The Voice of God

The first few hours coming out of a major surgery rank up there as the some of the worst hours of life. I don't think this is common to just open-heart surgery patients. It seems the longer and more intense the surgery, the harder the journey is back to your brain.

You who have had this experience are already nodding. It's like those old anti-drug commercials depicting a smashed up egg as your brain on drugs. When I first started coming back - after a 9-hour surgery, thirteen hours and 34 units of blood later, I was barely alive. I would open heavy eyes enough to see myself bend my arm and wiggle my fingers. It was fascinating to me to watch my pale arm weave through the air for a brief second. Duuuuuuude.

I couldn't speak. I was on a ventilator. The pain sat right outside of my mind's reach. My body burned from behind the drug mask and pain seeped out through my closed eyes in silent fat tears. The cocktail dripping into my veins hid the pain then, but not from my memories now.

Throughout those early hours were the constants in my journey. My sister rubbing my feet. My husband kissing my forehead. My dad sitting quietly in the dark. And, of course, my mother's voice. I recall nothing of what was said, only those brief images and sounds coming from the room and the recesses of my numbed mind.

As the edges of the world began to form, I turned my head to the side. Where I later learned there was a counter, sink and a wall, at that time I saw a curtain over a sliding glass door. The door was partially open and the curtain pulled back. The British nurse was barking, her accent coarse, something about me. The cult. She was reaching over the other nurses at the workstation - she was telling them that I hadn't been initiated yet.

I panicked, my eyes widening. I was trapped in this bed. In this cursed body, by the central line out my neck, by the hot blankets. My waving hand lost its magic. There was a yellowish light from above me - was that the lamp by my bed at my parents home that I used only as an adult? My cheeks were wet. I could still hear that harsh British voice urging the nurses to hurry.

At that moment, my mother came into the room. I called out to her. "Help me!" I was crying harder now. "They're going to hurt me! Put me into a cult!"

My mom brushed my cheek with her hand. She told me that everything was going to be okay. That she would pray with me. I looked at her and she held my hot hands in her cool ones. "God is in this room, Sarah," she said. I could see her face and her hair silloutted against the yellow light. "Just remember that God is in this room."

I closed my eyes. Reassured by her voice and her prayer.

A long time later, when I was out of the hospital, when I heard about a family friend having a hard time post-surgery, I asked my mom if she remembered when she came in and helped me through my hallucinations. She said no. She never did anything like that. I pressed her. Was she sure?

That's when I knew. God had been in the room with me. God had been there all the time. A shrewd move - when a voice and visage were too powerful to come to a girl fresh from the shock of survival, instead came as one of his humble servants. In the voice and visage of the one I trusted more than any other, He came to remind me that I wasn't alone.

I'm so fortunate to have the mother that I do. She's been there through marriages, moves, surgeries, graduations and Super Bowls. Nearly every momentous occasion in my life, has a corresponding memory of my mother. I look up to her as I look up to few people. Maybe anyone, actually.

On this, her birthday (three days late notwithstanding), I wish her an amazing year full of growth, love and life anew.

I love you, Mom!

Two Years

On the morning of December 4, 2006, Jan from Immaculate Heart of Mary church had come to visit me in the hospital. I struggled to focus on her words, stories about the latest happenings at church. Am I tired or am I sad?, I found myself drifting. Oh, and I hope I'm not too disgusting looking. But Jan only smiled and stood next to me and prayed for me, prayed that God would grant us the heart we needed.

By now, I had been on the biVAD for almost 4 weeks. I was receiving regular blood transfusions (the perfect drug!) to help relieve the water retention and to keep my anemia at bay. Eating was pure misery - most of my nutrients came from the delicious feeding tube "sludge" diet. Yum! I needed almost constant oxygen. Most humbling was my inability to care for my basic needs. I was a mess.

Not just a mess physically but emotionally too. Over the course of the days before, I'd been getting more and more depressed. I was wearing down. The darkness was right there, hanging out on the edges. I felt broken, separated from everything I'd once known and held tightly. My grip had been loosened and I was slack.

The day before, Lisa left, headed to Palm Springs for 9 long days for a seminar called, coincidentally called "Date with Destiny." I didn't really want her to leave. She'd been planning the trip for months. Back in my previous life, so long before when I'd first gone into the hospital, back when we were sure I would've gotten the transplant by now, she'd described it to me with shining eyes. I knew she had to go. I told her that perhaps this week would be both our dates with destiny.

After Jan left on that Monday morning, I fell asleep. As much as the the constant thump-thump-thump of the biVADs was tiring, it was also oddly comforting. I had a dream that I was in my bed with little puppies and kittens snuggling with my VADs. All of us comforted by the heartbeat. When I woke up, alone in my room, I knew the time had come to decide what to do with the sadness; somewhere along the line, I had lost my sense of Sarah. Half the time, I felt more like a machine than a girl and the other half the time, I just wanted to cry.

It was time to get it together so I got into my chair and started a crossword. Simple, nothing exciting but just deliberately choosing to do something felt good. It felt great, and by the time my friend Marianne showed up to visit, I was beginning to feel a little of my old self creeping back and the darkness receded a little.

Around 8:00 pm, the door opened and four nurses came in. They stood there silently - each shifting a bit and blinking a lot - and grinning from ear to ear. I was a little confused. I assumed it was shift-change and they would start swarming around my IV speaking their nurse-talk. Instead, they just stood there. One of them started crying and through a huge smile, another said "we may have found one!"

