I Survived Open Heart Surgery: A Testament to Fearless Living and God’s Grace
“You only have one life so live it to the fullest.” We’ve all heard this cliche saying or something to this effect at least one hundred times by the time we turn 18. This overplayed saying is meant to convey the truth that life is ephemeral. Fleeting. Life is here one moment and dissipates into the unknown in the next. Because our days are numbered, we must live our lives to its fullest capacity; fall in love, make memorable experiences, create masterpieces, and whatever happiness our hearts desire. A natural lover of life, I have always marched to my own heartbeat, never minding the naysayers that project their impossibilities onto me. I have always lived life. But, on January, 1st 2019, “you only have one life so live it to the fullest,'' took on a whole new meaning as I opened my eyes in a hospital bed. A sharp pain seared my throat and continued to the center of my chest. The source of the pain? A breathing tube the diameter of a vintage half dollar that was coerced down my throat to assist my breathing. As my brain registered information from my ears, I could faintly make out voices of nurses whispering to each other. I closed my eyes trying unsuccessfully to ignore the pain of the breathing tube. Tears rolled down my cheeks and fell silently into the pillow. Tears. A clear sign of life. I had survived an emergency open heart surgery.
Friday December 28th, 2018 Cape Town, South Africa
Flight 3:10pm, Terminal B, Cape Town, SA to Johannesburg SA
I woke up in my Airbnb apartment, sunlight playing peek-a-boo through the curtains. I reached for my phone. 8am. Great! I still had time to go to Boulders Beach Penguins Colony before my 3:10pm flight that would take me to my connecting flight in Johannesburg. Dramatically, I flung out of bed and in a whirlwind threw my belongings and souvenirs into my suitcase. This way, I would be ready to run from Boulders Beach back to my apartment and to the airport. But wait, Linda, why were you in South Africa? I was in South Africa because of love. I had been invited to a dear friend’s wedding in Swaziland and used it as an opportunity to explore Botswana, Zambia, Zimbabwe, Swaziland and South Africa. I drove through Chobe National Park in Botswana on a Safari tour, was mesmerized by the beautiful cities in Zimbabwe, joined a sunset cruise along the Zambezi river, flew over Victoria Falls in a helicopter and tried alligator meat for the first time. In Swaziland, I watched two people proclaim their love for each other, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, and in sickness and in health. Weddings are magical and I am not immune to the romantic aura that permeates the air. After the wedding, with love in my heart, I set off to continue my exploration in South Africa. It was with this carefree spirit I frolicked with penguins before my flight to Johannesburg, not knowing that in less than 24 hours I would be fighting for my life.
Friday, December, 28th 2018 O.R. Tambo International Airport
Flight 9:40pm, Terminal B. Johannesburg, SA to JFK, NY
“Excuse me! Sorry! I’m late!” I yelled at random people that had the unfortunate luck of being in my way as I rushed to the NYC gate for departure. My flight from Cape Town to Johannesburg was delayed by almost three hours putting me in jeopardy of missing my connecting flight home. Even though I was running late, I took a quick detour and purchased three bottles of Amarula. It was one of my dad’s favorite drinks, and I secretly hoped it would be my peace offering to make up for all the time I spent away during the holiday. Miraculously, I made it through security, boarded the plane and found the seat that corresponded to my ticket. I sunk into the somewhat soft cushion as a wave of relief washed over my body. Airplanes are special to me because of its ability to connect, transport and transform. The cabin of an aircraft is unique in that it brings people from different countries, ethnicities, cultures, languages, values and identities together in the same space for what would be a 14 hour flight. The ability to fly is a privilege I don’t take for granted. With the high cost of airline tickets and limited access to visas for travel, I understand how blessed I am to participate in taking up space in the air. These are the thoughts that ran through my mind as fatigue crawled up my body starting from the soles of my feet until it reached my eyes making them too heavy to keep open. I was tired from my morning penguin adventures, running errands and catching flights. Sleep was next on my itinerary. So I slept. Sometime mid flight, I watched the movie, “Crazy Rich Asians” and drifted back to sleep.
