I Have a Hole in My What?
I remember sitting in front of the elevator, in my wheelchair, waiting for the mailman. All the doctors and nurses on the floor knew me and they would say hi as they passed on their way to tend to other patients. It was my favorite time of the day, when the mailman came, and I looked forward to it like nothing else. He delivered joy in the form of cards sent from relatives and friends alike. And for the completion of that simple task, he earned a permanent place on the list of heroes of my life.
The year was 1968 and I was five years old. A few short months earlier my pediatrician thought that he heard a murmur in my heart during a routine examination. He was concerned enough for my welfare that he had me put through a battery of tests. They poked, they prodded, they cut me open. I have very little memory of those tests.
The results were sent to a specialist in this sort of thing. In those days there were no cell phones, no emails, and for some reason, the doctor who examined me didn’t even make a phone call. What he did was send a letter and that letter said,
Dear Mrs. Berr:
I have looked over the detailed catheterization studies which you had forwarded to my office for an opinion.
As you know, Steven has a large hole in the inner wall between the two upper chambers of the heart known medically as an atrial septal defect. Whereas I am sure no one looks forward to a surgical operation, this is one of the most successful congenital heart defects treated by surgery. Approximately 99 per cent who come to surgery can be completely cured and thus Steven’s outlook for the future is good.
In regard to timing of the operation, I would make the following suggestions. First, the leak through this hole is large so that there is nothing to be gained by waiting indefinitely. Steve is now of excellent size and age for surgical closure and I would recommend this.
We will await your decision as to when you would like to have him scheduled for sugery.
WHAT??? A HOLE IN MY HEART??? ONLY 99 PER CENT ARE CURED???? AND HE’S GOING TO AWAIT MY PARENTS’ DECISION AS TO WHEN THEY WANT TO SCHEDULE THE OPERATION??? HOW ABOUT NOW, ASSHOLE!!!!
So, I had open heart surgery.
Two years ago my daughter had relatively minor knee surgery. I was a wreck. But it was her knee. This was my heart. I can not even begin to imagine what was going through my parents’ minds and I never asked them. I don’t want to know and the reason is a selfish one. I don’t want to spoil what is one of the best memories of my childhood.
What? How can I say that? How can open heart surgery be a good memory, let alone one of the best? Simple, I was treated like a king. My parents, as well as the doctors and nurses, made sure that my entire stay in the hospital was amazing. They spoiled me with toys, games, and tons of attention. My father brought me hot dogs from the street whenever I wanted them. I got to drink soda all the time. I got to watch television for more than two hours a day.
There was glass partition separating my bed from the other one in the room. It was there that my mother scotch taped all the cards I got when waiting for the mailman. There is one that stands out in my mind and it came from my Uncle Harry, my grandmother’s brother. You know those cards that look small but fold out to be very long? Well this one was a train. What he did was rip it at each fold and every day he sent me another car from the train. My mother taped them to the wall in order and at the end of my nearly two week stay, I had the whole train. I don’t know how he did it because I can’t believe that the mail was that reliable, but he did.
I left the hospital with a load of stitches in my chest and a full life to look forward to. Every year until I turned 21 or so I had to go back for check ups to make sure all was well. A couple of years ago I decided to have a complete check up to make sure it still was. And aside from the fact that the doctor felt it necessary to pass my x-rays around the office for all to see, it was. Apparently, the staples they used to seal the hole caused a bit of an uproar in the office.
When my daughter Rachel was born, naturally, I was worried that my birth defect would be her birth defect. I spend many nights with her sleeping in my arms listening to her heart beat. I would put my hand on her chest, my ear, and just listen. Not that I was going to hear anything, mind you, but I did it anyway. And not to be discriminatory, I repeated that undertaking after my son Jonathan was born. And again for Harrison.
I really had nothing to worry about. They had good hearts, all three of them. And although my memories are good ones, I have no desire for them to have them as well. It’s funny though, they seem to get a bit too excited when the mailman comes. Do you thing that sort of thing is hereditary?
The year was 1968 and I was five years old. A few short months earlier my pediatrician thought that he heard a murmur in my heart during a routine examination. He was concerned enough for my welfare that he had me put through a battery of tests. They poked, they prodded, they cut me open. I have very little memory of those tests.
The results were sent to a specialist in this sort of thing. In those days there were no cell phones, no emails, and for some reason, the doctor who examined me didn’t even make a phone call. What he did was send a letter and that letter said,
Dear Mrs. Berr:
I have looked over the detailed catheterization studies which you had forwarded to my office for an opinion.
As you know, Steven has a large hole in the inner wall between the two upper chambers of the heart known medically as an atrial septal defect. Whereas I am sure no one looks forward to a surgical operation, this is one of the most successful congenital heart defects treated by surgery. Approximately 99 per cent who come to surgery can be completely cured and thus Steven’s outlook for the future is good.
In regard to timing of the operation, I would make the following suggestions. First, the leak through this hole is large so that there is nothing to be gained by waiting indefinitely. Steve is now of excellent size and age for surgical closure and I would recommend this.
We will await your decision as to when you would like to have him scheduled for sugery.
WHAT??? A HOLE IN MY HEART??? ONLY 99 PER CENT ARE CURED???? AND HE’S GOING TO AWAIT MY PARENTS’ DECISION AS TO WHEN THEY WANT TO SCHEDULE THE OPERATION??? HOW ABOUT NOW, ASSHOLE!!!!
So, I had open heart surgery.
Two years ago my daughter had relatively minor knee surgery. I was a wreck. But it was her knee. This was my heart. I can not even begin to imagine what was going through my parents’ minds and I never asked them. I don’t want to know and the reason is a selfish one. I don’t want to spoil what is one of the best memories of my childhood.
What? How can I say that? How can open heart surgery be a good memory, let alone one of the best? Simple, I was treated like a king. My parents, as well as the doctors and nurses, made sure that my entire stay in the hospital was amazing. They spoiled me with toys, games, and tons of attention. My father brought me hot dogs from the street whenever I wanted them. I got to drink soda all the time. I got to watch television for more than two hours a day.
There was glass partition separating my bed from the other one in the room. It was there that my mother scotch taped all the cards I got when waiting for the mailman. There is one that stands out in my mind and it came from my Uncle Harry, my grandmother’s brother. You know those cards that look small but fold out to be very long? Well this one was a train. What he did was rip it at each fold and every day he sent me another car from the train. My mother taped them to the wall in order and at the end of my nearly two week stay, I had the whole train. I don’t know how he did it because I can’t believe that the mail was that reliable, but he did.
I left the hospital with a load of stitches in my chest and a full life to look forward to. Every year until I turned 21 or so I had to go back for check ups to make sure all was well. A couple of years ago I decided to have a complete check up to make sure it still was. And aside from the fact that the doctor felt it necessary to pass my x-rays around the office for all to see, it was. Apparently, the staples they used to seal the hole caused a bit of an uproar in the office.
When my daughter Rachel was born, naturally, I was worried that my birth defect would be her birth defect. I spend many nights with her sleeping in my arms listening to her heart beat. I would put my hand on her chest, my ear, and just listen. Not that I was going to hear anything, mind you, but I did it anyway. And not to be discriminatory, I repeated that undertaking after my son Jonathan was born. And again for Harrison.
I really had nothing to worry about. They had good hearts, all three of them. And although my memories are good ones, I have no desire for them to have them as well. It’s funny though, they seem to get a bit too excited when the mailman comes. Do you thing that sort of thing is hereditary?
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