Roger's Story

What can I say about how I feel today? It’s now two weeks since I underwent a double heart bypass, and I’m alive and that’s great, I’m not sure there is much more to say. Relief, a little concerned about how much I can do (although the medics are incredibly positive I think for a while I can allow myself a little concern); grateful, to my GP, two consultants, a whole host of nurses and staff at a hospital in Hull, my friends and family, but most of all to my wife who, despite being worried out of her mind has provided me with love, support, encouragement and just the right amount of not allowing me to feel too sorry for myself. Yes I think I feel lucky.

I feel lucky because one frosty Monday morning in February I was out walking with our dogs; I let them off their leads and started to stride out, with the specific intent of raising my heart rate when I started to feel my chest tighten, so I stopped.

In fairness I didn’t really think it was anything, perhaps a little over indulgence over the weekend, I spent the rest of the walk trying to make myself belch, to no avail but as I hadn’t really picked up the pace again then the sensation was not as severe as it had been anyway. The next morning the same thing happened, this time I tried to ‘power through’ the feeling – very sensible I’m sure – to no avail, so I slowed and it went away again. It happened every morning that week, when I ran out of excuses to myself I plucked up courage and told my wife, who was until fairly recently a medic herself, what had happened. There was no hesitation, “You’re off to the Doctors on Monday.”

Monday came, the GP was almost as brisk as my wife had been, he immediately referred me to the rapid action chest pain unit at the local hospital, gave me a GTN spray and a lecture. The basis of which was, “Get the pain, stop, if it doesn’t go away use the spray up to three times, if it’s not gone in 15 minutes call an ambulance, don’t call me I would only slow things down and get in the way.” This was the first of a number of reality checks, until that moment I had been able to kid myself it might be, probably was, something else, you know, not serious. Now this Doctor who had been my GP for 25+ years, a man I was on first name terms with etc. etc. was telling me he would get in the way!

The rapid action chest pain unit appointment took ten days, not my idea of rapid but there you are. I had to go for a treadmill ECG but never really got that far, by the time I had got across the car park and up two flights of stairs to the clinic they wired me up to the machine and could see the results, never set foot on the tread mill. I was seen by a GP Specialist working under the local cardiac consultant who told me she thought I had a blockage in an artery on the left side of my heart and that I would need a cardiac angiogram but that the likely prognosis was that I would have to have a stent put in then all would be well. She was concerned about the way I had not actually made it to the tread mill and I was placed on a ‘next available slot’ list.

The slot came up another ten days or so later, the first time I met the cardiac consultant face to face. The angiogram took about 15 minutes during which time I felt no pain at all from the procedure and was tipped at all sorts of angles on a bed that would have not been out of place as a Disneyland ride with x-ray machines whizzing around taking pictures of my heart from all kinds of positions. About half an hour later the consultant came and sat on my bed I had asked to speak to him rather than wait for a follow up appointment as we had a holiday planned touring the Rockies in Canada and I needed to know if we had to cancel. He told me that the good news was most of my heart seemed fine, apart from two places where there was significant blockages in my arteries, not only that, the location of these blockages was such that a stent was not likely to work, I needed a double by-pass and to be referred on to a cardiac surgeon. I had to cancel the holiday. Reality check two.

What seemed an eternity passed, the symptoms didn’t get much worse but they never went away either, as soon as I exerted myself in any way there it was reminding me I had a problem in my heart, the body’s engine, if it stopped so did you.

A few weeks later I found myself in front of a cardiac surgeon, my ever concerned and supportive wife at my side. His opening shot, “I can fix this but you can’t be cured.” Reality check three. He went on to explain how he could by-pass the problem the short and mid term prognosis was good as was the long term so long as I took my medication, exercised and had an appropriate lifestyle. So, if I wanted to live to be an old man, which was a reasonable expectation, it was up to me – he was pushing against an open door.

Then came reality check four, the real biggy. Between first being diagnosed and visiting this guy we had read all there was to read, the booklets, web sites, American medical school web sites (not for the faint hearted), there was nothing we had not read. We knew the risks, we knew the prognosis, everyone was saying they expected 100% recovery, better then before results etc. but there was a risk, a little less than 2% of people died during the surgery. I viewed these purely as statistics with little relevance to me. Now at that time I had no idea what my chances of survival without surgery were, it hadn’t entered my head, I wanted my lifestyle back, where I did what I wanted, when I wanted to. I had been able to retire from full time work three years earlier at the age of 50 and hadn’t yet fulfilled any of the things we had wanted to do.

He explained that with my ‘pipe work’ I had a one chance in five of dying in the next year and that my chances of surviving five years were remote but that the chances of dying during surgery were two in a hundred. I trotted out the old “Well I don’t have a choice do I?” He said “But you do, you have a very real choice, this is a real statistic, you may live another five years without surgery, you may die on the day I operate, that is a real risk, I don’t want you coming back and complaining you could have had another five years!” He then went on to say you need to talk about it then move on. Suddenly what I had viewed almost dispassionately had become real, my mortality held up full in front of my face. That was reality check four.

He showed me the cd rom taken during the angiogram and showed me where the blockages were, he explained what he was intending to do and told me when it was to be done.

Again the weeks seemed to pass slowly, we did what he said, we talked about the risks. I said things to the kids I wanted to say, made sure bills were paid and wrote a letter to my wife then got on with it. Without being morbid this process did help, I was obviously worried about what was going to happen and about my family but I wasn’t worried about leaving things unsaid which eased my mind considerably.

There were pre op visits to the hospital another visit to the GP everyone seemed so positive. But the pre op visit was the best.

