The Revolution Will be Televised

As I write this, it’s one week since I had heart surgery. One week since I saw a catheter isolating the locations of my pulmonary veins, and inflating a little ballon in the entrance with liquid nitrogen to freeze-burn away the tissue where the veins join the left atrium. I was disappointed. Until the day I was admitted to hospital, I thought they were going to use lasers.

The whole thing is a bit dreamlike in my recollections. The surgery itself was under a local anaesthetic and plenty of sedation; I was conscious but not entirely compos mentis. I remember feeling the alcohol burn of the antiseptic they sloshed over my groin as it pooled around my scrotum. I remember seeing but not feeling the catheter, no bigger than a headphone cable, as they threaded it into my femoral vein. I remember feeling the catheter when it entered my heart for the first time, nerves that’ve never had to register the sensation of “touch” suddenly reporting a very alien sensation. I remember feeling the balloon every time it inflated. Ever have some ice-cream or sorbet that was so cold you could feel it numbing things as it slid down into your stomach? It was like that, only ten times more so. I don’t remember feeling the punch from one atrium to the other; I think that’s a blessing.

My sense of time got a bit fucked up; I was in for about two, two and a half hours, but it felt no more than thirty minutes. I think describing the sensations gives as good an account of the surgery itself as anything else I could write.

Beyond the surgery itself, we spent a lot of last Monday being bored. Danielle came with me to the hospital; I had to be there for 8am, nothing to eat or drink since midnight. She sat with me while people took the usual set of readings, and when we waited. And waited. And waited. I was the third of three, it turns out, and both people before me had longer procedures than anticipated. We played board games for a bit — pass'n'play Terraforming Mars is really rather good on iOS — read, knitted, and generally tried to pass the time until I went in. Danielle even comforted me every time the drinks went around. No coffee all day. I’m pretty sure that’s against the Geneva convention. They could’ve slipped me a couple of Pro-Plus and a sip of water, for fuck’s sakes.

I got the order to change into a gown at 3pm. Because of the location of the entry point to my cardiovascular system, I couldn’t have any dignity. Just a gown and some gauze kecks. When it became apparent that the wait would be more than about five minutes, I stuck some jeans back on. It ended up being two more hours until I was told to get into bed, and the main event kicked off.

I got stitches removed at about nine, and was released into the world at about 10pm, with just a dressing covering the incision (and thus stuck to my short-and-curlies) to show for the whole thing. I’ve spent th past week not doing much; this week I’m still resting but I’m going to be doing a bit more than I was as my fitness returns. Contrary to expectations, however, I’m not being daft. I’m going to listen to my body, and take it easy. Better to take a couple of weeks to get right than to dive into things and be wrecked for six months.

TL;DR: In addition to being restarted five times, I officially have less of a heart than I did a couple of weeks ago. None more goth.