Second Time Around...Part 2

Two days before surgery, my father drove me down to White Memorial Hospital to be admitted. Back then, you were admitted days before the actual surgery to run tests and generally prepare you for surgery; honestly I think they just wanted to make sure you didn't jump ship, which, as it turns out was a valid concern in my case.

White Memorial hospital was a resident teaching hospital in Los Angeles, founded and run by Seventh Day Adventists. On the admission paperwork, there was a religion section with little boxes to check to label your religion. There was no box labeled "none" so I left it blank. My father filled out the section under insurance, since I was still covered under Crippled Children's Foundation. I finished the paperwork and handed it back across the desk to the admissions clerk, who looked it over and promptly handed it back to me.

"You left a section blank. You need to complete all sections." Very brusque, nothing getting past this woman.

"Yes but I don't have a religion and there is no box for "none" I replied.

"Don't be silly. Everyone has a religion. What were you raised as?" She was getting this form completed no matter what.

"Just put down Catholic" my father replied very matter of fact. And that was that. I was Catholic for the next week whether I wanted to be or not.

Paperwork done, they brought me to my room, a private room with a view of Los Angeles. There I was, suitcase in hand with my father looking very uncomfortable.

"Do you need anything to get settled?" He was at least making an effort, I thought. Just then a nurse came in and told me to put on the gown and get into bed.

"Well I'm going to go back to work. I'll see you later". And he was off.

"I'm good" I said softly to his back as he walked out. I was anything but good, but I didn't want anyone else to know that. I was 20 years old, trapped in a hospital with a religion I didn't want, undergoing surgery I wasn't sure I was sick enough to need and no one around to make it all better.

Always one to at least "try" to follow the rules, no sooner had I changed into the gown and got settled into bed than a group of residents came by on their daily rounds. As soon as one of them listened to my heart, all them them were suddenly crowded around me talking about murmurs and thrills. A murmur is the sound that blood makes when it goes through either a leaking valve or a valve that is too narrow. My aortic valve was so narrow that it made a "thrill", which is a vibration you can feel by placing your hand over the heart. Since I'd never felt anyone else's heart before, it never occurred to me that no one else had that same vibration.

The residents questioned me extensively about my symptoms. They couldn't believe that I didn't have dyspnea (difficulty breathing), dizziness or chest pain. They were stunned when I told them that I went hiking, backpacking and mountain climbing on a regular basis, without symptoms.

As soon as they left I got down on the ground and did 50 push ups. Just to prove that I could. Of course, no one else was around to see me, but at least I felt better knowing that I could. I wasn't THAT sick!

Word travels fast in a teaching hospital about patients with good physical exam findings. Pretty soon I was "the patient" to see. Groups of residents and medical students (not even on my case) came tromping through my room at all hours just to listen to my heart.

Later that morning, a priest stopped by my room and asked if I was needing confession before my upcoming surgery. Thanking him politely, I said "No, I don't really have anything to confess, but I'll call you if I need anything", not intending to call at all but just wanting to get him the hell out of my room.

"If you don't confess before surgery, and God forbid you should die during surgery, you would not be welcomed into Heaven. Is that really what you want? I am here for you now and ready to take your confession". He wasn't going away that easily.

"Look, I'm not really Catholic. That was just something my Dad filled in because I was raised Catholic. There wasn't a box for "none". You guys should really fix that on the admission forms." I was tired now and really wanted him gone. Plus he was starting to freak me out a little, and my nerves were already a little on edge.

"We try to help everyone find their way back to God before they meet their maker. Won't you let me help you. If you like we can wait for your parents to come back if that would make you more comfortable." Oh boy, does he not know me!

Politeness now cast aside, I said "No, look, I'm not lost, I don't want your help, and if I die, well, I'll be dead so it won't really matter. And no, I don't need my parents here, I'm old enough and capable enough to make decisions about religion or no religion. So really, I'm done now." He turned his eyes downward and muttered that he would pray for my eternal soul and he backed out of the room.

Shortly after, lunch came. I didn't order it, but apparently they had me on a cardiac diet...no fat, no salt, no flavor, and worst of all no caffeine (at the time, I was a self avowed caffeine addict)! Because this was a Seventh Day Adventist hospital, they were also vegetarians, which at any other point in my life would have been great. However, their version of vegetarianism included a "mystery meat" with every meal meant to look and taste like meatloaf, which it failed miserably on both accounts. The other vegetables were overcooked and bland, with whipped potatoes out of a box. I thought to myself that if I died and went to hell, it surely couldn't be much worse than here.

By the next day, I was going a little stir crazy. I got up and asked the nurse if I could get dressed in street clothes since they had already taken all the blood, done all the xrays and EKG and I was now just waiting for surgery the next morning (which is exactly why insurance companies won't pay for admission before the day of surgery anymore!). She thought that would be fine, so I dressed in my jeans, sweat shirt and tennis shoes and went for a walk. At first, I just stayed on the floor. But as the day wore on, and my nerves were screaming for caffeine, so I did what I always did when I needed someone, I called Jim.

"When am I going to see you?" I asked.

"I can come over now if you need me too" He answered.

"Okay, meet me in the cafeteria!". I hung up and I jumped bail.

