About Me (In My Own Words)
New Heart
Clicks. Won’t stop, can’t stop. If it does, I won’t be around to see what happens. Eventually, it’ll be white noise. A part of me that doesn’t go away. I look down and the scar will be there. A reminder of how I decided to cap off 2016 with a bang. A bang that I thought was a suicidal gunshot, straight through the chest. I didn’t need any doctor to tell me something was wrong. I could just feel it; the moments when premonitions become realized. My chest was hurting and nothing was going away. My light-head was clouding my thoughts. Parts of my body would throb, inexplicably and alarmingly. A pessimist like me assuredly had thoughts of the worst, vividly imagining each scenario in which my demise would greet me. My doctors confirmed what I already knew, though not specifically. This was serious. An aortic aneurysm, or an enlargement of my ascending aorta due to leakage of blood back into the heart. Thus, not enough blood is traveling to the rest of the body and the heart is enlarging due to inefficiency. Genetic they say, nothing I could’ve done. Just victim of the circumstance and boy did I revel in that role. I felt I was finally embodying the sympathetic persona I always desired. I built my personality on feeling sorry for myself because others couldn’t possibly; there was too much going for me. Loving family, stable job, educated in a middle class society. Fortunate doesn’t really do this life justice. But now I had a catalyst for my sorrow’s ambition.
The depth of this valley was something I had yet to experience. I would cry genuine tears on the walk home. Break down whenever my chest felt too heavy to bear. I didn’t want this to be over this soon. I could acknowledge that my life was wonderful and people loved me, but that did not erase the mental anguish caused by entities beyond your control telling you that time is finite. The anxiety beats you down to a point of no return. You can smile intermittently, but without fail the mind will wander to the afterlife. To the hypothetical tears of those you leave behind. You wonder how it’ll feel; did I do enough for heaven’s administrators to consider my application? After the curiosity is peaked, there is just a resignation. This is the end. That’s the way it goes, not everybody gets to leave on their own terms. The gods and spirits don’t play fair. I wanted to prepare. Atone for all of my mistakes, embrace all my successes, and leave behind a legacy. I wrote messages, for which I gave the moniker “final letters,” to my family and friends, in a hollow effort to show how much I cared for them. The reality was that I was just giving myself the therapeutic venting necessary to bring closure. I was virtually collaging old family pictures to preserve memories and distributing them to create an emotional bond that could hopefully withstand my death. Again, more for my own reminiscing benefit. To show myself that life has been unquestionably good. Good enough to be content with what happens next.
I’ve never seen time move slower. Each day I wanted to get closer to the surgery, operating on the premise that the problem would be solved. And yet, I was dreading the thought of losing this life I’ve grown to love. I went to the emergency room on two separate occasions, each time crying like it was the end. Turns out the aneurysm was not getting any bigger and the symptoms were just anxiety driven. I slept in the same room as my father, just as any twenty six year old grown man would do. I didn’t want to die in my sleep or not be there with him when the cardiac event were to take place.
As time (and all people) promises to do, it passed. I had family visiting in the weeks leading up to my surgery, sending me text messages of encouragement. I hugged all my coworkers and walked out of my office, taking notice of every detail, just in case this picture isn’t as vivid the next time. I would do my normal tasks, with the underlying melancholy reserved for deep sea creatures who are so far under they can’t see the light. I didn’t hide my tears anymore; I wanted God, or some higher power, to see I was suffering and maybe he’d show mercy. Maybe he’d see that I want more time to make it right. Or maybe this was just the fate that was designed for me. Mapped out by destiny. I could tell myself it was for a greater purpose, but the reality was I had no clue what afterlife awaited me. A part of me was curious, but I could feel internally that my physical being wasn’t ready to let go. The instinct to fight was there, but it also had to stave off the dark clouds of my emotional distress. By the time the surgery rolled around, I was not afraid of dying. I just felt awful for the loved ones I would leave behind.
I slept a grand total of zero seconds the night before, as I could’ve predicted. They offered me a sleeping pill; in retrospect, I wish I could’ve taken it just to prove how ineffective it would be. I scrolled through classic photos with my father all night, as he told me tales of my grandfather. I loved hearing about my grandfather’s journey, in the back of mind wondering if I’d join him at his resting place in a few hours. I listened to my two favorite albums, stoically staring once again at all the intricate details of this house I’ve spent my entire life in. The rest of December 22, 2016 was an out-of-body experience. I knew I was still here, but could hardly believe it.
The surgery pavilion at the University of Washington medical center was appropriately lit with darkness, inhabited by many people going under the knife at five in the morning. I met with several anesthesiologists, only taking in about half of what they were saying to me. They asked my family to leave the room and I assumed I’d get a substantial amount of time to say goodbye. But they wheeled me out and I got mere seconds to hold the hands of my aunt, mom, and dad. My father had tears streaming down his face. I only caught a glimpse before they took me down the longest hallway I’ve ever seen. The anesthesiology room had twenty people in it, all ensuring me it was going to be okay. The tears of my dad migrated to my face, so I just stared up at the ceiling and woke up to darkness.
