aw yeah

Part 2

Before the surgery, I had experienced a smooth fade to black. Turns out, fading back in isn’t quite as straightforward. Long before big ideas like understanding where I was came along, my thoughts were simple and diffuse. Feelings and sensations mostly. One thing was certain, it hurt like a motherfucker. Before not too long, I could distinguish the nurse, then the room. I have never been so tired in my life. I could barely talk or raise my hand, let alone move my body. Desperately I asked if they were able to repair my valve. I didn’t get an answer; probably didn’t speak loud enough. Did they repair the valve I asked once more, quite loudly. The nurse said they had, and explained that I had already repeated the question many times before, unbeknownst to me. Slowly, things became a bit less hazy. I got to drink water, meet my family and try sitting up. That was when I noticed the rather large drainage tubes that led out from my stomach. It was not pleasant, but I was assured that they’d get removed after just a few hours. They were stretching the holes in my stomach open, so I was glad to hear they wouldn’t stay long. I felt like absolute dogshit but things were gonna get better! Or so I thought.

After battling constant pain with generous amounts of morphine for a few hours, I noticed the tubes didn’t come out. I inquired why and it was because they needed to be in a “little bit longer” to get rid of all the various and colourful gunk coming out of me. My pulse was constantly in the 130 range (well above resting heart rate). They told me my heart was trying to pump out all the crap left after the surgery. Not uncommon they said. Shouldn’t take long. The hours went, slowly, and the morphine kept coming and the vomit kept following. I could never truly rest, my pulse and the constant agony made sure of that. My head was sore as shit and everything felt like a bad fever dream. The beds were far too small and had railings around them, so I couldn’t lay straight and had to have my legs bent with my knees up (I’m a fairly gargantuan man). Everything remained hazy and out of focus. I was tired, weary and had dried vomit on my lips and clothing. After a while, a nurse said I probably wasn’t handling the morphine too well. They tried putting me on something else. At first it was fine, but then everything started to get a bit too much Pink Floyd for my taste. When I barely knew what was up or down and I got the distinct and overwhelming sensation that my head and brain was shaped like a triangle ( ) I finally said that I think I prefer the vomiting from the morphine. After a while I was asked to do breathing and sitting exercises. I writhed and screamed in pain as this caused the drainage tubes to stretch the skin of my stomach even more. I begged; when can those goddamn things be removed. Soon was always the answer.

Nurses came and went. More pain. More morphine. More vomit. Nutrition drinks, quickly followed by more vomiting. I faded in and out, but never truly slept. One night, I had the most retarded chain of thought. First, I was absolutely determind that I had to get to the “book sale”. You know, THE book sale (? ). I tried leaving my bed but a nurse stopped me. Bitch, I’m going to that book sale, I thought. A doctor reinforced her. Cracker please, I’m going to that book sale, I told myself, not surrendering. I struggled and a third doctor had to reinforce. They said I couldn’t leave and asked where I was headed. I said I had to go, I just couldn’t miss that book sale. They said that I simply couldn’t go. That’s when it hit me. If I punched one of the doctor’s, the two remaining fascists wouldn’t stand a chance to hold me back. Unfortunately for my book sale plans, my arm strength was at minus ten. Shortly after I came to my senses. There was no book store, no book sale. In fact, I don't read books. Despite all the crap, I actually chuckled when I thought about my retardedness.

The days passed and I was becoming number and more indifferent by the hour. I didn’t know what was night and day because the lights were always on. Machines were always beeping, fellow patients were coughing, crying, breathing and doctors were talking. I just stared forward as the hours passed. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. When would it stop? There was no end in sight. But on the fifth day there had finally been some improvement and I was allowed to leave intensive care and go to an observation ward. The tubes were disconnected and for the first time in these five days there was hope that all of this shit would end sooner rather than later. My recovery may have been delayed by a few days extra in intensive care, but it would be smooth sailing from here! Or so I thought.

Stay tuned for the dramatic conclusion. Hope my writing is bearable.

Part 3

It’s time for the final part of this tale!

After the soul numbing five days in intensive care I arrived at the observation ward. At this stage you have received the treatment that you need and you’re supposed to recover. Should only be a few days, they said. My pulse was still high and my heart was still working frantically, but I believed things would steadily improve. They did not.

