Cardiac Rehab

I went to see my family doctor again. By now I had seen her at least 8-10 times since my surgery and for all different shit. Mentally, I was still not normal. I was completely off the Zoloft and all I was now—was fucking sad.

My family doctor knew I was struggling—with everything; the eyes, the ADHD, the headaches, the zapping sensation in the right side of my chest, the impact the surgery had on me in general and now depression. I started to feel bad for seeing my doctor so often because there was always something and I was always scared. So, ya I saw her often. She made me feel safe. Even though she couldn’t relate, she was very compassionate and empathetic always reassuring me that I could see her or call her if I needed to.

She could clearly see that I was in a depressive state. She suggested I give Wellbutrin—a different SSRI (anti-depressant) a shot. She told me that Wellbutrin is an off market ADHD drug and that it might help me. This wasn’t the first time she had offered me this drug, I just didn’t really wanna fuck with an antidepressant again. But there I was—I was desperate. I needed help, something had to change. She prescribed it for me. I filled it right away and started taking it.

I went to see my cardiologist got the results from August's tests. The regurgitation was the same. I was asking and hoping that maybe I could stay like this for a while, a year or so before I’d have to have the next surgery. My family doctor told me, that’s what she thinks my cardiologist was hoping for—that I would remain stable, for at least a year or two because the physical and mental trauma that’s involved with open heart surgery—it was too much, too soon for it to happen any sooner.

I was optimistic hopeful but I still felt like shit—sad. I was taking the Grabapentin often to numb me—it wasn’t working anymore but it was all I had so I was taking it.

My cardiac rehab program at Women’s College Hospital finally started in October. Two months later than it was supposed to start because of the symptoms and complications I was experiencing.

Twice a week

I went to my initial appointment, which was an assessment—an interview. I still wasn’t all there, but I was coming out of the state I was in and I wasn’t happy. I was officially depressed.

I was excited or at least I think I was to start that program. It was structure of some sort, after wandering all summer long and hearing from my doctors that my full time job now was taking care of my body, it started sinking in and this was a big part of it, so here we go!

I wasn’t even sure about this cardiac rehab program but I went to the appointment anyway. I was still hyper and aggressively frustrated and I know it showed. I was trying to explain to the nurse—what had happened to me, what was still happening to me and where I was at since this surgery.

The intake nurse was listening to me intently—she could see I was upset, frustrated. I could see it in her eyes that she felt for me but wasn’t able to understand what I was going through, just like my family doctor wasn’t—how could they know, how could anyone know—unless you went through the same shit yourself. They both knew it was a unique, sad situation, they listened—I know they felt sorry for me—but it didn’t fucking change anything.

The intake nurse took my vitals and wanted to weigh me. I distinctively remember saying— “no, no, no, not today please, some other time—I am not in the mood to get weighed today!” And she was like fine—no problem. I picked my days and I started the program. I was there every Monday and Wednesday from 1 PM until 2:30 PM. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like going there at all. I didn’t understand why I was going there. I’m doing exercises—cardio, but I’m on fucking beta blockers which prevents my adrenaline from pumping and the endorphins from going through me. I was there slugging through it, even though I didn’t enjoy it. I was also, all fucked up in my head because all I kept thinking about now was—I need another surgery.

Cardiac rehab is basically the gym without a lot of weights. It’s cardio—similar to the circuit system in the gym. They set you all up, give you a log book to record your progress and take your blood pressure before starting your session. You get acquainted with the equipment and you do as much as you can at each machine while talking to either a nurse or volunteer throughout your workout. They’re monitoring you to make sure that you can still talk and are not out of breath while you’re doing what you’re doing. 

My log book

There were these ladies—three that I remember distinctively. One was running the program—Mireille, the other Faith, and a volunteer, Brenda. These ladies spoke to all the women in the group individually as we were working out. I was in a class so to speak with about 5-6 other ladies at a time which usually ended up only being 3-4. Everybody there with heart issues, all different reasons some people were getting ready for surgery. Some people were trying to prevent it and some people were recovering from it, like myself. But nobody was recovering from open heart surgery to get ready for another surgery like I was!

I feel like I was quiet in the beginning. It felt like I was just there—doing whatever. I didn’t understand why I was there though—why I was still here. What this entire experience for me was about. Why did he send me back here? Why am I in a program to get healthy, heal and become normal again—just to have to go through the very same fucking shit I just went through—AGAIN?!

I was coming around and this was fucking with me—keeping me in a sad, dark place.

Every time the noise or the darkness got too much, I would go lay on my couch—still—on my back with my eyes closed. When it was real bad I would even shake my head vigorously and believe it or not—that shit works! My couch and the calm surroundings I created in my living room straight out of the hospital, became a safe haven for me. I laid there often.

One day in the beginning of the program I was on one of the machines—I can’t remember who it was exactly around me at that time, but I do believe it was Faith, and I started crying. I’m doing the exercise and I’m crying—I said aloud—“like why am I here? Why am I doing this? I’m on fucking beta blockers. I can’t even get the benefits of working out—why am I even here?” I can’t even remember what she said to me or if I was even listening.

I don’t remember much of the interactions I had with the ladies in the beginning of that program to be honest, but my three month cardiac rehab program had turned into six months and then six months had turned into nine months. We definitely got to know each other well within those nine months or I should say—they got to know me well! Pretty sure they knew I was mentally fucked up, right from the get-go.

The surgeon was now out of the picture as well as his “go live your normal life” concept. So that had also sunk in and hit me like a ton of bricks—it sent me deeper into the dark.

The whole fucking thing fucked my head up. I was all fucked up for months, and now I’m in a workout program but I’m gonna have another surgery and I wasn’t even normal from the first surgery yet. I felt fucked! I wasn’t sure I could do any of it or that I even wanted to—I needed help—different help.

I had a very spiritual experience in the hospital and I needed healing, more than just mentally. I sought out a traditional healer. There’s an indigenous place that I’ve known about for years; Anishnawbe, located on Gerrard St E. Several of my friends have utilized their services throughout the years. I pulled up the number, called and told intake the situation and got on the waitlist to speak with a traditional counsellor.

One day during my cardio session, I mentioned to Faith that I was on a waitlist for Anishnawbe and she asked me if I identify as indigenous and I said “yes.” “Well by DNA I do, I have Native American DNA.” She went on to tell me that they have a traditional healing section at Women’s College Hospital and that she could put me in touch with them, if that’s what I wanted. A light came on. I got excited. I told her that I was already on a waitlist for Anisnawbe, but haden’t heard back from them yet. Faith put me onto the services at Women’s College Hospital. Not sure who got in touch with who but an appointment was made for January.

Thanksgiving came and went. It was very quiet, but still I cooked a bird for Trent and I. I even think my cousin Sam came over that day. It was a somber time.

Trent and I got to talking about what we were gonna do for Christmas. I had always, well, for the past few years as the kids got older, (pre-pandemic, as my kids are now 35 & 22) wanted us all to start going away again, together for Christmas. Instead of spending all the money that we would spend on gifts for each other, I suggested that we should just go away and take a family holiday. But that wasn’t happening. It wasn’t happening way back when I first suggested it, and it wasn’t happening that year either. Kayla and I weren’t there. So I asked Trent if he wanted to go away, just us. I specifically intended on changing up the vibe for that Christmas. Instead of it being a sad time—it being the first Christmas ever without the third party to our trio and the first for me being without my daughter in 34 years—we decided that we would indulge in a vacation and switched it up.