Coastline Pilot

25 February 2006

 

Chasing the Muse

Catharine Cooper

 

The heart is defined as a hollow muscular organ, centered in the chest with its apex directed to the left.  Its function is to pump the blood around the body.  The heart is further defined as the center of emotional life, where the deepest and most sincere feelings are felt, where an individual is most vulnerable to pain.  What happens when the heart is disrupted?

 

Sunrise had been coastal picture perfect.  Fragments of a rainbow lifted from the seas surface, shards of brilliant colors trapped in a sun-water expression of fluid light.  The rainbow, I thought, was a sign of an end to a difficult emotional period.

 

Then the phone rang. 

 

“Your father’s had a heart attack.  He’s at Hoag.”  It was my step-mother, Jan, reporting on Crofton.

 

Mind says simple phrases.  “Don’t panic.  Put on clothes. Drive.”

 

I had one leg out the door when once again the phone rang.   “Your mother’s at Saddleback.  She has chest pains and they have her under observation.”  It was my stepfather, Lewie, speaking of Kay.

 

Mind says, “You’re kidding, right?”

 

My parents have not been together for over 40 years, yet here they were, with related health issues on the same day at the same time.  Can their hearts possibly still be connected?

 

I process a quick emotional triage.  Who is in the worst shape?  Deal with that condition first.  Dad’s being diagnosed.  Mom is in observation.  Mind says: Drive to Hoag.

 

Hospitals are amazing institutions of hope.  We turn to them in emergencies, filled with belief, that within their walls and bright minds of their staff, we will find a solution to our problems. An answer. A fix. An end to pain and suffering. 

 

My father rests on a mechanical bed in the SCC (Sub-Critical Care) unit. He is hooked up to a bevy of monitors, which measure his heart rate, respiration and blood pressure.  He complains of continued pain in his chest and nausea, but breaks into a broad smile as I enter the room. 

 

“Not getting enough attention?” I quip, and he chuckles, soft blue eyes sparkling, even as I sense his fear.  Nurses come to roll him down the hall where he’s about to have an angiogram.  Staff is amazingly supportive and seems to have mastered their customer service skills.  Polite, attentive and reassuring.

 

The angiogram indicates a coronary artery system that has failed, and bi-pass is the name of the game.  Dr. Blankenbaker shows us the test results, and informs us that they’ll keep dad under observation and perform more tests.  Surgery is scheduled for Monday with Dr. Rainey.

 

On the other side of South County, mom’s preliminary tests indicate the need for an angiogram and likely balloon or stent work to update a bi-pass she had twelve years ago.  Dr. Gim schedules her for Monday morning and allows her to go home, with a promise that she will rest quietly.

 

Monday.  Let’s see. Mom and dad.  Surgery on Monday. What are the odds of this?

 

We set up a kind of watch around my father.  Family and friends filter through providing emotional distraction. Dad’s surgery remarkably gets postponed until Tuesday.  I cannot thank the doctor enough!

 

Monday is spent at Saddleback with mom and she is fine.  Turns out the tests were false-positive, and that her original grafts are good to go.  No calcification.  No plaque.  A renewed lease, with the admonition, to lay off the stress!  A good message for all of us.

 

Tuesday morning I arrive at Hoag in time to send dad off to surgery.  We laugh and tell jokes.  He is ever the comedian with the nurses who have shaved and prepped him.

 

Jan, Steve, Austin and I make camp in the waiting room, in for the duration, along with members of other families. 
Cooper and Claudia call regulary to check in.  Crumpled clothes, emptied coffee cups, and spent magazines litter the room.  Nurses periodically appear to report on surgery’s progress.

 

Worn and tear stained faces are the call of the day.  Our hearts are linked to the hearts of those in the operating room, and we tie our hopes to the surgeons’ skills.  We dare to believe that all will be well, while knowing there are always risks.

 

Dad’s surgery goes smoothly.  A quintuple bi-pass (5) means that he has all new pipes.  Should be good to go for at least another ten years.  We thank Dr. Rainy profusely and celebrate with group hugs and kisses. We visit the still sleeping man, freshly post-op.  He looks something like robot, with tubes, wires and lines slipping in and out of every orifice.  Quietly, he rests, a machine breathes for him until he’s ready to reassume the task.  Above him, the monitor shows a strong and steady heartbeat.

 

Daybreak, he walks, amazed as we all are that medicine has come so far, and that doctor’s skills can heal a heart, so that we can continue our gift of loving one another.

 

Catharine Cooper continues to explore this amazing journey called we call life.  She can be reached at ccooper@cooperdesign.net