Tag: heart

According to Le Journal of April 3, 1993 – eh! yes, I was the subject of a report before writing one! – a heart defect affected “one in 100 children in Quebec”.

I was one of the first “blue babies” – a nickname given because of the bluish tint after birth – who had been successfully attempted open heart surgery in the province using methods restricted to adult patients.

It didn’t fail to make headlines. My name was therefore grafted onto the long list of “miracle babies” which appear in our pages.

At that time, three teenagers had died during their operation within two weeks. And as many as 25% of infants born with a heart defect did not blow more than 15 candles before they died.

However, hundreds of children have since benefited from this type of intervention. This is the case of the brave little Félix Lachapelle, 14, who had already undergone seven surgeries, in July 2019. The story of this frail teenager had entered into me. He swore he hadn’t flinched a second before his surgery.

It plays on the mood …

Although I knew from childhood that going back under the knife would be inevitable, this operation to have a porcine valve installed had terrified me for a year.

Panic attacks, mood swings, insomnia; I had to juggle all of these handicaps. I pushed plans away, then threw relationships in the air for fear of dying. Even though the chance of staying there is just 2%, that statistic was already too high for me.

In addition, it had to occur in the midst of a pandemic, when the number of deaths reached dizzying heights.

First the test

Two days before lying down on the table, I go to the parking lot behind the building on Bélanger Street.

In a mobile trailer, a nurse gives me a virus screening test prior to my admission.

Each patient must test negative within 24 hours to enter the “green” hospital.

The cotton swab burns in the back of my throat and my nostril for about ten seconds. However, it is a lesser evil in the face of what awaits me.

I go home and be patient.

After receiving my result, head to the Institute. Once through the doors, a welcoming committee receives me.

I am asked common questions about the symptoms of COVID.

They disinfect my hands and give me a mask, then I continue my way to the next station. I am then asked why I am here, and told to go to the 3rd floor.

Finally, another employee forces me to rewash my hands, this time with soap and water.

First observation: all patients and employees constantly wear the mask in the hallways of the building.

A dose of courage

This evening of waiting is filled with excitement, but marked by great loneliness. The reactions to a spontaneous Facebook post give me a dose of love and courage which helps me digest all the information thrown by the dedicated staff, who try to reassure me, without much success, I must admit.

After a battery of tests and a sleepless night, we entered my room around 5:30 am for my final preparation.

A patient attendant then shaves me from head (except hair) to my feet. Ironic … for months, I joke that I have to be opened “like a little chicken”.

Depleted, this joke takes on a whole new meaning. The only catch – not to say the only Bic! – is that she uses a razor with a single blade, without water or cream.

Once at the Bloc, a nurse does not hide his anger at seeing my legs raw.

He is quick to report the event and means that it may jeopardize the response. An electric razor must be used at all times, he plague.

During my stay in the hospital, nurses tell me that the hardest part with COVID-19 is not being able to hug their patients alone and in need.

Right now, just seconds before I closed my eyes, I needed that reassurance more than ever.

They bring me to the operating room. I shiver. The friendly anesthetist invites me to lie down on the cold table while the team prepares. Everything becomes blurry. Tranquilizers work. I know I’m scared, but I can’t feel anything anymore.

The operation is scheduled for several hours. The surgeon to whom I owe my life, Dr. Nancy Poirier, calls my father around 11:30 a.m. to tell him that everything is fine. I am happy to begin my recovery.

My day is just vague memories. Hallucinations and memory loss follow when I wake up in intensive care.

Back pain

I open my eyes again and prepare for my transfer to an upstairs bedroom. This first day after the operation, not very high in twists and turns, is marked by excruciating back pain.

It’s caused by two dozen inch drains stuck in my stomach.

My father can nevertheless pay me a first visit. The only one authorized because of sanitary measures.

The next day, endowed with both surprising and unexpected energy, I combine back and forth in the corridor, mask on my face, to loosen my muscles.

I can’t help but stop to chat with some patients. Greetings to this avid reader of Newspaper. Every morning he had a copy by his bedside, courtesy of his wife.

As I trotted through the passage, I see once again why the Institute is at the cutting edge of cardiac care.

The freak

The day before I left, I was given a second COVID test. I am told that a unit attendant tested positive. I learn from my questions that the infected man greeted me.

Suddenly I’m not at all sure my nostrils are blocked from the dry ventilation in the old building. Luckily, a nice nurse tells me in the afternoon that I don’t have COVID-19. A week later, an outbreak of cases will force the closure of units and the imposition of new employee screening measures.

In the meantime, after six days of hospitalization, I finally get my discharge. I return to my father, where I reside on the long lonely road to my recovery. It is painful, without visitors.

If Quebeckers have been made aware in recent weeks that they should not get together for the holidays, I have known it for a long time.

I am also forbidden to swallow a drop of alcohol. Luckily, I still have my father, more than happy with the outcome.

Relief

What will happen to me if I contract the virus when my immune system is at its lowest? I can’t even imagine it. The thought of coughing repeatedly scares me. It would be a real ordeal for my “broached” breastbone.

That first night at home, the avid sportsman that I went out for the first real breath of fresh air. With my throat tied, I burst into tears. It’s finally over!

I therefore have a thought for the nursing staff at the Heart Institute, for their listening and their humanity. But also for all health professionals, who continue to fight.

Jonathan is still recovering from this delicate operation. He hopes to get back in shape in March.

► Jonathan is still recovering from this delicate operation. He hopes to get back in shape in March.