Heart Unbroken

Dear Kids and All Readers,

As I write this on a sunny, warm Monday afternoon, I think back thirty years ago to Friday, November 11, 1994, one of my darkest, scariest days. Fortunately, I am here to share about it. But I almost wasn’t!

Right about now–3:30 p.m.–back in 1994, I was halfway through a six-hour surgery in my hometown of San Diego, California, where I still live.

A bit of backstory: That summer, I began experiencing shortness of breath and chest pains. My new doctor ordered some tests–bless her heart. Finally! Someone in the medical profession was taking my longtime complaints seriously.

In 1960, when I was seven years old, the pediatrician told my mother that I had a heart murmur. I was the last kid to finish races, and I never had the energy to learn to swim. No one wanted me on their kickball team at school because I was forever exhausted and an easy “tag-out.” I found excuses at recess to stay indoors to read, thus avoiding the playground. I became a great reader (Thank you, Nancy Drew!) but missed a lot of fun, sun, exercising, and socializing.

The 1994 test results came back. The original diagnosis had been wrong! When I heard the news, I was elated that there was a correct diagnosis. Simultaneously, my skin crawled as I learned the truth.

The doctor explained that I had an atrial-septal birth defect, commonly known as a congenital hole in the heart. It was in the wall (septum) between my heart’s two upper chambers (atria). That caused my heart to pump blood erratically. As a result, I had been deprived of sufficient oxygen for decades. No wonder I was always tired and pale! To make matters worse, over time, my heart and lungs had enlarged to dangerous proportions. It was a miracle that I was still alive.

Surgery was necessary if I were to survive to see my thirteen-year-old daughter graduate from high school. What??? But, boy! My doctor, also a mother, knew those were the right words to convince me to check into the hospital ASAP. So, I had my Will and Trust drawn up and tackled some difficult conversations with my young daughter to try to assuage her fears. Then, calming my own tremors, I walked, head held high to feign confidence, into that huge antiseptic-smelling building on what was a cold, drizzly November 11, 1994. I dared the place to take me out!

The lengthy surgery was extended when doctors discovered that the hole in my septum was so large, I had no wall. They made one out of a piece of my pericardium, the fluid-filled sac that surrounds and cushions the heart. After the patch job was completed, I was wheeled off to the ICU, and my family was given a good report. But an hour later, I had a seizure that the medical staff could not explain. Then, a short time later, I had another.

The weekend slipped away as I failed to wake up. On Saturday evening, the doctors told my daughter and other family and friends to prepare for my not making it. And if I did, I would not be the same person they had known. My poor, brave daughter plunked herself down next to my bed in the ICU and refused to leave. All the tubes emanating from my body didn’t scare her away. My mom and aunt went to the hospital chapel to pray. My daughter’s dad, other family, and friends hunkered down for hours in the waiting room.

Then, would you believe it? On Sunday evening, when doctors were looking to my family to make a decision about whether or not to sustain my life, I miraculously woke up! I lifted my head and noticed that over a dozen loved ones surrounded my bed. I frowned and said, “What’s everyone doing here?” The cheers were deafening. I shrugged and went back to sleep, waking up on Monday morning my same self in a regular hospital room, not the ICU. I had lost a weekend, but I had not lost my life.

A team of doctors came in that morning and told me an air bubble or two must have gotten left in one of the heart-lung machine tubes despite their extra efforts to prevent it. That likely caused the seizures. They also said something chilling. Given the extent and duration of my heart problem, I should not have lived past the age of twenty-six or survived childbirth! So why had I accomplished both feats? They said it was because I had done the right things all my life: I exercised as best I could, never smoked, didn’t take recreational drugs, or eat unhealthily. If I had done any one of those things differently, I would not have survived. Yikes.

Months later, I returned to work and told my students my big story. I said that my heart stopped beating for over six hours, but I lived to tell about it! To address their puzzled looks, I explained that the surgeons had to stop my heart and put me on a heart-lung machine to breathe for me since they couldn’t operate on a beating heart. After answering their many questions, my story ended with an important lesson: You never know when you’ll need every ounce of strength and good health you have to keep yourself alive. So always make wise choices! Don’t smoke, take drugs not prescribed by a doctor, or eat too much junk food. And love your family and friends. Good health starts in childhood.

Today, I celebrate my thirty-year-old, normal-sized, unbroken heart and healthy lungs, my resilient daughter, whom I have gotten to see grow up, finish college, marry, and give me two adorable grandkids, the joy of many loved ones and good times, the talented doctors who saved my life, and my ability to swim.

I had my old age in youth. Now, I get to enjoy my childhood.