It all started out as a murmur a couple of years ago. Detectable but not especially alarming, an echocardiogram was ordered to get a better lay of Tom’s heartland. It showed a bit of moderate aortic stenosis, but again, nothing alarming. Something to follow up on in a couple of years with another Echo. That second test revealed that the stenosis was now severe, and upon further testing it was determined that he needed a heart valve replacement. While a little surprised that things had progressed so quickly, we were glad to be referred to a cardiologist and find out more. As is true with our severely overtaxed medical system, the soonest he could get in to see someone was almost two months away. We asked for a referral to a different practice, and the soonest they could see him was almost 5 months away. Tom decided to call a longtime friend, a recently retired cardiologist, who was able to get him in to see a topnotch cardiologist three days later.*
All indications were that Tom was a good candidate for a TAVR, a fairly non-invasive procedure that would insert a new porcine valve into the failing one. We named the new valve Wilbur, after the world’s most beloved pig. Recovery would be about a week, and then we could be back out on the trail, resuming our active life as usual. Just one of the many miracles of modern medicine.
We were in awe.
There were a few more test hoops to jump through, but everyone, including the surgeon, couldn’t imagine finding anything that would suggest that he would need a more serious surgery. Until in the midst of the required angiogram, though his drug fogged stupor Tom heard the doctor say, “Wow, that’s a serious blockage in the main artery to the heart.” And there it was. Serious cardiovascular disease.
We were in shock.
Tom, dubbed Mr. Fit-As-A-Fiddle by one of our nieces, isn’t that guy. He doesn’t smoke, is about as lean as they come, power walks, hikes up steep trails, can work hard all day outside, and never experiences chest pain, shortness of breath, or unusual fatigue. Meeting with his cardiac surgeon, we wrapped our arms around the situation, and are preparing for him to have open heart bypass surgery, including a valve replacement using a bovine valve. We re-named the new valve Bossy, after almost every cow every born.. We also learned that, given his otherwise healthy self, there was about a 1% chance that he would have any complications from this surgery, would recover well over the course of a few months, and be back out on the trail, resuming our active life as usual. In comparison, had this gone undetected, he would stand a 50% chance of having a serious, if not fatal, heart attack in the next two years. Often a one-and-done thing, it is called a widow maker for a reason.
We were in awe.
This is the kind of thing that gives one pause, as it brings up all the things we often try to keep at bay.** Aging, health, loss, death, and grief are all tangled up together in this messy miracle that is our life. While still scary—it is his heart after all—we are practicing living in the gift of this thing. It has led to the kinds of rich, important, authentic, and vulnerable conversations with our adult kids that ultimately draw us closer together. It has reminded us that life can change in a heartbeat, that every day is a gift, and that one day, every one of us is going to die.
Shock and awe.
I’m shocked that we are here, fully into the fourth quarter of our lives, and in awe of the life we’ve lived together up until now, and that will hopefully continue far-ish into the future. On a recent morning when Tom was out of town, I sat alone with my coffee out in our field, his empty chair next to me, and the tears started to fall. As if that wasn’t enough, a resident male quail who had recently lost his beloved mate to a hawk, sat on the nearby burn pile still calling for her. It seems we both knew that the price of admission for great love is the willingness to have our hearts broken more than we can ever imagine when life’s inevitable losses come our way. And from where I sit, it’s worth every penny
* I am acutely aware of the privilege we enjoy through no merit of our own. We have ready access to healthcare, health insurance, and connections upon which we can call. May we all recognize and acknowledge our privilege, and work for a more just, equitable, and loving world through our vision, our voice, and our vote.
** I needed to write this to better process and connect these new dots in our life, and, I wanted to write it to encourage others to take their health seriously, follow up on things even when they seem minor, and to know that when it comes to our health, information is power.
