I came into the world with a design flaw: a bicuspid aortic heart valve. Most aortic valves have three sturdy flaps to regulate blood flow, but my flimsy two-flap model couldn’t keep up, wondering why it was hired in the first place. If you listened carefully, you could hear it murmur, “I hate my job, I hate my job.”
Three months ago, my overworked valve developed an aneurysm and started regurgitating blood. The cardiologist said I’d die if I didn’t get it fixed—probably on the tennis court, ruining everyone’s dinner plans.
To save me, the open-heart surgeon cracked open my chest, patched my leaky valve, and wired my ribs together with what was reassuringly described as “titanium twisty ties, like the ones that keep your bread fresh, only less whimsical.”
After a few days in the hospital, I was sent home for recovery, hoping my heart wouldn’t shoot out of my chest when I sneezed. It was good to be home, but I missed the nurse’s call button, like when the sound of blood hammering in my head became unbearable. A Google search said it was probably “dural arteriovenous fistula.” It might as well have said “sounds like you’re about to die.”
Before I left the hospital, they warned me that depression was a common side effect after heart surgery. I get that. When you get home you can barely walk up the stairs. You can’t do anything alone.
On the other hand, and I know it’s cliched, but being at home after surviving heart surgery opens your soul to the grandeur of the universe. A cardinal landed on a branch outside my window, and I cried. And I fucking hate birds.
I’ve also come to understand that all people are worthy and interconnected. I want to hug everyone I see and say, “I get you.” (Except a few jerks from my tennis club. I’m evolved, not delusional).
The last bit of wisdom I gained was that you need to rely on everyone. And that—needing everyone—turned out to be the best part. Friends showed up with cookies, books, bourbon, magazines, puzzles, sweatpants and more.
They came and kept coming. And these friends who I thought liked me told me that they loved me. Loved me? Who knew? And I was able to honestly tell them that I loved them right back.
My chest bears a scar where the scalpel cut me open to repair my heart. It’s beautiful—not Hallmark beautiful, but holy-shit-I’m-still-alive beautiful.
It’s a reminder that I didn’t just survive. I came back altered. Softer. Needing people. Loving them back.