Clowning Around in Clarkson Tower

The moment Nurse Tim walked into the room, Ericka and I could sense the gravity of the conversation we were about to have. With methodical precision, he began to explain the Left Ventricular Assist Device (LVAD)—a mechanical pump designed to help patients with severe heart failure maintain adequate blood flow when their own hearts are unable to perform that vital function. As he detailed the surgical procedure, the lifelong commitment to routine maintenance, and the potential complications that could arise, my stomach churned. I exchanged worried glances with Ericka, our expressions reflecting a mixture of disbelief and horror, as we both absorbed the reality that this highly sophisticated device could be necessary for survival yet felt so alien and invasive. "I swear I will never get one," I uttered, half-laughing to mask the anxiety creeping into my thoughts. In that moment, surrounded by the stark white walls of the examination room, I contemplated the fragility of life, the unpredictability of health, and the fine line between desperation and technology. We left that conversation not just with a new understanding of the LVAD, but with an overwhelming sense of just how serious my condition had become.

At home, nestled in the flickering glow of my computer screen, I found myself delving into the intricacies of the LVAD procedure. As I scoured various articles and videos, each detail unfolded like the pages of a suspenseful novel; I imagined the skilled hands of surgeons drilling a hole into the bottom of my heart, a maneuver so macabre it seemed like science fiction. The device, a marvel of modern engineering, would be carefully implanted, its mechanical whirring replacing my heart's function. But by far the strangest reality of having an LVAD would be living without a pulse—a phenomenon I once thought only existed in the realm of the undead. I learned that rather than feeling the rhythmic thump of a heartbeat, I would become attuned to the steady hum of the LVAD, an action Tim had likened to the constant flushing of a toilet. Each click and whirr of the device would be a reminder of the combination of science and emotion that formed my new reality.

As the days slipped by, I couldn’t ignore the persistent fatigue that gripped me, a stark reminder of my declining heart function. Each heartbeat felt like a struggle, as if my body was pleading for a reprieve from the relentless toll of my condition. Eventually, I made the difficult decision to take a leave of absence, recognizing that I could no longer keep pace with the demands of teaching while grappling with such profound weakness. It was in this vulnerable moment that I began to understand the gravity of my situation. After extensive discussions with Ericka and my cardiologist, Dr. Hyden, it became clear that the dreaded LVAD was my best option. The prospect of surgery brought with it a mixture of fear and excitement, as I contemplated how this device could not only alleviate my struggle but also pave the way for a renewed sense of normalcy in my daily life. Taking this step felt both daunting and empowering, a testament to my resolve to reclaim my health and embrace the possibilities that lay ahead.

April 23, 2019, dawned with an unsettling sense of disorientation as I slowly opened my eyes to the beeping of machines and the sterile scent of antiseptic that filled the air; I found myself in the Intensive Care Unit, having just undergone a life-altering procedure—the implantation of the LVAD by Dr. Hyden. My body felt like it had been through a relentless battle; every muscle ached, and a fog enveloped my mind, dulled by the medications coursing through my veins. As I shifted slightly, the soreness radiated through my torso, a reminder of the intricate surgery that had been performed to give me a fighting chance against heart failure. The blankets, warm but confining, weighed heavily on me, and I could feel an overwhelming fatigue threatening to pull me back into slumber. Yet, amidst the haze, I knew family surrounded me. Their presence ignited a flicker of determination within me; I knew the journey to recovery would require not just physical healing but mental resilience. Each labored breath in that stark room was a testament to my strength and the unyielding hope for a future with my children.

In the dimly lit and somewhat oppressive atmosphere of the ICU, Nurse Ratched, with his relentless demeanor, becomes both a source of frustration and unexpected motivation. With his bright red scrubs and sharp demeanor, he insists that I muster the strength to sit up, despite the heaviness of my limbs and the fog of medications clouding my mind. "Sitting up is the first step, and walking is just around the corner," he insists, his eyes fixed intently on me, as if his gaze alone can will me to comply. The juggernaut of healing he represents pushes me to learn how to change the LVAD batteries, a task that seems monumental in my current state but essential for my survival. Each time I complain or hesitate, he simply adjusts his stance, eyebrows raised, as if to say that surrender is not an option. Yet, in the depths of my struggle, as I fumble with the cables and listen to his insistence sharpen into encouragement, I find a flicker of resolve, spurred on by his tougher-than-nails approach. While his pestering might feel like an unnecessary burden at times, it becomes clear that it is grounded in a profound desire to see me reclaim my independence and navigate the path to recovery.

