Here’s what I know.
The thump-thump of a heartbeat is the sound made by the four valves closing.
If you’re an adult, your heart is about the same size as two fists.
A human heart beats about 100,000 times in one day. It never stops.
Like skin, a damaged heart scars. Scarred hearts don’t heal.
But over time, scars can change. They can become smoother, softer and sometimes they just fade away.
Lately, after nearly 17 years of scar ownership, I see mine differently.
It never really bothered me all that much, even when it was fresh in 2001 after open-heart surgery to remove a benign cardiac tumor.
Often hidden and mostly ignored, today my scar is flatter, lighter and barely a radar blip between my bosom. The years have dulled its original shade of pinkish-rose, but certainly not its true meaning.
My scar remains a harsh reminder of survival, fighting a battle in a war I never imagined I’d fight. But duty called, and I answered. (Note to self: Enough with the hawkish metaphors.)
It begins precisely 2.75 inches beneath my collar bone, which is important because of what I told my surgeon in 2001: “I’m not a fan of turtlenecks.”
That said, Dr. Kevin Lobdell, a brilliant cardiothoracic surgeon, is now a professor living with his lovely family in Charlotte, N.C. He made sure to begin his oscillating saw cut into my sternum low enough to elude a stylish V-neck.
From there, my scar moves south, ending above what is now my “muffin top,” which wasn’t even in my vocabulary at 41 when I still had my period.
And a metabolism.
Two misshapen holes dot the bottom of my tidy incision.Together, they look like a semi-colon.
Guess I’m not finished yet.
In the past three months, I’ve joined 6,600 members of a Facebook page for heart valve repair patients, followed people with similar valve issues on HeartValveSurgery.com and ordered a pamphlet, 5 Critical Questions Answered for Heart Valve Patients, online.
Among the critical questions, inquiries include: Should I get a second opinion? Is heart valve surgery safe? What should I ask my surgeon? (“So, doc, is it me, or did you intentionally forgo the Dale Carnegie course?” isn’t in there.)
Don’t get me wrong. My surgeon, Dr. Steven Bolling at the University of Michigan Hospital in Ann Arbor, is one of the best in the nation. A direct, no-nonsense guy, he runs to work every day. Every day. For 30 years.
Honestly, his bedside manner left me cold, something I suspect he doesn’t give a rat’s fandango about. But I’m not interested in having coffee with him.
Fix me, sir, and please give me a new scar to own.
(Copyright 2018)