I went as still inside as the biVAD would let me. Oh. My. God. Then I said something seriously creative like, "Are you kidding?" . They nodded and someone cautioned me about getting too excited. Not get too excited? Ha! I felt tears coming and said, "someone get over here and hug me!" I was immediately surrounded.

I called Mom and Dad, not really sure to hope or not. Pretty soon, my feeding tube was shut off. Goodbye dear sludge; ye shall not be missed. Throwing caution to the wind, I called Lisa and my bosses who were in the Hong Kong airport on their hour layover before heading to Tokyo. They put me on speakerphone and I tried not to cry. In the middle of all this, the nurses took about a gallon of blood and started me on the immunosuppressents. Mom and Dad arrived. Had time really stopped or was it just me?

I moved to the bed. Surgery was scheduled to start at 12:30 am on December 5th. Time was moving very fast. I wanted to remember this night forever so I asked Dad to get his video camera (which was handily in the car). I was visited by the OR nursing staff, most of whom I already knew from my VAD surgery. I signed the form. I consented to have my heart replaced. Then it was time.

Everyone, nurses and doctors alike, stopped and stood by the bed. Mom said a prayer for the hands of the doctor, in gratitude for their amazing service and for healing. The world felt soft around the edges. As per our arrangement, once the bed started moving, Mom read Psalm 121 - "I lift my eyes up to the hills - where does my help come from? My help comes from the Lord." Mom kept stride by the bed as we moved down the hall. All the way to elevator, the sounds of the VAD, the respectful silence of the nurses and voice of my mother are what I remember. The Lord is my Shepherd. I shall not want.

My entry into the OR was at the same time as Dr. Awesome, my surgeon. I asked him if his hands were feeling steady. Ha. I am so lame. The atmosphere was relaxed in the OR - shouldn't you people be a little more urgent? I remember thinking. I asked if I could walk to the OR table if I wanted. They said that would be fine. I was too wigged out to actually do it, but I liked knowing that I could if I wanted.

The oxygen mask came down over my face - just like in the movies - and I felt myself growing drowsy. My final thoughts before succumbing to the anesthesia were...Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.

And then I was out.

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And now it is two years later. Two years of mountains (both figurative and literal), monitoring, and pushing forward with a determination and drive I didn't know existed in me. Was it worth it? Hell yes, every beat of that VAD, every blood draw, every ounce of pain was so freakin' worth it. This LIFE - while it is busy as hell - is the life that I CHOSE by saying YES to every lifesaving measure possible, YES to giving up all control and YES to replacing my failing heart with that of a total stranger.

Every day I wake up with a prayer of gratitude on my lips. I am grateful to the people who invented every fancy machine and drug that has kept me alive. I am grateful for the surgeons, the doctors, the nurses, and the CNAs for their single-minded vision of saving my life. I am grateful for my friends, my family, my coworkers and my love for giving me a reason to live. I am grateful to God for being a part of this plan. And for the heart of the the amazing donor who has now fused with my soul to become this new creation.

Happy Birthday, Dad

My dad, my sister and I have a long-standing joke between us when we are together. Someone will say, for example, "gosh, I'm hungry!" Inevitably, one of us will respond, "not near as hungry as me!" Which then leads to "I could possibly be one thousand times hungrier than you are!" and it continues, escalating and certainly ad nauseum, until we laugh to much to go on.

And yes, we are all adults. Grown up adults, as you can see.

I am so blessed to have such an amazing father. So much of who I am today was shaped by this man. I inherited this strange, mostly inappropriate sense of humor - finding jokes less funny and preferring quick one-offs and biting commentary. This sense of humor that gets us in trouble. Like the time in the hospital when the doctor told me that my liver function had improved and I responded that it was a good thing I'd stopped drinking. Needless to say, only Dad found that funny. Which was really how it was intended all along.

I also learned about eating from my father. A fearless eater back in the day, he'd eat street food in Mexico without a care. "You don't have to like it, but you have to try it" was the rule at our table. That rule lead me to my love of all ethnic foods - Thai, Vietnamese, Ethiopian...there isn't a food I won't try. And the response when I report that I had Puerto Rican stewed pig ears and belly? "Good for you!"

Now only did I learn what to eat, but I learned how to eat from Dad. One time at a church potluck, while grace was being said, I caught Dad moving out of the corner of my eye. I quickly followed and we positioned ourselves near the buffet in order to be first, trying not to laugh. By the time grace was over, we were positioned and ready. Always be first - so that you can be coming in for seconds while the line ends. Yes, we are an embarrassment to our kind.

I'm so proud to be Dad's daughter for the things that he has accomplished. At the tender age of 60, Dad decided to learn a new trade. And he uncovered a hidden talent to become a primo videographer, editor and flash designer. I call him for questions in Illustrator and he always has time to be technical or design support for me. I nurture my artistic side foregoing a more lucrative and more ambitious career in paralegal work because I want to know what I want do when I grow up NOW rather than later.

And of course, the passion I have for politics. It's no surprise that we were both political science majors. And even though neither of us do anything in the political science field, as you can see from this blog and his blog, it is a lifetime love.

So, today is the old man's birthday and I want to wish him the best. I love you a million billion times more than anything, Dad. And you can't top that.