After Open-Heart Surgery, I Didn’t Want Help. I Needed It

I came into the world 62 years ago with a design flaw: a bicuspid aortic valve. Most aortic valves have three sturdy flaps to regulate blood flow. Mine came with two. It seemed to wonder why it was hired in the first place. If you listened carefully, you could hear it muttering, “I hate my job, I hate my job.”

It was the first part of me to admit it needed help.

A few months ago, my overworked valve developed an aneurysm, and blood began flowing backward. The cardiologist said I’d die if I didn’t get it fixed, maybe this month, maybe next.

To save me, a surgeon cracked open my chest, repaired the valve and wired my ribs together with what was reassuringly described as “titanium twisty ties,” like the ones that keep your bread fresh, but less whimsical.

After a few days in the hospital, I was sent home with a stack of instructions. I was told not to lift anything heavier than a gallon of milk, not to drive and not to sneeze with enthusiasm. If I felt sad or anxious, that was normal. Loneliness and desolation were also common.

I figured those cautions were intended for other people.

The first night home, I tried to go upstairs to bed. I gripped the railing and took the first step. My chest tightened. By the third step, I was breathing like I had just finished a sprint.

I stopped halfway up and leaned against the wall, panting. I could feel my heart pounding against my chest, like it was trying to bust out.

“Do you want help?” my wife called from the bottom of the stairs, our daughter beside her.

I wanted to say no, but I didn’t have a choice.

She came up behind me, slowly, as if approaching a nervous horse. She lightly held on to my back, and when we reached the top, I felt both victorious and embarrassed. “I can do it myself next time,” I said like a toddler letting go of his mother’s hand. 

In the days that followed, I sat in a chair by the window in our living room. I couldn’t do much else. No lifting. No driving. Just sitting, breathing and trying not to feel sorry for myself.

At one point, the sound of blood hammering in my head became so loud I was sure something had gone wrong. I typed my symptoms into my phone. It said I probably had a “dural arteriovenous fistula.” It might as well have said, “Get ready to die.”

I closed the browser and stared out the window. A cardinal landed on a branch outside. I watched it hop from twig to twig, red against the green leaves, and felt my eyes fill with tears.

And I hate birds.

I hadn’t told too many people about my situation for fear of sounding weak. If I did, I’d quickly add that “this wasn’t my fault, I was born with it.” I was worried people might assume I’d done something to deserve it — too many late nights, too much travel, too many drinks.