Abstract: When my forty-two year old husband, Burl, underwent quadruple bypass surgery, I was not prepared for the emotional side effects that would follow.
The catheterization film showed only one tiny arterial branch feeding Burl's heart. The doctor said, "when this one goes…" "Then he will have a heart attack?" I asked. "No, he will be gone," was the reply. Sudden death was prevalent in Burl's family. Many of his relatives had died without warning, and most of them were in their forties. The only symptom Burl had was hypertension. Now, three cardiologists were telling me he was a time bomb and could die at any moment. I was in a state of shock. One doctor even advised against the surgical procedure because of the increased risk due to the severe atherosclerosis their tests had uncovered. The surgeon was more reassuring, even though, he also admitted the risk was greater than average.
The heart surgeon, Dr. William Dean, is a former high school classmate of ours. He explained in great detail what we could expect physically after the surgery. He prepared me for what would take place in the Intensive Care Unit, placing special emphasis on the alarms that might sound. Even knowing what to expect, my knees became weak. The floor seemed to rise to meet me when I first saw the love of my life hooked to life support. The monitors, the tubes, and the ventilator looked like props out of a horror movie. Nothing can adequately prepare you for the intensity of a moment like that! Tears still fill my eyes when that unforgettable image comes to mind. Seeing my husband being kept alive by machines was heart wrenching. Of course, his situation was temporary. When his heart and lungs became strong enough, the ventilator and the tubes would be removed. Nevertheless, even for that short twenty-four period, it was a traumatic experience. The preparation our family had been given by the doctors and nurses at Bethania Regional Health Care Center was a true blessing. It helped as we struggled through our initial shock. Following the surgery, Burl's blood pressure remained dangerously low for several hours. During one of my visits to the ICU, Dr. Dean was monitoring Burl's vital signs. I was holding Burl's hand and lightly stroking his arm and face. Bill turned to the nurse and said, "Look at this.." Then he said, "I think he knows she is here." My immediate response was "of course he knows I am here!" He told me I could remain with Burl in the ICU after the normal visiting time was over, because his blood pressure began to inch toward a more normal reading when I was there. Thus, a vigil at the bedside of my sweetheart began. For hours, I talked to him (although he was not yet conscious). I stroked his face and kissed him. Sure enough his blood pressure began to rise. When fatigue finally took its toll, Kevin (our eldest son), was always available to whisk me home for a little rest and a hot bath. It uplifted my spirits when family and friends stopped by for a "brief" visit. The prayers of many people helped pull me through the daze that followed the surgery.
Everything was suddenly different. Our lives would never be the same.
After several severe set backs, Burl's recovery began.
He was finally dismissed from the hospital. The doctor's instructions included information on proper diet, exercise, and "to get out of the house every single day." That activity was meant to ward off depression, and it seemed successful at the time. We felt so blessed that the doctors had found the ischemic heart disease, and they had administered treatment before he suffered an inevitably fatal heart attack. Now, his heart muscle remained strong, and we gave thanks for every day we had together. Life after heart surgery "seemed" to be sweeter than ever.
It was not until a year later that the true impact of our experience hit me. I went to sleep crying, I woke up crying, everything seemed dark and hopeless. Although Burl was doing well, I fell apart. Or, as our four children so lovingly put it, "Mama crashed and burned." Indeed that was a very adept description of what had happened to me. My situation eventually became much worse. I could barely walk across the room. Each step took all my strength. This dark cloud that had come over me took away my happiness, my ability to function, and ability to solve even a simple problem. I could no longer summon the many "masks" I had been wearing to cover up my feelings. Literally, I became debilitated emotionally, physically and spiritually. Burl's heart was fixed, but mine was broken. I questioned, "How can a Christian become depressed?" I prayed, and I cried.
It was as if God had forgotten me, and my life was little more than daily survival. This upset me even more, because my faith had always been a sustaining factor in my life. When the physical problems continued, I called our family doctor for help. He said, "I know exactly what is happening to you. I cannot believe it took this long." "What are you talking about?" I asked. He explained how he had watched me stay strong for the sake of my family during our time of crisis. Now, my "denied" stress had overtaken me. I had a chemical imbalance. His diagnosis of clinical depression was extremely difficult for me to accept.
I felt I just needed to pull myself up by the bootstraps and get on with my life. To me, depression meant weakness and spiritual devastation. That was not me! He insisted that I begin taking an antidepressant. It was with great reluctance that I agreed to accept his theory and begin medication. After a few weeks on the "dreaded pills," and several counseling sessions with a professional, things began to look brighter. I was feeling like my old self again. I could cope. Later, the realization came to me that the denial of my problem had only increased the intensity of my depression. When I felt comfortable enough to forgive myself for being "human," things were better.
I had suffered some degree of fear, grief, and anxiety every day since the doctors first diagnosed Burl's heart disease. "How could I live without him!" The "what if's" occupied my mind. Learning to cope with our new life had been an intense struggle for me. Burl had to change positions at his place of employment, due to his health problems. His salary decreased dramatically. We lost our home, and for the first time in more than twenty years of marriage, I had to go to work to give us some degree of financial security. All the changes were just too much for me. I had to surrender my perceived role as Super Wife and Super Mom. I learned that nurturing myself must come first. It is a concept that my intellect accepts, but my heart still questions. Life is not easy, and we need to realize and accept the fact that traumatic experiences take their toll on us both physically and emotionally. It does not mean we lack faith. It does not mean we are weak. All it means is that we are human beings, and we feel pain. When we carry a heavy burden and "pretend" everything is normal, stress is silently destroying both our physical body and our spirituality. I thank God for helping me to let go of my own pride and seek help.
Bouts of depression still plague me, but they are usually short lived and not too severe. I continually give thanks to God for blessing Burl and me with not only one - but "two mended hearts."
Carol Nowell, Managing Editor, won a 1996 media award from the Mental Health Association of Texas for her article Two Mended Hearts. She and her husband, Burl, attended the awards ceremony on October 16 at the Sheraton Hotel in Austin.
editor@medmag.org