The smell of eggs woke me from my unrealistic dream of getting married to a tycoon in Asia. Breakfast meant we must be close to the JFK airport. During this 14 hour flight, I remained a mannequin, unmoving, in my seat. My bladder reminded me that I was in fact human and not a plastic doll. As I stood, I felt an uncomfortable tingle in my legs, but I didn’t give it any attention. Of course there was a line leading to the airplane bathroom and as I waited, the tingle in my left leg grew more intense and ascended up my leg. My legs began to swell and a wave of nausea rushed over me. In a matter of seconds, my legs gave out from under me and I slid to the ground. What was happening?! A male flight attendant slipped an oxygen mask over my face and cleared a row of seats so I could rest as comfortably as possible. I felt a passenger reach for my hand pressing it gently as she said a word of prayer. Another attendant tried fervently to communicate with me, but I couldn’t comprehend her words. Was that Zulu? She must think I’m South African. I desperately wanted to tell her I didn’t speak Zulu but breathing was my only priority.
Like most people, I never imagined what my last day on Earth would look and feel like. I never imagined I would be wearing a bright red sundress, my hair in messy cornrows and about six miles up in the air. As I stole glances at the sympathetic faces of other passengers and the flight attendants, I was terrified. The look of panic in their eyes, their body language and their energies all conveyed an imminent death. My imminent death. No! I’m still alive. Or am I? It felt like I had already been written off, and buried in that moment, was the loneliest time of my life.
Saturday, December, 29th 2018 John F Kennedy International Airport (JFK)
Time: Approx. 7am, Terminal 4. New York, NY
When the plane landed, an emergency crew was on standby. Three police officers boarded the plane, gathered my belongings and escorted me to a wheelchair. From there, the paramedics took over ushering me into an ambulance. My family, who hadn’t seen me in a while, were excitedly waiting for me at the arrival terminal. Instead of me running to hug them, they were met with my luggage and a note to follow up at a hospital in Jamaica, Queens. Prior to this incident, I had never been committed to a hospital. My hospital references included the popular TV show Grey’s Anatomy.
Pulmonary embolism.
That’s what the doctors told me I suffered from during my flight. Pulmonary embolism is a blockage in one of the pulmonary arteries in your lungs. In most cases, the blockage is caused by a blood clot in a large vein deep in the arm, leg, or elsewhere in the body. The clot can separate from the vein and travel to the lungs and cut off blood flow, which in my case, the blood clot formed in my left leg and traveled to my lungs. Because the clots block blood flow to the lungs, pulmonary embolisms can be life-threatening. Signs of pulmonary embolism include: shortness of breath, chest pain, cough, leg swelling/pain, fever, rapid/irregular heartbeat, and dizziness. I experienced leg pain and dizziness when I initially stood up to use the bathroom, but it never occurred to me that a deadly clot was brewing deep in my veins.
At the hospital, health professionals wired me to blood thinners and other life saving medications. The faces of my brother and sister in a sea full of strangers lifted my weak spirit. Their distress was palpable. Linda, their fearless sister, one who went on countless adventures, a free spirit, restricted to a hospital bed, tubes and needles coming out of her body. I wanted to tell them I would be okay, but I also didn’t want to lie. For the first time, I didn’t know if I would be okay.
Monday, December 31st, 2018 New York Presbyterian Hospital
Time: Approx. 5pm, New York, NY
They found a hole in my heart.
A routine morning scan uncovered a hole in my heart. The blood clots had somehow found their way through the hole and I had to undergo heart surgery. It was a matter of life or death. The hospital in Jamaica, Queens didn’t have the resources needed to carry out an open heart surgery so I was transferred to New York Presbyterian hospital in Manhattan. My mother. My poor mother who was by my bedside when doctors said I had to have surgery burst into uncontrollable tears. I watched my mother cave into herself. Eyes sunken. Skin lackluster. Her expression frozen in a mixture of pain and confusion. Seeing me in this drained state was new for her; her daughter in a hospital bed undergoing urgent care, the countless medications, the complex hospital jargon. It was all too much. The pressure my dying body put on my close knit family stressed them out to an insurmountable level.
