It is now two weeks since I had open heart surgery to have my aortic valve replaced. I had thought that I would have had more time to prepare for the big day having great plans to finish off all my projects at work, draft detailed handover notes and tidy my bedroom so I didn’t have to look at a mountainous pile of magazines and books while recuperating. However the midwife in me did mean that I had my bag packed so when I rang my husband to tell him I was being admitted into hospital there was no scrambling around for jim jams and a toothbrush.

I had been experiencing some chest pain at rest for a couple of days and when I was woken up with it one Saturday night I started to think that maybe I should get it checked out. So I got my husband to drop me off at A&E the next morning telling him I would call when I was ready to be collected. No point in two of us sitting around for hours.

But just a couple of hours later I was a patient  with a heart attack diagnosis.  This was fairly devastating as it meant that not only did I have a dodgy valve but also coronary artery disease. So I was started on a range of medication to support my heart and placed on a cardiac monitor.

However the next morning I was visited by a Cardiologist who told me that he didn’t think I had had a heart attack and that all my symptoms plus the blood test results were to do with my valve. The good news being that he was going to keep me in with a view to transferring me to Bart’s Hospital for the surgery. So the medication was stopped but I stayed on the monitor and was transferred to the cardiac care unit.

During the following days I underwent a number of tests and investigations in preparation for surgery. One of the investigations is an angiogram where dye is injected into the coronary arteries to pick up any narrowing or constriction. It is supposed to be painless but I found it fairly uncomfortable and there was something fairly surreal looking at a screen to see a catheter threading its way through your heart. After a while I just focused on the theatre ceiling.

The day after the angiogram I was told that I was on my way to Bart’s and that the operation would be  the following day.  Part of me was delighted. I had been fearful that I would remain on the waiting list as my health deteriorated. But the other part was terrified. How had I found myself needing open heart surgery (OHS).

Twenty-four hour later I was waking up in ITU with numerous tubes, wires and drains assisting my recovery.  Plus a wonderful invention called  a PCA (patient controlled analgesia) which allows the patient to administer their own morphine. However, like Pink it did make me itch.

I had naively believed that surviving the operation was all I had to worry about. I somehow had convinced myself that getting to discharge was a formality I just had to get through with the assistance of my ipod and colouring book. But that view came crashing down on day 3. I was still on ITU and had just been got out of bed to have breakfast. Suddenly the alarm went off and my jim jam top started vibrating. My heart was in atrial flutter. Apparently a third of OHS patients experience this cardiac arrhythmia so for the ITU doctors and nurses it was no big deal. But for me it was a huge blow to the reliance I had on my body to do what I wanted it to do. When I wanted  it to get pregnant, I got pregnant (twice), I can count the number of days off sick during my working life on two hands (well until recently) and most of my leisure pursuits are fairly active.

But here I was with a heart rate through the roof relying on a cocktail of drugs to stabilise it. To add insult to injury this same cocktail drastically lowered my blood pressure resulting in about six doctors and nurses surrounding my now tilted bed as they forced blood (my Hb was now 7.1) and other fluid into my body. It was very scary and I felt extremely vulnerable.

I am now home. My recovery is described as uneventful. I am feeling good. My wound is healing well and I am experiencing very little pain. My aim today is to walk 10,000 steps.  But  I can’t help thinking that my mental recovery is a few steps behind.