The Heart of a Woman

The days pass by at an astonishing rate, but I'm back with Chapter 5 and appreciative of my readers' interest!

An Unbearably Brief Homecoming: The Emotional Strain

After nearly a full week, which felt like an eternity and was about two days longer than the average stay even for an open heart surgery patient, I was released from captivity. I still had some fluid in my lungs, was not responsive enough to the anti-coagulants most patients receive, and was barely able to walk the length of the corridor, so my eligibility for discharge was questionable.
My mother arranged to stay with me at home, partly because I needed her help and partly to assuage her own fears. If you think you are "lucky" enough to be surrounded by people who truly love you, note Deepak Choprah's definition of "luck": "Opportunity meeting preparation". We generally have no way of knowing when we may need the help I received, but the relationships I had formed, particularly with my family, were opportune preparations.
My own fears were fermenting exponentially, defenses colliding with harsh realities. With my husband back at work most of the time and just "passing by" during the course of the day, Mom's assistance was invaluable, but I was beginning to long for independence, privacy, freedom. It would feel like eons until I could take on these featured roles, and I was already impatient for signs of recovery, while uncannily exhausted and weak. Even the walk from the bedroom to the kitchen was a trek. I assumed that I would improve steadily, but had been duly warned that it would be a protracted process, a long haul.
Another uncanny, yet typical response was that I did not want to be in tune with my body, but did not dare to ignore it - not again. Every time I felt a twinge, not only in my chest but in my arms, hands, back, the inevitable fear returned. Not again, please, not again. The anxiety I felt was typical and recognizable, but somehow we tend to think that we are unique in our reactions. I had always felt the need to be in control in most situations, never knowing that I could potentially not have that control over my very existence. After a lifetime of believing that I could count on control to pave the way to normalcy, learning to give it over was unnatural for me. I would soon discover that rescinding control would become a positive attribute in this unfolding series of experiences, one that will bear further discussion as we move along together.
Eating was a surprising challenge, a necessity, but not pleasurable, since digestion was problematic and often brought what felt like chest pain. The passage of time has provided me with an inner audio taped message: "Yep, there it is again; it's sharp, but will pass, recognize it but don't fear it". It is a simple, useful device that I recommend, since it wards off any sustained, negative thought.
Regardless of how weak I was, I, like so many people, wanted to reduce the level of difficulty I was causing my entourage. For instance, in my quest to protect my mother from every tingle or ache, notwithstanding the precious energy it involved, I often repressed the urge to groan, grimace or remark. Even the minimal exertion of speaking brought difficulty breathing, but I did not want her to know just how hard a time I was having.
Then there was my limited attention span for even the most banal television programs, which left me with no distracting activities. I had no ability to concentrate enough to read even a brief news article and I sensed that I could reach my wit's end quite prematurely. The level of exhaustion was staggering, yet I did not want to sleep. I wanted to be out of bed, to do the unpacking my husband and mother had begun, to reclaim my apartment having been away for a week.
I moved around the room slowly, an apparition compared to my usual speediness. I assumed that if I behaved "as if" normalcy was nearby, it would resurface. I could not help but notice that I barely had the patience to pet our two cats, who of course wanted to sit on my vulnerable chest. I felt unrecognizable to myself and unable to imagine waiting out the recuperative period. Brain fuzzy and body uncooperative, I struggled to sift through the miscellany in the suitcases, opting to put away clothes rather than cosmetics and the usual array of overseas needs - travel iron, converter, that electric element for boiling water (all necessities for Eastern Europe). The task was daunting, borderline ridiculous, involving a climb up to remote closet shelves, with Mom in the background issuing warnings but fully understanding my need to forge ahead.
If this was the post-"MI" (myocardial infarction, synonymous with heart attack) norm, it had better be short-lived. I felt like curling up in a ball and sleeping through this phase, again anathema to my personality. This thing was not going to claim me, I was not going to don a lapel reading "Poor me, I've had a problem". I had an urge to get into the car and go shopping, do errands, return to life before the "incidents". Totally unrealistic, positive yet absurd, premature but comprehensible, I would have to wait it out. If you find yourself nodding your head, you must find familiarity in these sentiments. We all seem to follow a similar course toward recovery, including our amazement at just how difficult it is to tolerate taking mere baby steps.
Just remembering which medications to take when was tough. It was as though my memory, even my intelligence had been affected. Indeed, this was true. Fatigue alone can reduce verbal folks to the level of feeling like blithering idiots! Finding words becomes a weird treasure hunt. Concentration dips to such a low level that conversation is minimized. Communication was my raison d'etre, so when I could not complete a sentence without taking a previously unnecessary breath, I was, so to speak, deflated. My emotions were frayed and I was on the verge of becoming depressed. I was astonished that all of this was happening and did not cope well with having no reserve of energy. I was not interested in learning about ejection fractions, scar tissue, poor wall motion - the medical jargonese left me cold, serving only to heighten my concern. Attempts to comfort me were basically useless and as I lay in bed, which is where I spent the vast majority of my time, I used what little energy I had trying to convince myself that improvement would arrive.
Bear in mind that all of this occurred during a one and a half day period! I had developed an intense distaste for the process in a total of nine days! I had so much to learn...