A BYPASS in DEFENSE of the FREE WORLD

Knowing that many of my friends and family had not yet experienced Open-Heart Surgery, I recently submitted to the procedure, intending to carefully document each step, so they might have some idea of what to expect. Does this make me some sort of trailblazing hero? That's for others to decide------but probably so----yes, I guess it does.

If you haven't yet read the story, "My Rude Awakening," you should do that first, as this story is what we in the publishing world like to call a "sequel" to that one. 

"Can you say, 'se-quel,' Pretty Boy?" 

But for those of you too lazy to find and read that story (most of you, I suspect) here's the gist of it: 

My family history of heart disease, high cholesterol and intolerance for statins led my Cardiologist to recommend a Nuclear Stress Test. This is a procedure in which lab technicians affix numerous electrical leads to the chest of some unfortunate chap whose coronary arteries may be clogged, requiring him to run on a treadmill until either his heartbeat reaches a predetermined target, or he expires, whichever comes first. As you may have surmised, my test was not fatal, but not for any lack of zeal on the part of the lab-techs. Frustrated that my heartbeat wasn't hitting their target, they cranked the treadmill from the "Alpine" to the "Himalayan" setting, and I managed to gasp out this question with what I thought might be my final breaths,

"How...many...patients...do you...lose on...this machine?" 

One of the techs answered, "About 25%."

"This is disconcerting," I thought, as I approached unconsciousness, "one in four Stress Test participants don't survive. This would have been helpful information to receive before I agreed to the test." (Yes, I often enclose my thoughts in quotation marks, if it's any of your business).

Later, when I questioned that death rate, which seemed a bit high, the tech explained that she meant that about 25% of their patients halt the test before completing it. This clarification provided a humorous moment for all those in the office who were not the patient.

The reason it's called a "nuclear" stress test is that some radioactive material is injected in the patient's chest during the procedure. I would have asked what percentage of radiated patients develop super- powers, but I had lost confidence in the lab techs' understanding of percentages.

My Cardiologist called me during "Jeopardy" that evening to tell me I was in jeopardy. (I would have preferred if he had called during "Wheel of Fortune" to tell me I was fortunate.) He wanted to follow up with a heart Catheterization. 

"Yes, that's a big word, Tommy. Can you count the syllables? Did you count five? WRONG! There are six! But supercalifragilisticexpialidocious has fourteen!  How many more syllables is that? Run along and work on that and come back when you have the answer." 

One fun thing about the word catheterization (alright, maybe the only fun thing) is that you can drop 5 syllables and still have a perfectly serviceable word. A Heart Cath is a procedure in which the physician weaves a route to the heart through a handy artery (endeavoring not to pierce the artery in the process, which would be messy). He then injects a dye to give him a clear view of the heart in action. My Cath revealed a severe blockage (70-90%) in each of the three major arteries providing blood to the heart. Oftentimes the surgeon performing the Heart Cath will attempt to open and stent a blocked artery, but in my case, I was told, bypass surgery was the preferred treatment.

The hospital was running an end of the year special: four bypasses for the price of three. 

"We'll find a minor branch to bypass while we're in there. Your recovery time will be the same." Plus, they noted, you get to call it a "quadruple" bypass, which sounds more impressive than "triple."

"Schedule it today and you'll also receive a bright red heart-shaped pillow to cushion your fall during your next heart attack." This deal sounded good, and I wasn't in the mood to shop around.

Let's fast-forward to the date of the bypass. Donna and I were told to arrive at the hospital at 6 AM for the 8 AM surgery. The extra time was evidently to give every staff member the opportunity to ask me my name and date of birth, and then to compare my response to what was typed on my wristband. I assume that if anyone caught me flubbing my answer, he or she would have received a bonus, and I would have been booted from the Cardiac floor, which is apparently reserved for people who always know their name and date of birth.  I don't know the exact number of patients who slip into Cardiac Units every year and receive Bypass Surgery intended for someone else, but it must be considerable.

Having passed the rigorous questioning, I was given an anesthetic which made it virtually impossible for me to document the surgery itself. Oblivious to what was taking place in the surgical theater over the next several hours, the theater of my mind was quite active. While the cardiac team, I understand, was slicing and dicing me, removing a vein from here, sawing through a sternum there, running my blood through a heart/lung machine so my heart wasn't in constant motion as they tried to splice veins into it, etc., I was doing battle with terrorists who were torturing me for information. My drug-addled brain was fighting for the Free World, truth, justice, baseball, apple pie and Twinkies. The terrorists were trying to get me to name names, but I wasn't talking. 

In the next instant, I knew why. I was in the recovery unit, with a breathing tube in my trachea. I could not have given the terrorists any information if I had wanted to. The only sound I could make was a gurgling noise. I've never been water-boarded, but intubation must be rated very close to it at the lower end of the Fun Scale. A wall clock indicated 2:30, but I didn't know if that was AM or PM, and I didn't know what day it was. 

"Of course, it was the afternoon of the day of your surgery, Rusty."

"Yes, I know that now, Pretty Boy. Didn't I assign you a math question?"

I pointed to my neck, the universal sign for, "I'm choking, and I can't talk." I pointed to my wrist, the sign for, "I see it's 2:30 but what day?" The people bustling around the room did not seem alarmed by my gurgling, and they didn't seem to know any sign language. A woman I had never met told me that she hoped to remove my breathing tube in a half hour, but the hours dragged by, and it was about 10 PM when she was able to follow through. She explained to Donna that worse than the "sensation" of respiratory failure is the real thing, so they had to determine that I was ready to breathe on my own. 

After a few days in ICU and a few more in a private room where I received excellent care from nurses, each of whom seemed to have a different name, I'm now at home, shuffling around the house and itching to challenge a one-year-old to a race.

My advice to family and friends is first, remember that that extra slice of pie may come with a side of heart disease, and second, when you get the choice to sit it out or dance, I hope you sit it out. People in your condition shouldn't be dancing.

It's truly amazing that surgeons can bypass blockages, replace heart valves, and even transplant hearts. As one of the techs said to me as he looked at my heart with an ultrasound machine, if someone from a few centuries ago saw what he was doing, he'd assume that he was from another planet. 

If physicians, who did not design the human body, can bypass heart blockages to extend a human life, can we not believe that our Creator, who did design the human body, can bypass the Reproductive Process to extend an offer of life to all mankind? 

"...The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Highest will overshadow you; therefore, also, that Holy One who is to be born will be called the Son of God."  (Luke 1:35)

The Incarnation is truly a wonder; but when you think about it, so is everything else about this world that the Lord has loaned us. You and I should be walking through it with our mouths gaping open in amazement. That will also keep us ready should someone come along with a Twinkie. (Old habits die hard-----not unlike old Twinkie eaters).