The nurse we saw was great, she told us almost moment by moment what would happen, operation day, you don’t know much about it, wake up in the ICU spend the night there, transferred to the HDU for day 1, moved to the ward day 2, home day 5/6. She told me how I would feel, there would be good days and bad days and when they probably would be.

The day finally arrived, friends took us to the hospital, I didn’t want my wife leaving me there and then having to drive 35 miles home. I was booked in for surgery the following day.

I was due to go down at lunch time and sure enough just after 1 away I went down into the anti room to have five lines put into my arms under local anaesthetic and then ‘Just one more’ to quote the anaesthetist, next thing I knew I was looking up at my wonderful wife, I remember saying “Hello gorgeous” to her. Apparently she told me my hands were cold so I told her I was ’Bloody freezing.’ She sorted that out. I remember little else about that night.

The next morning, whilst still in the ICU they took my drains out. “Deep breath.” Deep bloody breath – I could hardly suck any in at all I was too frightened, they had cut me open right down my front, run a saw up my sternum and done goodness only knows what else inside my chest and this character was casually telling me to take a deep bloody breath. “Come on you can’t do any damage.” So I tried a bit harder and much to my surprise I didn’t warrant a bit part in ‘Alien 75’ apart from the fact that when they withdrew the tubes, which again didn’t hurt, they seemed to go on forever. I still had five lines going into my wrists and a line with multiple access points running into my neck. There was also a mysterious small coil of wire taped to my chest.

I was then moved into a High dependency unit for a bit of R&R. This was a small unit, only four beds. As I looked round the room I realised I wasn’t alone in the bypass club, each of the other guys had a matching red zip down the front of his chest which looked remarkably like the one I saw when I looked down.

There began a never ending round of monitoring, extra injections or drips because of low potassium levels or this or that. The fascination the nurses seemed to have with checking and measuring the contents of the bag my catheter was draining into passed me by. I do understand though that it’s important.

The memory does become something of a haze, highlights were food, removal of some of the lines from my wrist, being made to sit out of bed and, less than 24 hours after the operation a physiotherapist had me walking up the ward, not far but I was on my feet. Returning to bed and some pretty heavy sleep after that.

We spent the night in the HDU, monitoring continued the next day until we were finally told we were going back to the ward and our rooms, we were told if we wanted we could walk part of the way. I set my stall out for that. It’s strange how you can loose you inhibitions at times like that. There I was, bearing in mind it is still something of a haze, big red scar right down my chest, my ‘Alien’ line growing out of my neck, five short scars down my left leg where the grafts had been taken from the mysterious coil of wire still taped to my chest and off I went. My poor wife couldn’t watch, I’m sure someone was there with me but I have no recollection of it, I remember trudging along thinking I’m going to get all the way. I wasn’t trying to impress anyone I needed to prove to myself I was still alive and capable of moving from one point to another.

I made it to my bed and climbed in; once again things become misty in my memory.

The next few days became a never ending round of monitoring and medicine rounds, physiotherapists, visits from friends and family and my constant, ever present sole mate, she knew the road from our home near York to the Hospital at Hull like the back of her hand. I couldn’t cope with the kindness people had show us and cried when I thought of it, my wife had to write our thank you cards and told me it was alright to cry.

The consultant visited a couple of days after surgery and said he was happy with the way things had gone.

The line in my neck came out as did the mysterious coil of wire which had apparently been a line to my heart through which they could kick start it if it slowed – fab.

I did exactly what they told me to do, if they wanted me to cough, I coughed walk for five minutes, I walked, sleep, I slept. These people know what they are doing and whilst I always asked why, I still did whatever they wanted and I’m sure it’s the only way to survive this experience with the least of problems.

I left hospital at the end of the 5th day after surgery, what a relief. My friend who had brought us into hospital came to collect me, my wife and I had a briefing from the physio and the staff nurse as to the do’s and don’t, targets to achieve and when to expect to return to see the consultant. The first few days at home were sleep, eat, walk, sleep with the emphasis on sleep. This soon passed, I have now been home 9 days and am down to about an hour sometime around lunch and the walking is up to 15 mins each session.

I seemed to loose concentration for a few days but this is coming back, I am starting to read again and becoming frustrated at the limitations set on me by the recuperation process. I don’t like someone else having to run around after me.

I know it’s very early days but I feel very positive about the future after a few frightening months, when I raise my heartbeat whilst walking the awful pain I had is gone.

I have learned some lessons form the experience so far :-

Whilst I am the main player in this episode in life it has a dramatic affect on others, work, friends, family and most significantly your partner. I have been very lucky in the unstinting support I have received from my wife, this has been of such importance to me I am unable to put into words the gratitude I feel toward her. The problem is that whilst there is plenty of support for people who are going through the process there is not so much for others involved. My wife emailed Sue Reynolds at the Heart to Hearts web site and received a very supportive reply, we both took great strength from that.

There is little pain, more, discomfort involved in the process.

It is important to stay positive. It would be very easy to lay down and say ‘Why me?’ it doesn’t matter at the moment why you, you have to get on and get through.

Try to be as fit as possible when you go in for the op, I kept walking the dogs, a little slower and under supervision, it helps with recovery.

Having taken into account what I have called Reality Check four then set your mind at having the future you always wanted and aim for that.

So there it is so far for me, I read a lot of stories prior to the operation some of which alarmed me but everyone has their own experience and what is important or worrying to one need not be the same for someone else.

I hope this may assist anyone at the start of the process. My email is rmjs@btinternet.com should anyone wish to make contact.

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Roger's Story

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