I have an extremely vague recollection of seeing my family after surgery. Blurry figures in a dark room. They said I put my thumb up, signifying I was indeed okay. Pain and uneasiness came next, as I slowly became aware of my surroundings. Everything was extremely hazy, as I have only foggy memories of taking pills, being turned in the hospital bed, and glancing up at a clock I could not read without my glasses. The coming days came with great pain, little appetite, and noticeable fatigue. Some nights were so uncomfortable that it had me questioning whether this was worth it. Yet sometimes I would lie awake at three in the morning, taking moments to reflect on everything. It goes beyond realizing how fortunate I am. Trying to map out what I need to do from here. How I can be better? What do I need to do to make the following chapters count? My loving parents would come back in the morning, staying with me throughout the day. I had plenty of visitors, no shortage of love. I woke up Christmas morning in the hospital feeling brand new and ready to send text messages to everybody, effectively communicating that I’m alright and I love them.
Walking felt like a hallmark moment, though it wasn’t without difficulty. Tubes still hanging from my stomach, arms and neck, I just wanted to lay in bed and rest. However, I found that I had a resilience I didn’t know existed within me. I wanted to move and do things. I was trying to prove that I was better, essentially just to get out of the hospital and see home again. There were certainly days that tested me, where they kept me in the hospital because my blood wasn’t thin enough to accommodate the new medication I have for the mechanical heart valve. That’s where my patience got tested to most. I was well enough to go home, but stuck on the inside, longing for freedom. The thickness of my blood is measured by an INR level, which had to be between 2 and 3 to leave the hospital. The day before I left the hospital, it was 1.8. I sat up all night, knowing that I would get to leave and kiss the outside air tomorrow. However, they told me it was 1.9 in the morning and I nearly lost it. Sometimes you’ll look up at the sky, or at least the part you can see from the window, and wonder why. All I have now is hope. The sky mocked me, as they took another blood test in the afternoon and my INR got to 2.0. I would get to leave after all, proving that somebody above was answering my feeble pleas.
It was only a week, but it understandably felt like eternity, though luckily I hadn’t the slightest notion of what eternity felt like. The outside was magnificent, though I had seen it all before. Again, it was all in the details. Sidewalks, streets, and grass I thought I might never see again. I sat in the backseat of the car, admiring the colors and textures with the wonder that a newborn feels. The sun backlit the Space Needle and the Seattle skyline looked exactly the same, yet entirely different. In my mind, I kept telling myself this was the fulcrum. This is where change is no longer a concept, but an action. Where I find what it is I’ve been searching for. My faith will be restored, my happiness revitalized. This heart valve is my second chance. To learn and continue this love train until the reaper comes knocking for real.
Home is quieter, thus making the click of my new aortic valve louder. It’s not just loud, it’s pronounced. Boldly assertive, felt by touch from the outside of the wound. It doesn’t stop, thankfully. A rhythm I can be proud of; the only beat I’ve produced worthy of more listens. I’ve let some hear it, but more importantly I cannot wait to share it. Not the sound, but the quality of my heart since it is no longer malfunctioning. I want to make the turn, so to speak. Be less of who I was and more of who I know I can be. That doesn’t mean that perfection will reign from this point on. In fact, I’ve already had some bad emotional relapses. But it means I can be better if I strive for it. If I can hold true to the promises I made while crying before the surgery, when I was pleading with the clouds. I can be less combative, embracing those I love. Trust people. Be there for people. Round out the arsenal of life skills. Essentially, be more like my father. The only one who never left me and never will.
I’m told recovery takes patience and because I’m perceived as young, I was told there is time available. My surgical wound has not healed completely, leaving a noticeable crater in my chest. I want it to close, of course, but not at the expense of learning from the pain. What a real recovery feels like. How to bounce back in the face of actual adversity. Everyone tells me it will heal and initially I am hesitant to believe them. However, I’ve been told by myself to embrace and trust a process I cannot see, but must believe in. There was a certain corner turned when I was back in the hospital, in which I knew everything would be alright. It came back to trust. Not just placing my faith in other people, but embracing a process of growth. The extracurriculars take care of themselves, but real change comes from an intrinsic place. A part of me knows I will not change. I cannot alter my personality or remake the core of who I am. This is more about adding the complimentary pieces that will complete the puzzle before the hourglass has ran its course. My vision was always opaque, but with great intention. But that was assuming I’d get old enough to be content with what I’ve learned and accomplished. At peace with the fading horizons. This whole experience has opened my eyes to the fact that time is my most valuable commodity. If I don’t spend it wisely, then I’m going to look back and be sorely disappointed. I don’t want to waste potential. I need to dispose anger and bitterness, not suppress it. The fact of the matter is I’ve been placed in an incredibly fortunate situation. A descendant of immigrants who did all the heavy lifting who has had excellent education and career opportunities. Above all, I’ve been raised in an environment of love, and therefore the example has been set for me to follow suit. And it has to be genuine. Not something forced by a life-threatening situation. Prior to my surgery, there was no peace. I was not done; there was more work to be put in. The glass ceiling is lower now and I have the tools to meticulously cut through it. Thanks to my family, medical team, and friends, I have room beyond the ceiling. I can do more than see it now. I feel the breeze, the sensations. I hear a metronomic click of a heart valve that is making it possible. I like it here. Maybe I’ll stay a while longer.
More Info About Me & My Heart
More About Me
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I am from:
Seattle
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My surgery date is:
December 22, 2016
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I was diagnosed with:
Aortic Regurgitation
Bicuspid Aortic Valve
Aortic Aneurysm
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My surgery was:
Aortic Valve Replacement
Aortic Valve Repair
Aortic Aneurysm Replacement
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My hospital is:
University of Washington Medical Center
