John Scanlan

Current Age: 52

Occupation: Career Counselor, Cleveland State University

About seven years ago my doctor asked me how long I had had a heart murmur. "What heart murmur," I asked. Never knew I had one. My mom had had valve problems and then valve replacement surgery at 76, but I didn't think my heart murmur was hereditary.

One day in late spring 1999, at meeting at work, my heart just started to beat out of control, as if I were anxious, though I was actually relaxed at the meeting. I explained I wasn't feeling well and drove home, and then to the hospital. The ER doctor didn't think it was any big deal and sent me home. My regular doctor sent me to a cardiologist, an echo showed mitral valve regurgitation, so they did a TEE (Tranesophageal Echocardiogram) and a heart cath. At the TEE, the cardio guy looked at me and said, "We have to fix this-not in six months, not in three months, but in one month." So a valve repair was done July 11, 1999. I read everything I could find on the web, but balked at watching a video of the surgery. Just couldn't bring myself to do it.

After surgery I took Toprol XL, Coumadin and Baycol. (The Baycol was recently switched to Lipitor.)

When I woke up in the Intensive Care Unit, I thought I was in hell. My back ached terribly and I just couldn't get comfortable. The goofy doctor who was supposed to be doing the follow up care let me languish on the ventilator for hours longer than I needed. Later a surgeon explained the back ache-saying that pulling apart the sternum stretches all the muscles in the back, and that's what I was feeling. For some months I felt like my chest was a plate of armor that gradually shrank, as feeling returned and stiffness subsided. I spent a relaxing summer on the deck, reading about

forty books, recovering from surgery.

Back at work, I just didn't feel right. My wife, a nurse herself, knew I was anemic and so did my doctor, but he didn't think it was too serious until my hematacrit fell to 6.0 and the amount of debris from broken red blood cells was ten times normal. I could sleep for hours in the middle of the day. Something was wrong.

A succession of physicians including three hematologists, an infectious disease specialist, and a rheumatologist tried to divine the cause of this dire condition. (Later we counted a total of twenty-four doctors of various stripes who eventually had a hand in my case.)

The consensus was that this was "mechanical hemolysis", that is, my newly repaired valve was ruining red blood cells as they tried to pass through it. The valve would have to be replaced, meaning I would need a second open-heart surgery only three months after my first trip to the table.

Now a veteran member of the Zipper Club, having survived open-heart surgery once, I was confident that the second would be no big deal. A different surgeon performed the second operation, shunning the usual heart highway through the sternum, he sliced a twelve inch gash around my right side. So now, I look like I've been in a knife fight with a perfectionist. You can practically graph quadratic equations on my chest.

So the second surgery was done on November 1, 1999 by Dr. Alan Markowitz, an excellent surgeon from University Hospital in Cleveland. Now I have a St. Jude valve clicking away in there. At first I thought there was a dripping faucet in the room. Now I can hear it when the room is quiet, and certainly each night before I fall asleep.

The second recovery was much easier than the first, since they didn't go through the sternum and agitate my back muscles. In fact, pain during recovery was negligible. I felt terrific after the second surgery and ready to go through recovery once again. My wife Kathy and I went walking every day at the mall, along with retired octogenarians. Gradually I built up strength and over time I managed to get back to my workout routine, including weight lifting and swimming a half mile on alternate days.

Both surgeries were performed at Southwest General Hospital in Berea, OH. The nursing care there was excellent. Finding a practitioner who combines technical expertise, empathy, caring and communication skills is like finding the perfect spouse. You'd like to take this person home with you.

At last! Someone who understands me!

I met a few such nurses. One in particular helped me over a rough patch, when I believed my heart was again racing toward its (and my) doom. She printed my EKG strip and gave it to me, saying, "Look-this is perfect! You're doing fine."

That strip is framed and hanging in my office. It's still a comfort.

With all this experience as a consumer of medical services, I have developed a short list of Laws of Hospital Life, akin to the laws of gravity. Here they are:

First Law: If you want the phone to ring, leave the room. After waiting for a relative or friend to call, I would give up and go wander the halls. Invariably I would miss the call.

Second Law: If you want the doctor to come, fall asleep. I would wait expectantly for a promised doctor to show up, only to slide into a nap. The physician would then magically appear and nudge me awake.

Third Law: No matter how ill you may be, there is always someone worse off than you. One roommate died after a particularly rough night.

On my first night home after the second surgery, Kathy asked if she had "overwhelmed" me with the elaborate dinner she had prepared. I answered that she overwhelmed me every day with the breadth and depth of her love and care for me. Some people are called on to do this once, but very few have to do it twice in such a short time.

My faith is stronger now as a result of these experiences. Before each surgery I asked everyone I knew for their prayers, regardless of their religious preference and whether or not I knew them to be especially pious. A chance to witness it's called. As wretched as I felt after these operations, I asked God to come into every part of my body to heal it. He addressed every wound and complication without exception. He'll do the same for you. Just ask.