of the event to sit and write about it, I'd end up staring at a blank computer screen,  the feelings too strong for words.  Too much effort, I told myself. 

I didn't want to write fluff for the sake of keeping up the blog, either. Hence, the virtual silence. 

But I'm ready now to tell the story, piecemeal.  It might or might not be chronological. Flashbacks have a way of creeping into my daily thoughts, as they do yours, I'm sure. I'll let the letters of the challenge guide me.

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The evening was like any other in our house after dinner. I was settled into my recliner with the computer, and my husband was stretched out on the sofa watching TV and playing solitaire on his tablet. 

"I have to have heart surgery," he said, interrupting his game. 

I jerked.

His tone was almost nonchalant, but I have learned that my man delivers some of his heaviest news with a monotone.  He used that tone in October of 1985 to tell me his brother had died  One year later, 20 days before our wedding, he called and told me his mom had died just hours after we had visited her in the hospital. 

"Heart surgery?" I asked.  "Is that what you said?"

"Yeah. I saw a cardiologist today about my echo results. She said I should really strongly consider heart surgery. Her actual words were, 'you're a ticking time bomb.'"

"But I thought your number was only up from 4.8 to 4.9 and they don't do anything till 5.0, " I replied.  

 "They used to, but they've been seeing dissections in the lower numbers," he informed me.

The "numbers" refer to the diameter of the aortic root.  Normal is 2.0-2.2. 

The cause of his brother's death at age 33, and mother's death at 58, as we found out from autopsies, were identical: ruptured aorta.  We needed answers. What causes that?  Were they coincidental or was there a link? Sudden death is devastating enough, but add a mysterious cause and it adds to the grief. Would there be another in the family? If there was any way we could get warning,  we wanted to know.

Genetic testing ensued for all members of his family. The syndrome, they found, was widespread. All the surviving brothers and my husband showed classic signs. Including the fatal flaw: an enlarged aorta. His two brothers and a nephew (the son of the deceased brother) ended up needing cardiac surgery when their numbers hit 5.0.  

That was 26, 20, and, 7 years ago.  They all survived and are still alive and well. 

Now, despite all the "preparation" we had, I wasn't prepared to face heart surgery when my husband was the patient. My precious, beloved, 54 year old husband. 

The bad news hit me in the heart, too.

 

 

A is for Again

I wasn't going to do this.

Again.

In fact, I just decided a half hour ago--which would be 10:30 PM EST--to jump in and join the A to Z Blogging Challenge.

Again.

I'm nothing if not impulsive.

My blog has all but shriveled up like a plant without water. Or sunlight. Or soil. I've got roots, though, in this blog, as I've been here since 2006.  The blog's not dead, but it could  once again use a drink or two or 26.

A drink a day for 26 days in April. No drinking on Sunday.  (I heard that somewhere.)  I'm looking forward to writing again.  To feeling the sunshine on the page. To weeding (just kidding) by editing.
(That might be akin to my real-life weeding, which happens semi-annually at best.) But I will weed again.

My theme is: Again.

You can expect to read things that I have been mulling over or experiencing, or laughing about, and writing about those things again. After a quiet few months, it's time to revive this blog. Again.
I might even post pictures of things I'm making and doing.

And once again, I hope you leave a comment. Talk to the gardener before you walk away, please.

Please start by reminding me how to put the letter "A" badge on the top of this post! Links aren't working, so I'm guessing it's operator error.   Again.