Complications

Let’s talk about complications. I already had a collapsed lung in the ICU. I was now in my room and another complication had made itself present AFib; Atrial Fibrillation. Complication number two. It’s a crazy, rapid heartbeat…scary ass problem! My heart rate was 225 bpm. Just so you know a normal heart rate for most is somewhere around 60-100 bpm (beats per minute).

All I could think about was my daughter and the fact that she, nor my own mother called or bothered to even check in on me or inquired as to whether I was fucking dead or alive! That would be the end of the end for me and my so-called mother. I had left home at 14 years of age and that was that. I was long gone. Not once did she ever try to find me, call the cops to report me missing, to bring me home, nothing! This was the early 80’s and she knew damn well what area I was floating around in! It’s not like I was physically or even verbally abusive towards her or all fucked up on drugs. I had received the last hard slap across the face from her and I was done! I didn’t want to be in the same house as her anymore so I left. And she was fucking glad I was gone! I knew it then and I know it now! Truth be told, I don’t think I’ve ever gotten over that. If ever I questioned or wondered about that, It was now confirmed and If it wasn’t made crystal clear to me then, that she didn’t give two fucks about me, her own daughter…it sure as shit was clear now! What kind of a mother abandons her own daughter at a time like that?! When her very own flesh and blood is fucking terrified, knowing that she could’ve died?! What kind of a mother leaves their 14 old, young daughter on the fucking streets of downtown, Toronto to fend for herself? I’ll tell you what kind, the kind of mother that doesn’t want her daughter around! I am a mother, a mother of a daughter and it makes me sick to my stomach just writing about it! May this be the very last time I ever write about or think of her again!

When you have open heart surgery, your chest cracked open, you can die! Straight up! You fucking make it or you don’t.

They had an IV running through me with Amiodarone, a very strong medication (in my opinion, it’s kind of like chemo, toxic, but for the heart) to get my heart rate down, they were constantly checking in on me. My Heart rate did not, would not go down. At the same time, I was in some type of mode I can’t really describe. I couldn’t sit still. I was up, moving around, bathing myself, by myself right away. Walking around like nothing ever happened and when I wasn’t, even while knocked out my HR was still 225 bpm. It remained at 225 bpm for the next three days!

On day three, I had a visit. I actually had many visitors that day however this one particular person was babbling on about my daughter and some shit she was posting on Facebook. There were 2-3 different people visiting at that same time. One had left, then the other. The one girl who was still there asked me about the person who was talking about my daughter and Facebook and she said to me “That is not a friend. I’m sorry! I don’t know who that girl is, but I can tell you right now that she is no friend.” Neither of them were helping with the AFib situation.

Everybody had left that evening and I was just laying there, I don’t know if I was asleep or awake. I was pretty out of it, ripped on the hydromorphone, the clonazepam and whatever else they were giving me. My heart rate was still 225 bpm. They don’t know why, they’re trying everything to get it down, including increasing the Amiodarone. I kept asking “is this normal” from the start. They’re like “ya, it’s common as it “can” happen after open heart surgery.” For a few hours maybe but not for three fucking days! On that 3rd day I could tell that they were all concerned and then so was I. The 225 bpm HR wasn’t budging. Not once did I hear the word “complication” not since I had woken up in the ICU and now I’ve had two. I’m supposed to be going home in two days, that’s not happening. My heart rate was still a big problem.

That night somewhere between 11-12 am I lost it! Again! I had myself another full on mental breakdown!I was crying, mumbling about Kayla and apologizing to the lady next to me for doing so. She told me that she had a daughter and that she gets it! I mean, she was right beside me, I’m quite certain she heard everything I just heard. The crying got heavier and heavier and eventually I screamed out…”WHY IS MY DAUGHTER DOING THIS? WHY IS MY FUCKING DAUGHTER DOING THIS TO ME”!? I was bawling hysterically now, hyperventilating. The nurses came flying in! Poor lady next to me probably almost had a fucking heart attack, she was in her 80s! The doctors and the nurses were telling me that I need to get my mind right and that if I do not get my head together and stop thinking about whatever it is, that is causing my 225 pbm HR that basically, I wasn’t gonna make it. Psych was now on the scene and Zoloft had entered the mix.

They doped me up. I drifted off and later that night as I was looking up at the ceiling it had to have been around midnight by now. One of the panels slid open to the side and these small floating, little lights, more like fireflies took me up there. I had left my body. I was in a long, dark, tall, echoey hallway. My Nanny and Herbie were there quietly along the left side watching me and Emily, who was closer to me, was on the right. They weren’t dressed bodies like, solid. It was more like I was looking at their souls but I could see their faces.

They didn’t say anything, they were just watching me. I was standing at the start of the long hallway looking in the distance to where the light was coming from and all of the sudden a very deep man’s voice said to me “You need to decide…Do you want to live or do you want to die?” I remember sitting there bawling my face off, sobbing and I said “I DON'T KNOW! I DON'T KNOW!” Because at that moment, I honestly didn’t know whether I wanted to live or die! Then I said with what little breath I had left “I wanna live!” And in that Instant… svhroom… down I went, back into my body! 

The next morning when I woke up, my heart rate was now in the low 100’s, normal! I now know that I had an NDE; Near Death Experience. I didn’t die and come back, but 100% I was sitting right there at death’s doorstep! 

Later that day I sent a text to the babbling “girlfriend." “Do not call me, do not text me, do not ever make contact with me again! You are NO good for me!” On block she went! Never to be heard from again. Byeee!

I actually had several visitors, mostly within the first 3 days. I had exes coming out of the woodwork, people I hadn’t seen in years had shown up. I was definitely shown a lot of love. My room was starting to look like a mini floral shop. It was a lot, overwhelming at times and after that 3rd day, the babbling “friend” and the NDE I had asked that nobody visit for the next while. My heart rate was back to normal, I was trying to get my head right and trying to focus on my recovery.

My 5 day stay in hospital had turned into 15. Trent had purchased me a smartwatch for when I was home to keep track of my heart rate and that watch was my buddy. I appreciated that so much because I was in no state to even think of that. I looked at it every single day, terrified of my heart rate going out of control again, but it never did. It remained normal-ish, at times it was a bit high and by high I mean 125 pbm, nothing close to 225 bpm!

I could hear my heart pumping in my chest. It wasn’t as loud or as heavy as it was before the surgery, but it was erratic, bumping like a Mexican jumping bean, that’s what I called it… A Mexican jumping bean. After a few more tests and a few months later I found out I had an ectopic heartbeat, which is basically an extra heartbeat so instead of bup bup… bup bup. It went bup bup bomp…bup bup bomp, real fast. I got used to it.

Everything’s extra, extra valve, now I’ve got an extra heartbeat. Throughout this whole ordeal everything was fucking extra! I was constantly waiting for what was to come next because shit just kept coming.

My wound had gotten infected pretty much as soon as I was transferred from the ICU to my room. Whoever closed me up went beyond my wound and onto the epidermis, my skin, with the glue. This caused 1/2 inch of it at the very top of the wound closure to continuously rip open. Being an open wound and in a “hospital” with all types of germs constantly flying around in the air, it’s no surprise that that happened, the infection.

That was complication number 3, so far. That was actually another concern when they were discussing when I was going to be discharged. It had also contributed to a longer stay no doubt.

I returned home 15 days later…