Now, imagine that you are lying in a hospital bed. You have a paralyzing pain in your chest which is suppressed by constant morphine use. The morphine makes you passive enough to not be able to do anything about your circumstances, but not passive enough for it to numb your woes. You cannot escape the heat; it’s a fairly old hospital with very limited AC capabilities and it’s the height of the Swedish summer. Neither can you escape the constant banging, sawing and drilling sounds; Sweden’s largest hospital is being built right outside your window. Each time you hear the sound of that screeching metal, your head wants to explode. One or two times a day, it’s migraine time. You throw up and scream in pain. There’s a clock in front of you. Time passes by the minute. There’s pretty much no distractions. It’s you, your misery and that fucking unsympathetic clock. Each time a friend or relative visits, you feed off of their energy. They are not husks, they are not pale, they can smile, they are capable of feeling good. Each time a nurse or doctor swings past they diplomatically state that things haven’t gotten better just yet. Occasionally you’re wheeled away for some examination. Maybe there is too much gunk still left in your heart, they speculate. When you are encouraged to shower you avoid looking at, or touching, the large, meaty cut and holes on your chest. You feel frail and broken as you shake and struggle to hold the shower nozzle above your head. The days just go on and on. How long will you have to endure this shit?

After one and a half week of this shit, they concluded that my heart was probably not going to be able to just “sort this out” on it’s own. I was wheeled to an operating table and the plan was to draw out the suspected gunk in my heart sack. Now, the funny thing about this is that you are conscious whilst this is being done. The doctor used a gargantuan needle thing, which actually looks like a comedic prop used to scare people afraid of needles, to accomplish this. This oversized needle was plunged through my chest skin until it reached my heart sack. The needle was used to draw a plastic tube to the heart sack. When the needle was removed I was basically left with a plastic tube that went from inside my heart sack to the outside of my skin. This was not freaky, I swear. I imagined what would happen if you used the tube as a straw and what kind of heart gunk milkshake you’d get a taste of if you did this.

After this procedure, a nurse would come in every three hours, all hours of the day, and try to draw liquid out of the heart sack via the tube. This was quite painful and whatever hope I had of resting in peace was gone. Besides enduring the things I described earlier, I was now becoming more and more nauseous. Day after day of sleep deprivation meant my head was getting worse and worse. I couldn’t think rationally anymore and genuinely believed that this would never end. Before long, I couldn’t keep any food down and whatever went down eventually came up. Not long after that, I couldn’t even swallow food. My vitals were getting worse. I became near-delusional and experienced unimaginable vertigo, even though I was perfectly stationary. The nurses were starting to look worried.

One day, it finally happened. I finally broke. I had finally reached the bottom of the pit. I had completely given in, I had no hope of anything and I just lay there. There had been no news of improvement during the two weeks I had been in observation. Things had only gotten worse and I hadn’t eaten in days. It was my mother’s birthday when the doctors finally stormed in. My mom was visiting. They explained that things were not improving, the tube method hadn’t worked and that I had reached an alarming state. My body was starting to fall apart. They explained something had to be done ASAP. They prepped for surgery. My mom was devastated. Me? I just lay there. They tilted my bed backwards to ensure that I wouldn’t lose the blood flow to the brain and fall unconscious. Two nurses used sponges and disinfectant soap to get me ready. I was wheeled towards surgery, three weeks after I was wheeled in the first time. Did this mean the healing rib cage would have to be opened again? Would they fix things? Would I live or die? I asked myself. Truth was, I simply didn’t give a shit anymore. Whatever happened, I didn’t have to feel like I did much longer. I didn’t help them move me over to the operating table this time. I couldn’t. I just stared blankly into the ceiling whilst I was lifted over by the surgery team. I have never been so lost and distant in my life. I wondered if I would live. Everything faded to black.

There was a cute and helpful nurse taking care of me when I woke up. I got a pear-flavoured icicle. Things looked like they had gone well, she said. I left intensive care after just a few hours. I could soon after eat again. After just a few days, I left the hospital and went to rehab which was outside of Stockholm in a tranquil area. The air was fresh, the trees were green and it was quiet; there were no construction sites in sight. I cried like a little bitch; I was finally on the right track to recovery. I still had plenty to endure. But it could never, ever, compare to what I was leaving behind.

Thanks for reading and the support, fellas!

Mazy: I had no idea things could get this bad. Before this, I didn't really know what prolonged pain, sleep deprivation etc can do to you. Just being pushed down and down and finding your lowest low. Ultimately, life is about contrast and even though this experience was shit from start to finish, it provided some perspective and insight. During rehab I met a few cancer patients and people who have undergone worse heart stuff. You can sort of get a good idea of the things they are going through, and if someone close to me is ever in a similar and dire situation, I have some grasp of their needs and worries and how I can be of help. So yeah, there's that at least.

Quote from PogoP

TIL that people have a heart sack.

I actually looked it up since this sounded stupid. It's called pericardium in English, heh. Direct translation from Swedish is heart sac!

Also, another reminder is that I'm doing pretty fine atm! This was a few months back but I hadn't really shared this before...

Quote from FrieChamp

Oh boy...heavy stuff. So glad everything worked out for you in the end! What did they do in that surgery that caused you to recover? Don't answer, if that's too personal. Just curious Get well soon!

They opened up the heart and cleared out the excess liquids that had been built up. They then did an electrical conversion to take care of the pulse issues (that's when they intentionally stop the heart and then "jolt it" back up again).