My Open-heart Surgery
By Danny Mendiola
Mr. Mendiola,” an unfamiliar, American-accented voice wakes me up. I open my eyes slowly, wondering for a moment where I am. Ah, yes I remember now. I am in a room at a hospital in downtown Honolulu. They brought me into this room from the ER to undergo an angiogram about an hour ago to find out what is wrong with my heart after I called 911. I can only make out in a blur the faces of my doctor and his assistant as I lay there in a hospital bed surrounded by tubes of all kinds, an oxygen tank, and what look like TV monitors with what seem to be simply white lines in the midst of grey space. “We did not proceed to do an angioplasty,” my doctor mumbles. “We found four major arteries in your heart that are blocked.” And then he continues, “We will have to do an open-heart surgery at the soonest possible time”.
I do not know what to say. I do not know how to react. An open-heart multiple by-pass surgery! As far as I know, this is highly invasive and one of the most delicate procedures in medicine today. This never came to my mind at all when I called 911 some eight hours ago early this morning.
Little by little the events of the past eight hours came back to me. Today is Monday, April 16, 2007. I woke up early this morning as usual to prepare for the day’s schedule of activities at the hospital where I am a participant in a program on Clinical Pastoral Education. Prayers came first followed by a check on my computer if I had any email. I then had my early breakfast of fresh banana and cereals while checking the latest news back in the Philippines and the weather here in Hawaii.
Some fifteen minutes later, I was coming out of the bathroom when I felt an unusual heaviness in my chest. I toweled myself dry and got dressed in seconds, fumbled for my digital blood pressure monitor and took my blood pressure. The monitor registered 260/140! This was the first time my blood pressure churned out such numbers, I thought. My hands were shaking as I sat down and popped a blood pressure pill into my mouth.
Despite being newly-showered and the nippy Hawaiian Spring morning, I noticed that I was perspiring as my chest continued to feel heavy as if 100 pound weights were pressing against it. My arms too were beginning to feel heavy and weak. “My God, these are the classic signs of a heart attack! What am I going to do now?” I mused. “Should I call 911? That would be too expensive and I cannot afford it. Should I call a cab and go to the emergency room? But I have been there yesterday and they told me my chest pains are just muscular,” I thought to myself. “My God, please help me, I am all alone here,” I mumbled. Mother Mary, pray for me… now and if this be the hour of my death,” I whispered.
As soon as I said these prayers, lo and behold, I picked up my cell phone from my bedside table as if being prodded by an unknown force and dialed 911!
What happened next looks like a scene straight from a television series. The 911 operator first calmed me down while talking to me and taking the details where I am, my age, my complaints, etc. She then assured me that an ambulance was coming shortly before she got off the phone. Sure enough, an ambulance and a firetruck arrived within five minutes after I put off my phone. Next thing I knew I was in the emergency room of a hospital and getting worked up by the medical ER staff. They then decided to do an angiogram and finally, a quintuple by-pass (they found a fifth block after opening my heart).
I am now back here in the Philippines recovering from my surgery in the loving care of my wife and three daughters. Sometimes, in my quiet moments, I am still marveling at the fact that I am still alive today. “You could not have survived the massive heart attack that would have come from the multiple blocked arteries had you dilly-dallied even for a minute,” my cardiologist had told me. “You should be thankful to 911!” he continued.
Yes, I am grateful to 911, but little did he know that I have someone else to really thank for making me pick up that phone despite my doubts and fears. It is Our Lady of the Annunciation whose novena I have been trying to propagate among friends and patients I meet in the hospital. I thank her too for bringing my wife Thelma from the Philippines and son Nico from San Francisco to be at my side during and after my surgery in Hawaii despite many obstacles.
Truly, she took care of me at that crucial moment of decision-making and at the hour of my close brush with death during my open-heart surgery.
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