Heart Ablation Procedure

I had a successful surgery on Tuesday. By successful, I mean they put me under and did unspeakable things to my body poking and rooting around with all kinds of tiny implements of torture and mayhem, and I woke up 5 hours later not dead. Thus it was a roaring success. Did they fix what they intended to fix? That question won’t be answered for two to three months.. I believe that translates into “we’re not going to commit to anything until the bills are submitted to the insurance company and the checks all clear the bank.”

Prior to committing me to the abyss of unconsciousness they did manage to poke and prod me with little mini tortures, kind of a warm up for what was to come. They seem to enjoy putting tape for electrodes and such in not quite the right area so they could slowly rip out small patches of hair. Ordered lab tests were somehow missed or the results  lost in digital black hole of lost patient data. A few more pokes for what seemed a large gauge dull needle and they had the pint of blood to finish their test. I guess they got what they needed and I passed the tests because the continued processing me through the system.

My brother came to help watch the fun and keep Joy company. I think he kind of enjoyed being in the spectators box and not on deck for surgery after his incident of getting his fingers sucked into a shaper. Of course this wasn’t really a surgery, it was a “procedure.” Apparently if no external stitches are involved it is a “procedure” and not a surgery.  They even get their one little section in the hospital, the Procedure Care Unit (PCU).  I said my goodbyes and shuffled off to the elevator, hospital gown flapping in the breeze with my stylish gray hospital socks with grippy traction surface and an arrow pointing forward. I guess the arrow was to remind you forward is the hospital approved safe walking direction. I hopped on the gurney waiting for me and off I went to what must be called a procedure room. Four very efficient people were there waiting for me. Those I hadn’t already met introduced themselves and before I knew it they’d bared my chest shaved a large square of hair off my chest and placed all sorts of electrodes and large square patches on the front and back of my torso for 3D ultrasound and other imaging devices. I barely had time to glance around the room at all the computer screens and equipment before they placed a mask over my face and said you’ll breath oxygen for a couple of minutes and then we’ll start the IV to put you to sleep. That will take 30 seconds. That’s the last thing I remember. The doctor wasn’t in the room, probably stuck somewhere on Interstate 5. They kindly waited until I was unconscious before they subjected me to the final indignities of shaving my groin and putting an IV in my heel, of all places. The heel IV was for heparin, a very strong anti-clotting drug. Then they stuffed a breathing tube and temperature probe down my throat.  Then they started threading equipment up the big veins in my legs. They spent the next five hours or so rooting around in my heart, electrically stimulating various section to try and isolate the bad wiring so they could freeze or burn that tissue out. Kind of like having an auto mechanic locate the general area of a short in your car and then applying a blow torch to that area to fix it.

I woke up in recovery and then everyone kept asking when my birthday was. Apparently they want to throw me a big party. It seemed I must have been quite a hit in the PCU. The nurses all wanted to come by and check out my groin and comment on how good it looked. Some even went so far to say it looked great. I was kind of embarrassed. It seemed pretty forward, and they made all these comments in front of my wife. I was feeling quite proud of my groin too at that point, so I decided to take a peek. I was aghast to find they had given me a pubic Mohawk. They’d also decorated the area with blue green dye the color of teenage girls eye shadow. The only thing that was missing was glitter and hair gel. Not really a look I would go for personally, but apparently it is quite popular with young nurses, or maybe it was just the swelling that impressed them.

 

They wheeled me into my private room on the 7th floor. Virginia Mason Hospital was built in the 1960s and I don’t think they’d got around to upgrading the decor in the PCU recovery area since Carter was in office. The Hilton this was not. Half the buttons didn’t work on the bed. To work the overhead light they hooked a piece of stretchy gauze to the little pull chain that was positioned just out of reach, designed to taunt the patient but never quite allow them to turn on the light themselves. Later I hooked it with my pillow and tied it to my bed frame. The view, however, was spectacular. A big window overlooked downtown Seattle, you could even see a bit of Puget Sound off to the north. On a clear day the Olympic mountains would be viewable.

I felt like crap, my chest hurt, my groin ached, my back was killing me and they wouldn’t let me move my legs or even lift my head off the pillow for an agonizing two hours. A few checks of my groin and blood pressure I was given the green light to have them extract the catheter up my wiener. I have now a new found empathy for anyone who has a urinary catheter. It feels like someone let a Gardner snake crawl up the end of you wiener and then left it to die.  The nurse deflated the balloon in my bladder and gave me the Laurence Whelk countdown, “a one and a two and a YOW!”  That felt like you just peed hot coffee and lemon juice. After I caught my breath Edit, my nurse, asks me if I can stand. I stand and sway like a tree about to fall. She has me sit back down and checks my BP, 84/64. After a couple minutes of sitting up I’m better and shuffle off to the bathroom. The catheter  gives you a strong urge to pee. Now you feel like you just spent the weekend in a Tijuana whore house and have a bad case of the Clap. The burning dribbles make me what to scream like a girl. I resist the urge to bare down try and purge the lemon juice some sadist must have injected into my bladder, remembering the warning that it could risk of blowing fresh seals in my veins causing me to bleeding out in the john.

Despite the fun I was glad to be no longer tethered to the auto-BP cuff and the wiener snake. I had Joy order me up a chocolate shake from room service. I was alive, no complications, and I thought I should have a milkshake to celebrate. At about 9:30 PM Joy returned to the hotel room in the Virginia Mason Inn attached to the hospital.  I watched a little TV and read before trying to fall asleep. The nurse offered a night cap of either Percocet or morphine if I wanted. I opted for a couple acetaminophen. That took enough of the edge off to allow me to sleep for about 10 to 15 minutes at a time.  At 4 AM I gave up and called for a Percocet. Between my own discomfort, moans from the other rooms, beeping equipment, and big ticking clock on the wall, sleep had become impossible. Just one little Percocet took the edge off like about a ½ a bottle of Jack Daniels. I slept in a narcotic haze for ½ hour intervals until after 7:00 AM.  By 8:30 then next morning I’d passed all the required tests, I could walk and pee, had no fever and wasn’t oozing puss out of anywhere. I was discharged and walked, not rolled, out of the hospital. The doc, who I saw for about one minute in recovery, says it went great and he’s optimistic I’ll be symptom free in a couple months.

I’ll spare you who read this all the way to the bitter end any more details. I think I may have already crossed the TMI line several times. Thanks for all thoughts, visits, well wishes, calls, text messages and emails. I really appreciate it. Suffice it to say, I’m rehabbing at home and feeling very close to normal. Sorry about that, but that’s as good as it gets. I’ll be walking with our Running buddies on Saturday, back to work on Monday and will be able to do start running, biking and swimming again by Tuedsay or so.