Within 20 minutes of announcing I needed surgery, another ambulance arrived to transfer me to the New York Presbyterian Hospital. This time, my brother accompanied me in the ambulance. His hand, warm and damp, tightly gripped my own as I fought back tears. I couldn’t help but feel I ruined the Christmas holiday for everyone. I’m so used to caring for those around me that even as I was hurried to another hospital, all I could think about was my family and what I was putting them through. My brother looked into my eyes with such love that I let go of thoughts of being a burden and prayed everything would go well.
The New York Presbyterian Hospital was bigger than the hospital in Jamaica, Queens. Doctors and nurses awaited me at the entrance of what appeared to be a prep room. There were at least eight people surrounding my bed at a particular time. My family stood, statuesque, in the background listening attentively, trying to understand every minute detail. My father, usually stoic in nature, looked like he would crumble if someone nearby breathed too hard. He tried his best to be a pillar of strength for me. The doctors read through notes received from my previous hospital and mentally prepared me for surgery. “You are doing great!” one doctor said. “We are happy you are here” another chimed in. “What is your favorite drink?” asked another. “Rum and Coke, please” I said quietly, stealing glances at my siblings who stood wordlessly in the background with our parents. My sister got a new job about a week before I traveled. It was her first job out of college and I was so proud of her. We exchanged a few basic text messages about her work experience thus far, but nothing in depth. I wanted us to walk to the nearest cafe so we could catch up over her favorite dessert, tres leche cake. But I couldn’t. I was strapped onto a hospital bed and she was doing her best to stay sane. On the inside, emotions violently crashed into each other and I hoped I would get the opportunity to hear about her new job. In less than two hours, I was wheeled into surgery. I can’t remember exactly what that surgery room looked liked. I remember doctors dressed in white gowns and a matrix of wires. A rather chatty doctor asked me questions. I answered them all to the best of my abilities and requested for the rum and coke they had promised. Seconds later, everything went blank. When the anesthetic wore off, I opened my eyes and couldn’t speak. The breathing tube inserted for the surgery prevented me from communicating. So I closed my eyes and all I could think of was that I survived. I survived.
Mawuena.
That’s her name. My scar. My testament to the battle I fought and won. She starts from my chest, just below my chin, and runs to the center of my heart. Mawuena in the Ewe language means God’s gift. Mawuena, a lifelong reminder that I survived a 10 hour open heart surgery. She is now a part of my story and I am proud she chose me to adorn.
Post Surgery.
My road to recovery is a long and arduous journey. Months after being discharged from the hospital, I am still battling the trauma of almost losing my life. When life brings you a cosmic life-altering event, reflection is necessary. I turned inward and inadvertently withdrew from the world. A majority of 2019, I spent in solitude. I needed time to heal, not just physically, but emotionally, mentally and spiritually. I thank God for giving me a second chance at life and for the strong family and close friends that surround me with all of their unadulterated love. When I was healthy enough, I went to the art supply store and filled my basket with a cork board, ribbons, glitter, and colorful markers. I spent a full afternoon making a vision board of what I wanted in this lifetime. I reshaped what success and happiness looked like, focusing on inner peace and less on outward validation. I took a leap of faith and accepted my Fulbright Scholarship that would take me on a research project to Uganda, East Africa. But most importantly, I unapologetically prioritized my self care. I listen to my body and her needs. I also listen to Mawuena.
She has a life of her own!
Mawuena loves the sun (only if she has her SPF!). She doesn’t like to be hidden away and loves to dress up in authentic glass beads made from the Volta Region in Ghana, West Africa. Mawuena is loud, beautiful and brave. Whenever I feel down, she becomes my personal cheerleader, whispering words of encouragement. “You got this Linda! Listen to your intuition. Trust it. If that’s really what you want, go for it!”. And so I write this blog post from Accra, Ghana, my home. I wanted to spend this Christmas and the one year anniversary of my surgery in a place that brings me healing and joy. This year has been dubbed the ‘Year of Return, Ghana 2019’ and commemorates 400 years since the first slave ship reached Jamestown, Virginia in the United States. The year of return celebrates the resilience of all the victims of the Trans Atlantic Slave Trade who were displaced through the world in North America, South America, the Caribbean, Europe and Asia. The streets of Accra are bustling with Africans in the Diaspora returning to reconnect, heal and help rebuild. I feel the love, excitement and possibilities on the horizon. This is where I need to be.