After spending five arduous days in the Intensive Care Unit (ICU), where every beep of the monitor and whispered conversation among medical staff underscored the fragility of my condition, the transition to the 8th floor of Clarkson Tower marked a significant turning point in my recovery. The atmosphere here is different; it feels less clinical and more like a place of healing. However, the demands of self-care intensify considerably as I take on an active role in managing my health. Now, I must carefully monitor my LVAD’s functioning, diligently check battery levels, and protect the site where the device connects to my body. The nursing staff encourages me to engage in gentle physical therapy, emphasizing the importance of strengthening my body while adjusting to the rhythm of the device that a week ago felt foreign. I find solace in family visits and am delighted when Ericka manages to smuggle my dog, Maxwell Smart, in for a short cuddle. Simultaneously, I feel the weight of responsibility to adhere to medication schedules, maintain a balanced diet, and keep close track of fluid intake. Each day holds its challenges, yet it also embraces the promise of independence and vitality; a hopeful reminder that mastering self-care is a crucial step toward reclaiming my life.

Following two long weeks in the hospital, the bright-white walls of my room felt like a stifling cage, intensifying the somber mood of the heart ward. Each day dragged on, marked by the steady rhythm of my LVAD flushing and the soft shuffle of nurses' shoes. This particular day carried a heavy weight, especially following the death of the patient in the neighboring room. The quiet conversations and subdued voices in the hallway served as a stark reminder of life’s fragility, contrasting sharply with the vitality I yearned for. Just as I began to succumb to the bleakness of my circumstances, a sound broke through the stillness—a distant bike horn, its cheerful honking piercing the hospital's dreary atmosphere like a ray of sunshine. The innocent joy reverberated down the corridor, evoking memories of carefree days spent pedaling through sunlit streets, with laughter rising into the air. As the distant laughter mingled with more toots from the bike horn, my previous gloom began to fade, replaced by curiosity.

The cheerful sound of the bike horn draws nearer to my hospital room, and a sense of anticipation builds in the air. Nurses begin gathering outside my open door; above their heads I can see helium balloons bobbing down the hallway. Soon, the nurses shuffle aside to reveal a whimsical sight: a clownlike woman, adorned in a kaleidoscope of colors, enters with the aid of a cheerful walker, embellished with strings of balloons that dance playfully overhead. My room, previously filled with a few quietly visiting friends, suddenly bursts into life with joy and laughter. The clown, dressed as an elderly woman complete with hair rollers, proceeds singing "Happy Heart Surgery Recovery to You". Every time she comes to the type of surgery or my name, she digs inside her bra to pull out a paper containing this vital information. Next, the silly prankster sings, and I use that term lightly, "Thank You For Being a Friend" while prancing around the room with a cane. She informs me that if the South High Courtesy Committee had sprung for the gold package rather than the silver, she would have shown some skin. The absurdity of her performance, mixed with the much-needed laughter, melts away the cares and worries of the previous months.

Within a few short days, I am discharged from the hospital and arrive safely back at home. While I endure visits from occupational and physical therapists, I sometimes feel myself slipping back into melancholy. But each time I sense that familiar shadow creeping in, I remember the joyful chaos of the clown’s performance. I focus on that bright moment, allowing it to fuel my resolve to embrace this new chapter of my life. As the therapists guide me through exercises, I push myself to rise above the discomfort. I reflect on the laughter that filled my hospital room, the warmth of family visits, and the sense of accomplishment that came with learning to manage the care of my LVAD. Gradually, each small victory accumulates, lifting my spirits and fortifying my spirit.

One sunny afternoon, accompanied by my physical therapist and a renewed sense of purpose, I stepped outside for the first time since my discharge. The world is vibrant, the air warmer than I remember, as I take my first cautious steps under the bright May sunshine. With each step, I visualize the journey ahead—conquering physical therapy sessions, attending workouts with fellow heart patients, and learning about healthy food prep from nutritionists. The laughter and resilience from that day in the hospital stay with me, serving as a reminder that even in the face of the unknown, joy can flourish, hope can be reignited, and healing, though daunting, is always within reach.

As I use my walker to stroll down Corby Circle, inhaling the fresh May air, I can't help but smile. I know I will face challenges ahead, but I will embrace them—not just for myself, but also for my children. With a heart full of gratitude and determination, I take another step forward, ready to reclaim my life.

The clown posing with me in the hospital.