The only other person I knew who drank more coffee than me was Jim. I don't know how long we spent in the cafeteria drinking coffee and talking, but I know it was more than a couple of hours. Finally, a woman from Housekeeping came over to our table, looked me over closely, and said to me "You're the patient on fifth floor, yes?".

Caught. But since she wasn't a nurse, I figured I was okay for the time being. "yes, I am."

"Oh no, you need to go back. They been looking everywhere for you! They have doctors up there looking for you. They thought you left!"

As soon as she walked away, Jim and I just looked at each other and burst out laughing. Never one to coddle or baby me, Jim left me to go back to the floor and face the music on my own.

That afternoon, my father brought Nana to visit. While they were in the room, my surgeon and anesthesiologist came in to consent me for surgery. Because they weren't sure if they would repair the valve or replace it, I had to consent for both. I absolutely did not want anything foreign in my body, but, since bio prosthetic valves (pig valves) only last about 10-15 years, and as young as I was, if I needed a valve it would have to be a mechanical one. Funny how, I was so adamant against an artificial valve, yet I was so taken with the idea of celebrating my 21st by drinking myself into a stupor that I almost didn't get the surgery. As logical as I was even then, I'll have to chalk that one up to the sheer stupidity of youth.

As they started to list all the potential complications, I could see out of the corner of my eye Nana set her mouth and wring her hands, never a good sign. My father finally asked the question that no one wanted Nana to hear "What are the chances that she'll die during surgery?"

"Three to five percent" the surgeon said, "meaning that for every 100 surgeries we do, about 3-5 people will die as a result of complications."

"Oh my God" Nana gasped and started crying. My father, now very uncomfortable, just mumbled something about needing the surgery and I lived longer than anybody thought I would anyway, and then crossed his arms waiting for me to sign. I did just so we could end the ordeal for Nana.

As soon as that was done, a nurse came in to prepare me for surgery. Dad took Nana home, while I had to take a long shower with antibacterial soap. When I got out of the shower, the nurse was waiting for me with razor in hand, and shaved me from neck to toe! The worst part was she dry shaved me with baby powder. By the time she was done the entire front half of me was lobster red.

The night before surgery, I got to thinking. What was I doing here about to undergo a surgery that could kill me, when I wasn't sick? I could hike, bike, climb mountains...was I crazy to have this surgery now? Shouldn't I wait until there were at least some signs that something was wrong?

So I called my best friend Maria and told her I was thinking of leaving and not having surgery. I could go back up to school, finish out the semester and "just see how it goes".

"Wait, wait Tina, don't do anything yet. Do you want me to come down right now?" Maria said sounding slightly panicked.

No, I just don't think I want to do this right now". Having said that, the phone line cut off. Apparently, they shut the phone lines off at 9:00 pm when visiting hours are over. Poor Maria. When she called back she got connected to the nurses station, and was told visiting hours were over. She pleaded with them to check my room because I probably sneaking out the back stairs on the lam. She finally convinced the nurse to put the call through to my room, where I promptly picked up.

"Don't EVER do that to me again!"

"I'm sorry. I'm still here, I just don't want to be" I said. She was just the person I needed to talk to at that time.

The next morning, my father came back with Nana, Teresa, Cindy and Mark. Cindy and Teresa both leaned over to give me a kiss for luck. My father told Mark to "kiss your sister". He bent down to place a cold kiss on my cheek, but with nothing behind those eyes, which had been empty ever since my mother died. Then they left to wait in the waiting room. Jim came also. He told me that he just couldn't stay. He HATED hospitals. But he would be back, he promised. He had tears in his eyes. It was only the second time I could ever remember Jim with tears. The first time was just after my mother died.

The nurse came in to give me a preop shot of Demerol "just to relax you" she said. Apparently, Demerol has the opposite effect on me because in a few minutes it felt like I was on speed. Just as they came to wheel me out to the operating room, one of the housekeeping staff came to and asked me if I wanted her to pray with me. With a slight edge in my voice I thanked her but said no. This visibly upset her and she started praying in Spanish as they wheeled me out of my room. The last thing I thought as they wheeled me out was that next time I ever found myself in a hospital, I was sticking to my guns and leaving the religion box blank! Not because I didn't believe in the power of prayer. I did. In fact there are lots of studies that show that people who pray do better after surgery. It was the idea that only good people who pray get their prayers answered. What about all the people who prayers go unanswered? Were they not deserving enough? And what did that say about us as a society that we collectively believed in a God so elitist as to pick and chose whose prayers are answered and whose are ignored. Since I couldn't resolve any of those issues at the ripe old age of 20, I decided to believe in nothing, or at least be okay with not knowing what I believed.

The operating room was too cold and way too bright. There were lots of people bustling about getting the trays prepped, the bypass machine ready and generally ignoring me once i was shifted over on the operating table. Never wanting to be left out of the action, I sat up, and in as commanding a voice as I could muster(which was definitely a challenge considering I was a practically naked five foot tall woman who looked all of about 12 years old) I said "Okay, listen up. How many of you guys stayed out late last night drinking? How many hours of sleep did you get? How about you?" I said pointing to various people in the room. They all assured me that they each got a good nights sleep...sober as they chuckled behind their masks. The anesthesiologist came in and I questioned him also about his drinking habits. He laughed and told me to lay down and count backwards from one hundred. I started at 100, and went from 90 to nothing in the blink of an eye.